An old man in a final, ruinous act of betrayal.
They're wetting themselves, again, at the Filth-O-Graph, old friends like Mr Swiss Bob and Mr Old Holborn, the tobacconist, as John Prescott takes his seat with the other Establishment ruffians, confusing ennoblement with Decency, they cling to some notion that Prescott lets the place down, when, in fact, he embodies its purpose, current and historical.
The thieves, the bullies, the degenerates, the killers, the rapists, the robbers, the assassins, these have always been made Lord or Earl or Duke or some such for services against the people, over time their descendants have sought to persuade us, like Uncle Sam's slave owning dynasties, that theirs are the Good Families, even though they are filth and yet simple folk believe that somehow this remaining batch of hereditary scum and their time-served, verminous, political hatchetmen and women and noncing bishops can somehow be polluted by the addition to their ranks of the stupid, greedy, cock-waving fuckpig, Prescott.
There is nothing novel or controversial in Prescott's annointment, in fact it usefully demonstrates or should, even to the blind that there is no significant difference between the benches of the government and the so-called opposition - how many times, one wonders, must we speak these truths before people stop acting like children, my party's better than your party, Jesus fucking wept? - that the only place for all who connive against us in these dark cloisters is Up against the wall, motherfuckers?