CLEGGY, SAVING THE FUTURE.

 

LOOK, I'M NOT WEARING A TIE, THAT'S HOW MUCH I CARE ABOUT YOU MORONS.

 It's hardly an illustrious company, the Guild of Deputy Prime Ministers, its members generally appointed under sufferance, as some grubby compromise reached among competing bands of party political bandits.  Heseltine, the nouveau-riche Tory prat, the petulant  fairy with the big hair and the big gob, busting his balls most of his life  to be prime minister, neutralised, forever,  by the dumb but wily  Major, with a worthless, powerless office,  the dogs in the street would run to the big queen, Michael Well-I-Am-The-DeePeeEm Heseltine,  en route to his personally-owned Daimler and piss up his leg, Tarzan, right, Tarzan my arse. Ridiculous, pouting snob, tossing his hair like a prima donna. Perched atop a tank, waving the Mace, set by his betters to unseat Thatcher, rewarded with ignominy and ridicule. It was that plan he scribbled, at Oxford, on the back of an envelope - make a million, become MP, become PM - that's what fucked him, naked ambition, not the proper thing, even the faux-aristo sewer rat, Alan  Clark. said of Hezza  that he was a man who had bought his own furniture. Not one of us, he meant, for all his acres of woodland, all his pretence, all his hair.

And John Prescott, surely the stupidest bastard ever to sit on the green benches, vain, greedy, hypocritical to the Nth. degree, But I'm a former merchant seamen. he used to boast of his cross-channel stewarding days. Yes, John, me, too, across the stormy North Atlantic to snowy Canada;  didn't entitle me to fuck a secretary half my age and brass it out, shamelessly. Prescott was Blair's willing stooge, the voice, a coarse, clumsy,  stuttering one, deliberately chosen, one must conclude, for his gargantuan ineptness, his inability to speak his native tongue,  a voice of the working class, not one which ennobled it or spoke tellingly of its decency and struggle but one which made it ridiculous, what NewLabour was fighting against; listen, they must have  giggled to one another, over their skinny latties, if you wanna see the noble working class we're supposed to represent, just look at that oaf, Prescott. And indeed, they were right, at least abour Prescott, a greedy, vain jumped-up village idiot, growing more and more risible as departments - transport, housing, the regions - were stripped away from his useless control, were sprung from the Office Of The Deputy Prime Minister and placed in hands which might not - as would Prezza's - wreck them completely. Cowboy boots and a night at the ranch, gifted from some Yankee crook in whom Prescott's office had an interest. Aye, well, I were allus interested in cowboys and indians, and sherrif's, like,  wot's wrong wi' that? And Pauline, his Mrs, let him shit all over her, in order to become Lady to his preposterous Lord. Aye, we know how to do proper marriage oop North, silly fucking back-combed bitch,  a laughing stock in History' s pages;  her and her husband, two slags on the make. The downmarket, mirror image of Tony and Imelda.

And now we have Cleggy, the Gimping DPM.  I am sorry, I normally have some stomach for these things but I couldn't watch it. Mr DTP,  a post or two back,  confessed to watching five hours of the Tory-Lib-Dems' conference, as they call it, but a few seconds of a tieless, mic-waving Clegg was nearly enough to kill me.  It's the mind,  there is only so-much bare-faced charlatanry that it can absorb without imploding and Cleggy is way across the red-line zone and out on the other side. Wise old Granpa , wotsisname, Vince the Wince,  and his phony old gobbing, I can bear that, maybe because his discomfort in his own skin is so obvious - he knows we know he's a cunt and him being a widower miraculously made whole by dancing with the old boot  who swiftly became his second wife won't excuse him, not among us, not even to himself, as, increasingly feverishly, he mouths the words of the whey-faced inbred freak Osblow, miraculously Chancellor of the Empty Exchequer.  Hughes, Straight Simon, ties himself in knots, explaining how, as Deputy Leader of this shower of shit, he is making sure that the Party does the right thing, as it rolls along doing the wrong thing, robbing the pensioners to give to - what is it now, that Cleggy says, facetiously, unborn generations.  The ridiculous windbag, Huhne, complete with trophy bint, so far up his own arse it's a wonder we can hear him, |I can watch him, poncing and primping.  I can watch all of these cowboys, explaining how they are saving the nation, the world, even,  but Cleggy is too much, too much evidence of utter Ruin, looking like a no-hoper at the Edinburgh Fringe. An entire movement, ragbag and pretentious as it is,  has been dictated to by twenty ministerial MPs, sitting in a Praesideum of Destruction.  The LibDems, always castigated for splitting the left and allowing twenty years of Maggie and then thirteen years of NewLabour, now wrap themselves in glory aiding the Bullingdon Boys in their vengeful, punitive mission;  they, multi- millionaire Oxbridge wankers and us, all in it together.  Mould-breaking, that's what it is. Go back to your constituencies and prepare to be Tories.

It is amazing that a  man who failed to add one seat to his commons party now shores up the equally unelected Cameron fuckpigs  whilst lecturing us about the future and insisiting that this is what we wanted, what we voted for, insisting that even though all parties lost the election, his, somehow, his mangy fifty or so polysexual, shit-eatung, dildo-waving, cross-dressing, toilet-creeping  degenerates may, without any mandate,  endorse and legitimise the unspeakable, and do so, shit dripping from their lips, in high moral tones, too good, too lofty for mere ordinary people to understand, much less question. The toxic rhetoric of the copraphiliac is unpalatable, I fear, to your correspondent and rather than  a review of the worthless Clegg's speechifying, here, instead, is his picture.

HELLO, YES, MR CLEGG HERE, YES, DEPUTY TORY PRIME MINISTER,

NO, NOT OF TOYTOWN, OF THE UNITED KINGDOM

CAN YOU SPEAK UP A BIT, ONLY THE PRIME MINISTER PUT SOMETHING UP MY ARSE AND I'M A TRIFLE DEAF.