NO, I'M THE PRIME MINISTER OF THE DISUNITED KINGDOM, SORT OF, ME AND MY GANG, ANYWAY.
You see, anyone who knows anything about history, like I do, knows that back in Victorian times, when Mrs Thatcher was in charge, there were several types of people, there were the sturdy beggar, the impotent poor and decent people, like my family. And that's where we need to get back to.
Now, unfortunately, because of Gordon Brown and the Labour Party we can no longer transport people to Australia, which is what we often did, up until the start of the so-called welfare state, or flog them around the streets, or throw them in workhouses. And if you look a bit closer into history you find that the poor have always been with us. But we need to change all that. Not by changing the economic system which creates riches for some and poverty for others but by uniting, as a nation, behind me, or, in my case in front of me, or I suppose, strictly speaking, inside of me, uniting, anyway, against the poor people, hating them, calling them names and jolly well thrashing their arses until they find work to do. Even though there isn't any. And there's gonna be a lot less, I can tell you. You know, me and most of the Cabinet are trained in that, in arse-kicking, are experienced, it's often said and it's true, that the disasters and catastrophes, the hunger, the unemployment, the useless, foreseeable, preventable wars of the last couple of hundred years were all hatched on the playing fields of Eton, so we're all right there, then, Cabinet-wise.
What I'm gonna do, as I was saying to my daughter, whom I would never use for political purposes, is unite the country against itself, the middle class types, who are too greedy, against the underclass who are all lazy thieves and drug addicts and the rich against everybody else. And I'm gonna do this by leaving the rich alone and setting the other two against each other. Unity, that's my thing. That's why so many of my party hate me, me, the Heir to Blair, I ask you.
There are ways to do these things but this chump lacks the wit, the sensitivity, the intelligence , even the vocabulary; an empty-headed, narcissistic, over-wealthy public schoolboy, flexing his non-existent muscles in front of a crowd of sheep, good for fuck all. Maybe Davies and Co can throw him out on his useless arse, like Hague, Howard and that other prat, Smith, none of them won an election, either.
14 comments:
It's the "centre ground" that causes it. It is noe a quagnire of full of politicians all flounderinf around to find an eaasy way out.
It is easy to get there because it is all down hill. But getting out takes some thouight and commonsense.
It is awful trying to type with your eyes full of tears of laughter.
Shame on you Mr I.
Surely you didn't sit through the performance?
It was the quid sent in by the wee wain - from her tooth fairy money. "Here it is, George. Nearly there." Fucker! Christ, I have lived too long. The horrible bastard is almost worse that McDoom in his swinish sentimental mawkishness. I turned it off - lasted maybe ten middle minutes of it. It won't be long before his dead dad is shuffled forth on his dead stumps. Cheap, ghastly pantomime.
It is completely laughable, this fucking eejit and his gang, playing at being masters.
Christ, no, mothers ruin, only heard a few choice bits in the Pee Em programme with Eddie Smug. It is fucking awful isn't it?
It's not you's lived too long, mr mongoose, it's every last one of those fucking bastards in MediaMinster. Roll on a winter of discontent, see what his brat has to say about that.
The silly bugger reminds me of our class prefect who was allowed by the form teacher to address the class on the matter of discipline which, in his opinion, was woefully on the slide.
He said (I swear), "I can be hard, demned hard..." - which had us knuckle-draggers at the back quite at a loss. He was later found in the girls' lavatory with a large bruise to the starboard side of his head.
I think of him occasionally when I see Mrs. Cameron's little boy holding forth...
Blogger call me ishmael said...
The whole front bench is like that, fucking prefects. I was never a prefect, Irish at a King Edwards Grammar, fuck me, no chance of that. All the ones who were, though, prefects and head boy types, marked out in their early teens to manage the poor on behalf of the rich, some of them, I daresay, have done valuable ree-surch, maybe written breathtaking poetry but most of them, I am confident, are still acting out their parents' scripts, still trying to be good boys, policing tha bad boys, craving, still, the Rewards of Obedience, I hope they, too, have been found in Life's girls' lavatory, bruised and bleeding, but I doubt it.
Funny you should mention it Mr Ishmael they didn't make me a prefect either. And the head boy of my year was the most anonymous person in the entire school. I didn't even know the fucker existed until the sixth form.
He probably didn't know I existed either.
I don't think we ever spoke in seven years. In fact I'm certain of it.
Not leadership material I s'pose.
The thing which really bugged me, then and still, is that I played lock forward in a rugby union team undefeated for three years. I scored more tries than anyone else, largely just charging up the wing, swift as the wind, uncatchable. I played on when I was injured and I never pulled a sickie. In those days the schools awarded colours or half- colours, some cod, chivalric horseshit, to talented or distinguished sportsmen and they were sewed-on in place of the blazer's orthodox badge, sparkle, they did, with some kind of gilded thread. I was never awarded any, although other, indifferent but better connected players were. It's not too late, they could check the records and give me some now. And apologise, like they did with the niggers.
I have wondered, ever since, about knighthoods and OBEs and the like.
Mr Ishmael, no such sporting brilliance from me. I was entirely anonymous in rugby. And cricket. My prep school (state school) having no inclination for such things and by the time you got to secondary school almost all those who were ever going to be in the teams were pre-decided having spent many a Saturday at their local club betwen the ages of 6 and 11. Me? I had no clue what to do.
Although to be honest I wasn't big enough or fast enough or mean enough to ever be much good. But amazing to hear you say that King Edwards didn't recognise you with 'colours'. We still had 'em in the 1980's. Though not me obviously.
My niece is there now (KE Girls school). Same problem. Very tall for her age but no place in the netball squads for her. The ones with prior experience from their prep schools have already formed the squad and there's no breaking in. The die is cast. Team spirit and all that.
God bless her, that was the way of it back then, too; there was a lot of that prior prep school stuff, some of them arriving in first form already speaking French. We were Birmingham's top five percent academically - as judged by 11-plus results - some, though, were more top five per cent than others; a cruelty, really, in many ways, to admit the children of busdrivers.
A child's sense of injustice burns fiercely, Mr Ishmael. When I was wee - crap at sports really - we trialled for field athletics. Madly, mongoose minor threw the junior javelin near out the field. Selected for the school team, I out-threw my colleague, though we didn't do very well, but guess who got dropped for the next Meet? Bastards.
I was a Prefect.
I was crap at sports, though, and kinda proud of being the last one to be selected when they picked teams. I would say to myself, Ah, but I'm clever, even though I'm standing here with red legs in the icy Yorkshire wind, and no-one wants me lumbering about on their team. Character building, they call it.
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