BOYS CRY, TOO.
It really is intolerable that - for the third time - the nonsensical position of Deputy Prime Minister has been created to satisfy the ego of some snivelling, traitorous, hysterical nincompoop - first the screeching arrriviste, Heseltine, then the bloated ignoramus, Prescott, the gibbering pig, and now the ghastly, toilet-dwelling, dogshooter, Clegg, good for fuck all, never done a day's work in his worthless life, now granted bogus status, office, salary, pension and title, in order merely that the unelected tosser, Flashman, can front his way into a role which he was unable to win conventionally, a role he could not legitimately secure without creating capos and stooges who would buttress his bluff - that, somehow, mystically, in an unconscious, collective, nation-wide act, people had voted for a poisonous dogs' breakfast of spivs and shiteaters, had freely, consciously transmuted their own will, the will of the people, into the breathtaking effrontery of impudent, incompetent wankers like Danny Alexander.
Let us remind ourselves, daily, that Cameron was unable, even with the blind, slavish assistance of most of skymadeupnewsandfilth, to conclusively defeat a fatally tarnished party led by the most unpopular, most reviled, hated and ridiculed politician in living memory and that now, as he robs us of out futures and trashes our pasts, giving our assets to SpivCorp, slandering millions who have worked their lives away, honourably, for a pension of sixty pounds a week, now, as he steals our money and gives it to the robber barons nouvelle of MoneyCorp, the financial terrorists who brought us here, now, as his smirking, frothy public school insouciance remains untouched by the successive shit-morphing of his flagship policies, reversed, abandoned or paused for thought, now, as, triumphantly, inflation and unemployment leap to their traditional Tory bidding, as standards in schools and hospitals decline even further, as the wheelchairs are confiscated and the libraries closed, now, he owes it all to the overpromoted officeboy, Clegg, the man who seriously told us that the nation's poor old bastards survived on, Oh, about thirty pounds a week, isn't it. Now, the man who had not the faintest idea of what pensions were, helps lead the chorus calling for their forfeiture. Edgar Allan Poe couldn't write macabre shit like this.
Even though he in no sense whatsoever deputises for Cameron - not even gormless Dave would trust Clegg as far as he can ejaculate - the self-styled Deputy Prime Minister is free to meddle noisesomely with our rights and entitlements, to falsely represent us abroad and from his bully-pulpit to seek to ensure a constitutional abortion which will secure lucrative, eternal office for he and his ilk. And as if that was not enough he reveals to us, via the Totty-Journo, Jemima Khan-Goldsmith, sister of poor little rich boy, Zac, Cameron A-list Tory MP and utter fucking bastard, and daughter of the bullying shitbag, Sir Jams Fishpaste, that his children ask him, Why, Papa, does everyone call you a cunt and that - as though it tempers his pushy, vaunting, moron ineptitude - he cries when he hears Coldplay or James Blunt or whatever shit he listens to, whist maintaining his work-life balance, the fucking repulsive hypocrite.
Not content with an influence billions of light years beyond his miniscule, can just about dress himself without help capabilities, this gabshite, dunderhead, patently stupid, shallow, tongue-tied, unimaginative, cliche-bound, over-privileged nitwit cravenly invites us to sympathise with his archly absurd, contrived common humanity; even if I am a cunt, he infers, surely we can all unite around David Bowie and forget our differences, share a quick , secret fag and get on with dragging Britain back to the 'thirties? You know, I'm just a normal millionaire bloke, who inherited his money and was eased into jobs by his father's friends. Just like most people. Now, open wide, while I shit in your mouth. I promise to cry, afterwards.