The Filth-O-Graph, no longer having any writers, these days runs lots of pictures of cars and there is a feature, today, showing all manner of vulgar, expensive vehicles,
parked all over Knightsbridge and Kensington with parking tickets on them;
the owners are mainly Saudi filth,
summer holidaying in London,
home of child vice and money laundering.
Sheikh bin LadyFlogger, it seems, and his stone-age manners, is annoying those few remaining Brits who live in the area, the ones who recently voted Albino.
Vote for me,
and I'll give you a good seeing-to.
Boris, of course, is their part-time mayor, part-time MP and full-time Filth-O-Graph columnist and cannot be expected to concern himself with the Metropolis being overrun by Arab criminals driving shockingly gaudy Rolls Royces.
These parking tickets, however, are in the amount of a hundred and thirty pounds - a sum which, to the funders of 9/11, of the Bush family, of al Quaida, of the Jonathan Aitken Spanking Company, of British Aerospace, of Queen Brenda's Nags and now of the ISIL HeadChopping Brigade, is utterly meaningless.
Boris should approach these ghastly raghead louts and say,
Now, look here, Prince bin BumFuck, and you other chaps, this is a rum do, this jolly old parking caper, what? Not really playing the White Man, is it, old bean? How would it be if we raised the parking ticket price, just for Saudi Royalty, like yourselves, to ten million pounds? Do you think that would make you lot act like civilised chappies? And failure to pay, on the proverbial spot, as it were, in readies, would mean a thousand lashes, on St Stephen's Green, broadcast live, on good old Telegraph subscription TeeVee.
It's what you do at home, to bloggers and such like, you filthy fucking barbarians.
A Saudi blogger-flogging.
You could always, of course, stay in your own sandy shithole kingdom, buggering each others nephews and watching Top Gear, with old Clarkson and his creepy bumboys, or flying-in Ronnie O'Sullivan and some snooker scruffs to play exhibition matches for you. And that would be the best place for you, racing your pink Ferraris round a heap of camel dung, like the wealthy savages you are.
Oh and while you're at it, old chap, be a good fellow and take some of those Russian gangster chaps with you. London for the, er... umm...Londonish, that's my new motto, for when I'm prime minister.