THE DEAD KIDS ELECTION, 2010

BEREAVED YOUNG PARENT, GORDON SNOT, 60.

VOTE FOR ME, MY KID DUH-DUH-DUH-DIED.

LOOK

BEREAVED YOUNG PARENT
DAVE LOADSAMONEY CAMERON, 26.

AND MINE DID, TOO, VOTE FOR ME.

EXCLUSIVE

PIERS MORON'S TOUR OF DEAD IRAQI CHILDREN.

IT'S ALL RELATIVE, REALLY, ISN'T IT

I MEAN, THEY HARDLY COUNT, COMPARED WITH A CELEBRITY CHILD, DO THEY?

YOU KNOW, IF WE HAVE TO KILL THEM ALL, WELL, I'M SORRY, BUT IT'S A PRICE I'M PREPARED TO PAY.

IN ORDER TO RETURN A SOCIALIST GOVERNMENT WITH GORDON BROWN AT THE HELM.
DID I MENTION THAT I'M A SOCIALIST?

This cretinous gabshite toady is, along with Cowell and let's not forget Richard and Judy, symptomatic of the relentless stupefying - or dumbing down - of the nation which is the stock-in-trade of skymadeupnewsandfilth and which is a complete betrayal of the founding ethos - and hence the licesnig arrangement - of the BBC. Why don't we revolt into Decency and lynch this piece of shit from the nearest lamp-post?

AMERICAN DOG LOVERS SPREADING DEMOCRACY

ps, we are on their side, special relationship.
Send pizzas.

LITTLE BIG MAN. A THOUGHT FROM SCOTLAND, BEST PART OF ENGLAND

THUG, BULLY AND DRUNK, JOHN SEE-YOU-JIMMY REID,
IS CHAIR OF GLASGOW CELTIC SECTARIAN FOOTBALL CLUB
AND FIFTY GRAND A YEAR DIRECTOR OF A SECURITY FIRM WORKING IN AFGHANISTAN, IN WHICH, AS DEFENCE SECRETARY, HE SAID TOMMY WOULD BARELY FACE A SHOT FIRED IN ANGER. REID ALSO DRAWS A SALARY AS AN ABSENTEE BACKBENCH MP. NO WONDER THE LITTLE BASTARD IS GRINNING LIKE A FUCKING APE.
LIKE SO MANY IN NEWLABOUR, REID IS A FORMER TROTSKYITE, NOW REVELLING IN THE REWARDS AND BRIBES OF UNBRIDLED CAPITALISM. THE TURD WAY.

HERE ARE THE REMAINS OF FIVE OF THOSE WHO WOULD NOT FACE A SHOT FIRED IN ANGER.

The thinking segment of the nation must be sick to the back teeth of Major-General Rupert Jockstrap-Golightly, or some other career Rupert, banging-on about how many Afghani girls are now in school, how democratic the current shower of thieving, robed and turbaned puppet bastards are, the reformed bandits holed-up in Kabul, acclaimed by each other and by the GlobaCorp bandits in Washington, detested by the peasants; how Westminster-style democracy (thieving, degenerate bastards shitting in the people's faces) is just another few hundred mangled squaddies' bodies away. Rupert can go and fuck a polo pony, their is no strategy, no agenda in Afghanistan worth dying for and if there is some nobility of purpose let's see dopey Will Straw or drunken Euan Blair getting their plutocratic arses blown off.

These campaigns are political gestures made by Tony and Imelda Blair and their chums in order to secure their US pensions,;that such a horrible, cheap, hustling, warmongering bastard as Imelda sits as a judge in English courts says something very telling about the extent of our Ruin; the fact that Blair-Booth, up to her fat arse in Iraqi blood, torture, rape and mayhem is hailed, also, as a human rights lawyer, leaves one breathless. The nerve of some people, who do they think they are.

Human rights abuses abound, all over the world, much closer to home than far Afghanistan, graveyard to countless impudent invaders. We do not invade or seek to police Mugabeland, even though we could; Rupert does not deploy his squadrons to pluck young Indian widows from the funeral pyres of their husbands, instead we hail India as the newest, greatest Democracy, launching rockets as it's masses crawl over rubbish heaps for a scrap of food, many Un-fucking-Touchable, cheeky fucking bastards, the Indians, UnTouchables, indeed; the architects of tens of thousands of deaths, countless episodes of torture, arson, maiming, cruelty, extortion, mincing, slicing and burying fucking alive, killers with immeasurably more deaths to their credit than the Talimen have wrought, ponce about in Stormont Castle and at Westminster, Peace ProhCessing; Chinese thugs are invited to manhandle our citizens on our own streets in front of our own TV cameras, whilst Prime Minster Snot applauds them, wanly, as they shove him around his own front yard, as big a spectacle of nonsense as his snot-eating in parliament, before the whole world, the useless fucked-up, megalomaniac, Presbyterian, fucking bastard. But fuck me, look, some Afghani girls are going to school and that's the main thing. Fuck off, Rupert.

It is not a conscripted army dying in Blair's wars but even so there is no need to treat them as mercenaries, dispensable, worthless, they signed-up, they knew what they were doing, all that stuff. Volunteers or not, they are, as are we all, owed a duty of care and their lives and limbs should not be so worthless, so squandered. Should another Peace ProhCess develop, eventually, in Afghanistan and Tommy's killers join the parliament as valued members, who will tell his orphans, maybe in their mothers' arms today, watching a convoy of coffins, that his death was glorious, valiant, patriotic, when in fact it was pointless, all down the line, to the greater glory, only, of scum like Reid.

Another football man said that football wasn't a matter of life and death, it was more important than that; the sectarian nutters cheering-on Reid's Celtic FC, the number of goals more important than the number of dead Jock squaddies, are, in their cowardly endorsement of this nasty, drunken, little arsehole, of like mind.

NO STONE TURNED

I am today, Mr Nearly DunSpeakin’, launching a far-reaching cover-up into the entirely legal and proportionate and may I say, Mr Dunspeakin’, brief, Iraq incursion which has led to millions of deaths but most of them wogs and which, I remind honourable and right honourable members, we all voted for, apart from the Liberal party and nobody gives, Mr Dunspeakin’, a fuck about them, walking about in sandals and paying young men to defecate into their mouths, Mr Dunspeakin’, as they do. And nor, I remind the house, does anyone give a fuck about the wogs, obviously. Or we wouldnae a been firing cruise missiles at half a million quid apiece into their school playgrounds; only not Brother KeithVaz and Brother Trevor Phillips who are, as near as damnit, Mr Dunspeakin’, decent, white Presbyterians. Only still nig-nogs at heart.

The enquiry will find that many were to blame but none are accountable and this is in the finest traditions of this house, alongside the so-called flipping of second homes, the avoidance of capital gains tax and the acting like worthless thieving bastards which so distinguishes my cabinet and the gentlemen-comedians, coke-snorters, arse-bandits, grave robbers, child molesters, shoefetishfreaks and bagladies opposite.

The enquiry will find that the world is indeed a much better place without the late Mr Hussein who, in the best traditions of my party, the Labour Party, was publicly hanged, thus providing much amusement in the Washington Chimpanzee House, even though it isn’t, the world, that is. Mr Dunspeakin’, a better place but far worse. But we will find, Mr Dunspeakin’ that salaries and pensions in this place will be adjusted to allow for the fact that members are no longer able to run a property business on the side, and this would be the right thing for the hard-working homeless families and small goneoutofbusiness businesses up and down the country, if we want the best in parliament we need to pay members salaries commensurate with those received by other organised criminals.

There will need to be a mild rebuke of the Papist Blair and his woman, Imelda, but nothing which would tarnish his reputation as a peace-making man of God - only not, I point out, modestly, a son of the fucking manse - else the whole house of cards might come tumbling down.

If crimes there are then they will be found to have been committed by rogue private soldiers and not by our friend, Major-General Rupert Jockstrap-Golightly or indeed any commissioned member of Her Majesty’s First Rocking Horse Cavalry whom, as members will know, we may well need to deploy at home against the people if our freedoms are to be preserved

Once again the house is indebted to Baron Peter FitzYuri of Hart-le-pool for finding some blackmailable civil servant to chair the cover-up. Guided by my own moral compass, Lord Peter, twice disgraced and exiled has returned to the bosom of the party which spawned him, or he, or he, or he, or he, Mr Dunspeakin’, it.

I have said recently, Mr Dunspeakin’, that I would listen, that I would listen, that I would listen, that I would listen more to what, to what, to what, to what, to what people say, Mr Dunspeakin’ and people are saying they want a full, open and very public enquiry into why we presided over such a catalogue of war crimes, why my right honourable friend, Mr Jack Torture, lied his face off to the UN and why the Papist Blair, immediately upon leaving office, was found to have such banking skills that Messrs GlobaDeath engaged him at five million dollars a year; people, rightly want to know who did and said what and to whom and why and they want it all out in the open. So Mr Dunspeakin’ the enquiry will sit entirely in private, or in camera, as we scholars say and will report only to me exactly what I have told it to; it is only by a full and frank cover-up such as this that we will be able to keep the homeless families and small goneoutofbusiness businesses entirely in the dark and at our mercy and I commend this cover-up to the house.

Cheers! hear-hear! hear-hear! For Gordon’s a jolly good ladyman!Hurrah!

WHO LET THAT FILTHY RACIST SCUM IN HERE?

MR NICK GRIFFIN, ABOVE, OF THE RACIST BNP IS INTERVIEWED BY THE BBC'S HUW WELSHMAN



Mr Griffin, haven't you told a pack of lies to the house of commons?

No

Mr Griffin have you and your bi-curious, dipsomaniac press spokesman, Ali, cobbled together a load of lies to facilitate the invasion of a sovereign wog-nation? the cradle, while we're at it, of civili-bloody-sation?

No.

And I put it to you that over five hundred of you voted for an illegal invasion of a wog country, didn't you?

No.

And I further put it to you, isn't it, look you, that you helped launch said attack on a defenceless wog-population, because without you, the oppressor, George the WogBasher, would not have acted, isn't it ?

No.

Alright then, boyo, and mind you give us a clear answer, now, do you deny that once you had bombed the shit out of the poor wogs in Baghdad you turned your attention to the the inhabitants of Fallujah and poured illegal weapons down on a civilian population, isn't it ?

No.

And then you just yanked the wogs off the fucking street and tortured them in Abu Ghraib, electrodes and dogs and all that shit, surely you can't deny that, didn't you collude with and permit wog-torture and doesn't this prove that you are a racist thug?

No.

And that you were quite happy for Uncle Sam to haul wogs, any wogs, off the street anywhere in the world and fly them off to sunny Cuba to be tortured to fuck, isn't it, because, lets face it, all wogs are terrorists, isn't it, isn't this the policy of your party ?

No.

Well, frankly, Mr Griffin, listeners will be wondering about all this, surely you can't deny that your Defence Minister, Mr Geoff the Cunt Hoon said that Iraqi bitches would thank him for having blown their kids to bits, he said it here on this very programme, I put it to you, isn't it ? Can you deny that it was the policy of your government to deploy illegal weapons in an illegal war and lie your fucking bollocks off to the whole world before fucking off to America and hoovering-up millions of dollars in bribes, isn't it, do we look stupid, Mr Griffin, or what, isn't it ? And your own greedy slapper Mrs, Imelda Griffin, how can she go around pretending to be a human rights lawyer, never mind a fucking judge in the English fucking Court when she persuaded all your colleagues' Mrses and bints that they should all vote to bomb the bleeding wogs? Look you, Mr Griffin, if all this isn't racism then I'm fucked if I know what is. I mean isn't it true that you don't even count the dead wogs in Iraq, you don't even count the dead civilians, isn't that about as racist as Hitler, your hero, Mr Griffin, look you ? Come on, own up Mr Griffin, you and your party are nothing but racist, warmongering filth, isn't it ?

I think, if you don't mind my saying so, you have the wrong filthy, racist scum, here.

A POEM FOR D-DAY

THE D-DAY REMEMBRANCE BLUES

By Ishmael Smith and the ghost of Rudyard Kipling

Oh, it's Gordon this and Gordon that
And Gordon knows the route
But he's hiding in the toilet
When the guns begin to shoot
The guns begin to shoot, me lads, the guns begin to shoot,
Gordon's whistlin' Colonel Bogey, when the guns begin to shoot.
And he's munching on his mucus and chewing at his nails
Snotman between Obama and the Prince of fucking Wales.

The Prince of Fucking Wales, me lads,
The Prince of fucking Wales
Don't go messing wiv His Highness
The Prince of fucking Wales
For his patience often fails, me lads, his patience often fails.
If his toothpaste ain't squeezed right, me lads, his patience often fails.
And some men was born to fight and die, to poverty and strife
But he was born to fuck about with someone else's wife.

And it's President Obama,
He's the man who'll save the day
He'll take all of your bonny lads
And send them all away
He'll send them all away, me lads, he'll send them all away
To spill their guts in Fuzzistan
For ever and a day.
Forever and a day, me lads, forever and a day,
We'll send our lads to fight his wars, forever and a day.
For we're Uncle Sam's best stooges
And it always was the same
We stood alone in 'thirty-nine until he finally came.
And if the little yellow bastards hadn't sunk his bathtime toys
We'd all be speaking German now,
Blonde-headed little boys.
It was Tommy then, who kept you safe
And the Few young men in Blue
While Uncle Sam made up his mind
About what he should do,
About what he should do, me lads, about what he should do
And now he stands and lectures us, the Froggy bastard, too


But what of bleeding Tommy, his legs all blown away?
His guns don't shoot, his boots don't fit.
It's never Tommy's day,
It's never Tommy's day, me lads, it's never Tommy's day
And Secketary Ainsworth, he's a man what runs away,
A man what runs away me lads, your life is in his hands
While he blusters in the commons, there, in Never-Never land.

And they won't come to your funeral
Where the lonesome bugles play
But they'll stand there at the Cenotaph on a cold Remembrance Day
And wearing stolen poppies that they was too mean to buy
The right honourables' compassion is just a bloody lie
For none of 'em would come to stand, with you or me or Wayne,
For they're all too bleedin' precious to die abroad, in vain.
They're all too bleeding precious, lads, to fight, like you and me
It's quite a job of work to do, bein' an MP,
Bein' an MP, me lads, being an MP,
It's a protected occupation, is bein' an MP.
There's Cleggie and his wankers
And Cameron and his thieves
And Gordons useless bastards
Troughing like you'd not believe
Troughing like you'd not believe, me lads,
They know not guilt or shame
And every bleedin' Wednesday, they're abusing Tommy's name.

So let's raise a glass to Gordon, for Gordon is the man
To show us all the way to go, out there in no-man's land;
You won't find him in your dug-out, firing, down on bended knee
He'll be at home in safety, writing books on bravery
Books on bravery, me lads, books on bravery
He'll be hiding in his bunker, writing books on bravery.

So let us raise three boos, me lads,
For this Ruin of a man
Defy him once, defy him thrice, defy him all we can.
For he squandered all the money , he burnt it, by degrees
And his only plan in life is to bring others to their knees
others to their knees, me lad, others to their knees
That's how his father raised him
To bring others to their knees.

And as we stand here and remember,
Let us make a vow, good men,
And never let this bastard be prime minister again.
For waste and desperation come a-trailing in his wake
And Ruin and Desolation are all that he can make,
All that he can make, me lads, all that he can make;
For Ruin and Desolation are all that he can make.
Let him put his moral compass
Where the Sun don't ever shine,
And don't believe a word he tells you
For he's spinning you a line.

Let us put this motherfucker, lads, up against the wall
Let us start with him but never rest until we've stood them all,
They're a dreadful bunch of vermin
And they'd all be better dead
For they've taken Hope and Charity and stood them on their head
Stood them on their heads, me lads, stood them on their heads
They're a dreadful bunch of vermin and they'd all be better dead.


Oh, it's Gordon this and Gordon that
And Gordon knows the route
But he's hiding in the toilet
When the guns begin to shoot
The guns begin to shoot me lads, the guns begin to shoot,
Gordon's whistlin' Colonel Bogey, when the guns begin to shoot
And he's munching on his mucus and chewing at his nails
Snotman between Obama and the Prince of fucking Wales.

.......THE LAST GREAT HOPE FOR MANKIND

YES, WE CAN.

Give these soldies a pizza.

IT TOLLS FOR THEE

 

HUGH WELSHMAN, HERE, FOR THE BBC

Load of old bollocks, if you ask me, look you. GIs on safari. Spot the wog and blow his head off. I mean, if the wogs came storming into Merthyr Tydfil, kicking the fucking doors in, isn't it, look you, like the co-a-fucking-lition do, dragging poor Owen off to Caernarvon Castle and wiring his wedding tackle up to the National fucking grid, then we Taffies would not be best pleased, not a bit of it. Probably not do anything about it, mind, boyo, just go down underground and sing We'll Keep A Welcome In The Hillsides - Only Not For Muslims, in four-part harmony, look you, and hope for the best. Great singers, the Welsh.

But your raghead Ay-rab, he's different. Takes it personal, he does. A gang of psychobastard, crewcut Momma'sBoy GI Joes winning hearts and minds by gang-raping his sister, not that they do, of course, and slapping his mother around, just like she was Vietnames, not that they do that, either, only when they feel like it; stress, you see, sometimes the grannyporn channel breaks down in the barracks and the poor lambs have to go and rape somebody to death. 'Sthe American way, e pluribus unum, the many into one. Something like that, anyway, struggle with latin, I do, Kirsty, English not even my first language, bit like you.

No, Jeremy, your wog, he doesn't care for all this Shock and Awe shit, and who could fucking blame him, really ? Funny isn't it, look you, how when the Yanks or the Israelis knock out a school or a hospital it's all down to some software error in the Pentagon but when some wog wraps himself in Semtex and does the same thing it's a whole different sort of uncivilised behaviour. Clash of cultures they call it, look you. Japs was the same. In the last World War. Little yellow bastards'd just down a thimble full of rice wine and go and crash their planes into defenceless US Warships. North Koreans, millions of the short-arse toothy bastards charging the machineguns and only one in ten of them had a weapon, the VietCong the same. If only they'd had nuclear weapons they could've fought clean, like, isn't it, and instead of taking their own lives they could've roasted a load of civilians, like you often have to in order to make the world a better place.

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, that's a line from the great Welsh poet, Wilfrid Owen, isn't it, and it means it's great for enlisted men to throw themselves on grenades or squat-down on rusty bayonets so's the politicians can stay safe at home, banging each others' wives and making fortunes, just like Mr Hoon does, the cunt, and that mouthy, blind git, Blunkett - fuck me sideways, Andrew, is there a more obnoxious bastard in the country than him? I mean, if you was to trawl the United fucking Kingdom, even in Scotland, looking for someone to beat in the face with a PP9 battery wrapped in a sock could you find anyone more deserving than Blunkett? Jesus fucking Christ, if that bastard'd ever been defence secretary the world'd a gone up in smoke long ago. These blind fuckers, piano tuning's all they're fit for and they're not much fucking good, look you, at that, isn't it. Anyway, those at home, filling demanding posts in the MOD and on the green benches, thay have a saying, too - They also serve who only stand and steal, isn't it ?

This Arab chappie, the one with no head, he died for his country, too, not only died but was about to blow his own arse to Kingdom Come or Mecca or Paradise, whatever, isn't it, only Sergeant Chuck saved him the trouble; if he was English we'd give him a medal, Mohamed, that is, well, most of us would but not that cunt Max Hastings, he wouldn't, officers only/for the use of, that's his view, the loudmouth tweedy prick, look you, isn't he; bit of a fixture on Any Questions with Dimbles minor, that Hastings, not the proper BBC, schoolteachers' radio 'swhat we call it, whiny self-important little dictators, asking the panel for their fucking opinion on everything, like they were fucking Solomon and as for the Money Programme, well I'll be fucked up Mount Snowdon and down again if there's a more mean-minded, penny-pinching crew of bastards than that audience, Dear BBC is there some way I can wring an extra farthing a month out of my investments, I need it because I want to set up a trust fund for my grandchild in the hope that he'll love me because no fucker else does; as it is, though, since he's not English, old Mohammed bin No Head, we call him a cunt. Doesn't seem right, somehow, I mean, there'll be English lads, and Jocks and Taffies, too, had their heads blown off, just like that, but you'll not see them on the BBC, fuck me, no. Bad for morale, not the squaddies' morale, the politicians' morale. Best that the enemy remains bestial, a monster; even though there he lies, poor bastard, just like any other poor bastard, only with his head shot off.

That Tony Blair, and his bint, Imelda, Weapons of Mass fucking Destruction all on their own, really, isn't it, no need to search for WMD, sending out sappers and spooks digging up half the fucking desert; just look in the bleeding mirror, isn't it? Millions of people and not just wogs, dead, homeless, maimed and they give him a Hebe Peace Lottery-winning ticket, the Isaacs, that is; and him virtually a Cardinal in that Mick business. Chapel, me; none of that smoke and mirrors shit, bend-over-for-Jesus-little-boy stuff, just plain, good old-fashioned worship. And singing. That's what's needed, I think. A place for everyone and everyone in his place, only preferably not with his head blown off. And it's back now to George in the studio who has the weather for us, shit, I expect, although not as bad as here in Baghdad, fucking shithole, when I started out on Radio Daffyd never thought I'd be stood here like a cunt, in a flak jacket, talking bollocks.


The original juxtaposition of those two pictures had Sergeant Chuck calmly explaining how shooting Mohamed's head off was just in the line of duty and so, probably, it was. But they were accompanied by typical redneck, phallic, triumphalist bravado; since lynching niggers was proving difficult these days and likely to become more so, then shooting suicide-bombing Ayrab sonsafuckingbitches was the next best thing. None of the rednecks, the last great hope for mankind, as they call themselves, has the wit to wonder, just why there are so many suicide bombers. The dumb, shitbrain bastards making such comments probably just fool themselves in a variety of ways - Mohamed probably planned the Twin Towers attack, himself; America really is the home of Liberty and Freedom and not the modern home of genocide, slavery, ethnic cleansing and state-sponsored terrorism; that working class GIs blown to smithereens, gutted, blinded, crippled and immolated are happy for the Bush gang to make a fortune out of all this shit, whilst denying them - a la Bob Ainsworth - proper veteran care and, best of all, that this shit is going to make a better world.


John Donne had it then and he has it now; no man is an island, each man's death diminishes me, send not to ask for whom the bell tolls..... These pictures, which we so rarely see, are appalling, both of them; but the moot point is: does the warrior nobility lie with the sniper, exquisitely armed and resourced, armoured, air-covered,hamburgered and coca-cola'd, keen to complete his tour and return to Little Rock, Ark., or is it with the man in the cheap trainers, his waistcoat tailored by Death, willing, eager to blow himself and his enemies to bits in order to repel an infidel, an unwelcome invader? Or is it that, led on both sides by the cowardly and ignoble, by the wailing imam, by the draft dodger and the career politico, all in arms fight the wrong enemy?

THE HUNDRED-DAY, WHITE MINORITY BLUES

 

RE-MAKING AMERICA FOR Y'ALL, WELL, SOME OF Y'ALL

"Professor Joseph Olson of Hemline University School of Law, St. Paul, Minnesota, points out some interesting facts concerning the Presidential election:

Number of States won
Democrats: 19, Republicans: 29

Square miles of land won
Democrats: 580,000, Republicans: 2,427,000

Population of counties won
Democrats: 127 million, Republicans: 143 million

Murder rate per 100,000 residents in counties won
Democrats: 13.2, Republicans: 2..1

Professor Olson adds: "In aggregate, the map of the territory Republican won was mostly the land owned by the taxpaying citizens of the country. Democrat territory mostly encompassed those citizens living in government-owned tenements and living off various forms of government welfare..."
Olson believes the United States is now somewhere between the "complacency and apathy" phase of Professor Tyler's definition of democracy, with some forty percent of the nation's population already having reached the "governmental dependency" phase.
If Congress grants amnesty and citizenship to twenty-million criminal invaders called illegal's and they vote, then we can say good-bye to the USA in fewer than five years. "

This, if true, is interesting and provocative. The white man's burden, it seems, has got down from his back, as it were and is kicking his ass up and down Main Street; this, paraphrased, is the essence of the cries of Mr Old Holborn and many in cyberspace - Londonistan!.

A racially fractured nation, rooted in genocide, slavery, ethnic cleansing and white supremacy (niggers have been lynched in recent memory) - all dressed-up as the pursuit of Freedom, cannot really complain if those shut-out from the three-pounds-of-beef with every meal, greedy, stupid, aggressive, redneck zeitgeist revolt into political conformity and elect their very own, useless, oily, sound-biting Uncle Tom.

Although in the UK we do not share Uncle Sam's recent internal history of sanctimonious, flag-waving barbarism, Olsen's stats, nevertheless, would probably transpose neatly to UK electoral demographics. Many are, through employment or housing or benefits, part of a ballooning client demographic, many have allegiance to other states; many, with very good reason, detest and fear the spectre of a gang of coke-sniffing, cost-cutting, over-privileged, right-wing chancers and layabouts; all view state provision of myriad forms of care as being one side of a compact in which they don't complain as long as government continues to transfer to them, via taxation, an increasing share of the profits of non-governmental enterprise; who can blame them?

Many in the blogosphere were confident that Codger McCain would stroll into the White House, the heat of their own conceit blinding them to the obvious. The same cyber-psephologists babble incessantly that because Gordon Brown is such an arsehole, David Cameron must, therefore, become First Lord of the Treasury and Keeper Pursuivant of Her Majesty's Bolivian Nose Powder; there are no musts.

If it is the case that a sufficient number of constituencies are quite sensibly joined at the hip to NewLabour's cynical largesse and that all those so outraged by Blair, Brown and Mandelson and by the general swinishness of the houses of parliament are dispersed, fuming and impotent, then New Cameronia will remain a pipe dream, so to speak.

Brown, the horrible fucking bastard, mincing and pouting and gurning,bullying, stuttering his obnoxious, impossibly know-it-all sol-you-shuns, is probably on his last legs; given, however, that unlike the Messiah in the White House, he can be removed at any time by a vote of no confidence but hasn't been, his position is clearly not as weak as we like to think. Despite his unprecedented beggaring of the nation for decades to come, despite the fact that everything else he touches turns, also, to shit, is it not nothing less than miraculous that the fuckwit Cameron has not been able to engineer Brown's removal, is this not what politicians are supposed to be good at, deals, betrayals, black arts ? But today Brown -and, of course the utterly repellent Brummie Hobbit, Woolass - is defeated by Nick Haircut of the preposterous LibDems and Cameron is seen, elbowing-in, grandstanding with Cleggie and Lumley; hardly Churchillian, typically Cameronian, all that was missing was his bike and his chauffered limo, the impudent, jumped-up, worthless airhead.

Barack celebrates, if that's the word, a hundred days of Yes-We-Can shoring-up Mammon, exporting terror and pissing in the faces of the poor whilst white America seethes at it's loss of exclusive access and pre-eminent influence. Before writing off the NewLabour Project we should reconsider the recent US experience. Her Majesty's Official Opposition is so feeble that all NewLabour really needs to do is ditch Snotman and find an Obama figure. Someone like Tony Blair.