GORDON SNOT, TARGETING BABIES IS WRONG, UNLESS THEY'RE WOGS.

FATHERS AND SONS, EH?

DON'T IT MAKE YOU WANNA ROCK'N'ROLL.

Former unelected prime minister, Snot, broke cover last night to moan about not being prime minister. If only my son hadn't been born sickly and my daughter not died I would still be prime minister, it's not fair on a young parent like me to be singled-out like this, gurned the useless, horrible fucking bastard.

Brown, who decided on dodgy-old-sperm parenthood in his fifties as a means to normalise his weirdness when   approaching the culmination of his ambition, has remained silent since leaving Downing Street, drawing his MP's salary without ever appearing in the house of reptiles, preferring, instead,  to rummage through  old socks and bri-nylon shirts in the Kircaldie Oxfam shop, surreptitiously sniffing at them and rubbing them against his genitals when the old ladies weren't looking; putting something back, he calls it, for charity.  Brown has remained entirely silent, praying that he would get the job given, instead, to Madame Christine LaVacheQuiRit, whereat he hoped to serve Mammon even more faithfully than he did as Chancellor and PM, fucking up the lives of countless more millions of ordinary people and enriching further the one per cent of the world's population  who constitute the International Financial Terrorist Movement.

Given, however, the temporary difficulties being suffered by skymadeupnewsandfilth as HM Govament scramble to make amends to Mr Murdoch for his troubles, Snotty has joined the chorus of whining famous people.  Silent when in ofice, for fear of becoming even more unpopular than he was, the great, bloated, cowardly oaf has bared his Domestos teeth and is sticking up two savagely  nail-bitten fingers at his former tormentor, bleating, in his best presbyterianisme-hypocriticale that targeting children is wrong.

Brown, of course, it was, who shamelessly and relentlessly used his children for political ends, even, as he left Downing Street, cowed, beaten by a pair of utter chancers and  a ragbag of spivs and  toiletcreepers, dragging the wee buggers out, as if to sanitise posterity's view of his disastrous premiership - a man so vile, so angry, such a bully, such a rotten gabshite that he allowed the triumph of the even more useless Mr Spiv. But Ah, bless, look, happy cynical  families.

Targetting children was a NewLabour Speciality Of The House, as Blair and Brown and Hoon and Straw and Browne and Ainsworth ably assisted by Brigadier General Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap, poured fragmentation bombs into Iraq schoolyards, at Uncle Sam's lucrative behest. May they all rot   in Hell. Although a spot in jail, beforehand, might improve their souls.

Gordon Snot was always a shallow and worthless advertisement for family life and God help the wee mites, growing-up with an ageing madman as father,  but their yolk is easy, their burden is light, compared with their Daddy's child victims, all over the Middle East and South Asia. Fuck him, the man's a monster.

Gordon Snot, coward, bully and hypocrite, 

always doing the right thing for the country.

SNOT UPDATE

Jesus fucking wept, he's just been on the Eddie Mair Show, motormouthing, inimitably, in PresbyterianJudgementalSpeak, about criminals, criminals with criminal records, some of them for violence, criminals, with criminal records, exploiting people at their most vulnerable; criminals, criminals, criminals.

A rogues gallery. The Snotty Cabinet.
Theft, fraud, money laundering, deception, blackmail, treason and mass murder.

BROWN OVER KOREA. SNOTTY GOES TO WAR

Sarah, yes, you, woman!  It's war. Get me the White House on the telephone.  No more hiding in the toilet for me.  I must tell President Darky what to do about Korea. He'll be lost without my input. After all,  it was me saved the world from the wanking crisis, did I say wanking, I meant banking. And like all good blackfellows he'll be looking for advice from his preacher (sings, in doleful, tuneless, brown voice," Oh, the only one who could ever reach me, was the sweet-talkin' son of a preacher man") Geddit, Sarah? Son of a preacher man?  That's me, that is.  You know how I'm the son of the fucking manse, well, that makes me the son of a preacher man, just like in the song,  by the late  Miss Busty Springfield, one of your lesbian friends, no, no, no only joking. Well, yes, I know I prefer the Arctic Spunkies - or is it Monkeys? Have you got him yet. No? Did you ring the special, Esteemed Prime Minister's number he gave me? He'll be glad to get my orders, he knows I'm a friend of President Kennedy's. Got him? Yes? Whaddayamean, recorded message? Whatsitsay? Your call is not important to us. Fuck off, you  snot-eating Limey lunatic sonofafuckinbitch. Ain't you caused enough  trouble, motherfucker ?  Are you sure that's what it says?

OK, then, Putin, he's the man to deal with, least he's white, and a socialist, like I'm not, even if he is a gangster. Although he does look very fit.   What?  The children? No, no idea, don't we have people to look after them? Here's the hotline number to the Kremlin. Yes, I kept it, when we left Downing Street. Temporarily. You do know, Sarah, don't you, that the British people will very soon be pleading with me to go back to Downing Street, asking my forgiveness?  Good girl. You know, you're not half bad, for a split-arse.  You'll soon have Naomi Campbell round for dinner again. One thing we can be proud of, our door is always open to darkies.



Is that the Kremlin?  Good, lemme have the phone. Yes. Comrade General, Field Marshal Brown here,  from the People's Republic of Fife, now listen, you must do exactly as I say, exactly. Mobilise ten divisions...... What? You're not Comrade General Putin?  Well, who the holy fuckin' Jesus are ye then? National Office of Nuisance Call Deflection. And what the fuck is that and why am I talking to you? Oh. Yes.  I see. Well fuck you, too, you Godless heathen communist bastard.

There's some misunderstanding, Sarah, it's the language thing. Better try the UN, yes, Banki Moon, that's him, obliging little yellow bastard, I believe, Tibetan or something. Like those fucking Ghurka bastards.  Hello?  Hello?  United Nations? Get me the Seckatry General, right away, yes, the little nigger bloke, alright then, Chinkie  bastard, slope, whatever, little wog, with too many teeth.  Who am I? I'm Gordon Snot, Life Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, well, England and Wales, England anyway.  No, not Tony Blair's brooding, bad-tempered  bumchum, Prime Minister. I am the Prime Minister. You know. Let The Work Of Change, Only The Same, Begin, you remember?  I demand you put me through to Banki-Wotsisname so that I can order a peace-keeping mission to Korea. Already in hand? Whaddayamean, already in hand. How dare you? Without consulting me? You're going to hang-up now?

OK, Sarah, I'll have to save the world myself, won't be the first time. Get me Bob Ainsworth at Defence and Alastair Darling, the Chancellor, and get me Jacqui Schmidt at the Home Office and if I'm going to persuade everyone that ThisIsTheRightThingForTheCountry, I'll need to make a broadcast  on the BBC, get me Peter Mandelson. And Alastair Campbell. And the Joint Chiefs Of Staff.  I'll have to take over the Scottish Parliament, as my HQ, no, just execute that bloke, Salmond, I'll declare  a  state of national emergency. Oh, the phone's ringing, can you get that? Probably the White House, 'phoning back, asking if I have a Sol-You-Shun. No? Not the White House? The Kircaldy Oxfam Shop? Telling  me  I can work this morning, after all,  as long as I don't shout at everybody?

It's in times of potential global crisis that we miss him; times like these, when he would come mincing out from number ten, drugged out of his mind, gnashing at his nails,  all gray and fat and jowly, stuttering and doing that dah-dah-dah drywank jawdrop, Sol-you-shunning, right-for-the-countrying, telling the world what he expected of it, the horrible fucking bastard, mad as a fucking hatter, bent as a nine-bob note, grunting and growling like a rabid neanderthal, motormouthing, telling us all how he would never mention his children for political advantage even though he was  doing it, how burning all the money and giving away all the gold to Mr Singh from the cash'n'carry truly was a stroke of genius which only he would have thought of and how the more squaddies came home in boxes or in bits,  the more - obviously - we were beating the Talimen.

Still, never mind,  our loss is Oxfam's gain.