FIRST THING IS KILL ALL THE LAWYERS

 

Lawyer Cash – how sweet the name of a villain sounds – Bill, an Oxbridge pinstripe spiv, takes the biscuit, so far, for impudence and is currently holder of young Mr stanislav’s Up against the wall, motherfucker, Yellow Jersey. The Tour de Slime down at Le Palais des Felons is, however, still wide open and many may yet wear the coveted Jersey jaune (Fuck off with this frog shit, ed)

He always looked too vile to be true, a caricature of a braying, snorting Tory lawyer-cum-part-time MP, pin-striped to fuck and mouth always slightly ajar in case someone might stuff it with gold, the horrible fucking bastard, and so one allowed that he might belie his appearance and be a man of principle rather than shame; he was, along with the blabbermouth pearly queen diamond lady Teresa GorMouth, one of the bastards beloved of nice Mr Major in his idyllic English summer days of warm beer, bicycling spinsters and fucking Mrs Edwina Bicycle up hill and down dale. He certainly, at every opportunity, trumpeted his principled opposition to the SuperSized EuroState beloved of most of our masters and must be disappointed that, accordingly, his only appearance on the front bench was as shadow Shylock in the team of nobodies assembled by the Smith Twins, Iain and Duncan, the infamous volume turner-uppers. And voter turner-offers.

Alas, alack and malheureusement, Lawyer Cash is every bit as spivvish and unprincipled as he looks and must be, under the scramblingly self-protective ordinances of Dave (Who’s that stupid Boy?) Bully, bound for glory of a decidedly de trop nature. He may even have, as the Cameron argot has it, questions to answer.

To the question of Why the fuck he thought he should give my money to his brat, Lawyer Bill replies, flashing his winning smirk, that if it’s lawful, it is acceptable.

Bill Spiv, in his largesse with our money to his brat wannabee daughter, single-handedly makes the case for a one hundred and five per cent inheritance tax being applied to MPs, bankers and other serial criminals; let them and their vile spawn profit no further from their ill-gotten gains.

Most importantly, let not Cameron profit from this cross-party denoument. Any leader worth his salt should know when his troops, let alone his shadow cabinet and close advisers, are living beyond their means, isn’t that what the whips do, check up on people? Sniffing the wind, Cameron feigns ignorance, launching a languid crusade of questions to be asked. I put together a great team of talented Oxbridge individuals, whose bullyin qualities were unimpeachable, I didn’t know they were all thieves. How was I supposed to know. All I wanna do is be prime minister ? In his defence it must be said that he, too, mistakenly, over claimed his own expenses. But, once found out, paid them back swiftly.

The steely-eyed pretend outrage of CokeHead Cameron and of Labour’s Star Chamber is a showbiz farce, an insult. Lament and breastbeat as they may, Bill Cash personifies them all, smirking, unprincipled, shameless, greedy bastards, criminals who have managed to legalise their offence. Throw them all out. Questions to answer, my arse.