You can trust me,
I inherited this job from my father.
You can trust me, I'm a journalist.
You can trust me, Sambo, my name is Tarzan.
And you can trust me, sweetie, because I'm not a poof,
I'm a bisexual, so there. Anybody can fuck me, especially my new boss, Mr Cameron.
You can trust me because I once shared a flat with Tony Blair.
And now I'm a Lord. And that's proper democracy.
And now I'm a Lord. And that's proper democracy.
And you can trust me because anyone who disagrees
with me is a Nazi.
THIS WIG
WITH ANDY NEIL
EVENIN' ALL
THIS WIG
WITH ANDY NEIL
EVENIN' ALL
Andy's the name and randy's the game, here on the oldest swingers in town show, the show that is to political discourse what my first guest is to folk music, that's right, fuck all to do with it.
I fink I'm a musician
But I talk like a cunt
Da doo ron ron ron
Da doo ron ron.
And as if Billy fucking Bragg of the Daily Filth-O-Graph wasn't enough to make you despair, here's Andrew Gobsley of the Observer, back again.
And finally these two tired old amateur performers, Jilted Johns, faded blooms, two back ends of a pantomime horse, two straight men with no comic, two of Life's human cannonballs who fell far short, nothing to say but still turning-up, proof that some people will do anything for money; I know I will. Yes, it's Michael Portillo, he's happily married, by the way, and Diane Lard, she isn't, surprise surprise.
Yes, he's young, that's the thing, Cameron, like I was, when I fucked-up.
Nah, they can kiss my ass in future, the Liberals. Only not that Hughes creature, fuck, no. Did I mention that I doubled my majority?
3 comments:
What do you do when your soul is so morbid and stunted that even the Devil won't buy it?
Sell it to TV.
Ghastly, horrible fucking display. I normally don't watch QT and TW but thought that we might learn something in a week such as this. Good God, no.
As soon as I saw Phillips I knew I was on for a heart attack. And that gobby little shit on the left end (name missed). Doubtless he will be Labour Prime Minister in 2020. Scowling, braying little twat needs a good horsewhipping and Melanie's just the girl to do it too, if only it wasn't unseemly and would betray a scintilla of passion or concern for something other than her bright, shiny intellect and analytical correctitude.
We need not, surely, discuss what Hughes, Tarzan and the vile Falconer had to say. Although I thought Tarzan was the closest to actually speaking the truth - before he just caught himself and stopped, the horrible old fraud. That Falconer was able to hold his tongue as the "Two Toffs" line was repeated ad nauseam is perhaps understandable given that he is an Edinburgh Academy, Glenalmond College, and Queen's Cambridge man, and schooled his own children at Clegg's very own Westminster School. You cannot make it up!
Bragg... Hopeless, hopeless, deluded old dullard. Not quite sure what he's for any more. Waiting for Fatcher to die maybe, and then he can be slipped silently under the clay, his battle won.
Yeck! Bad experiment. Leave me out of it next week, please.
I liked the little shit on the end. Liked his passion, thought he was going to explode with indignation, much more vital than the other quintet with their over-rehearsed placebos, but soft, he is a journalist one of skymadeupnewsandfilth, and this was just mr squitch's value=free TeeVee.
Why hadn't he taken his passion to the SnotFortress or to the BlairPalace ? A bit late, now, to enlist clause four.
Post a Comment