MY BIG FAT GIPSY GENERAL ELECTION.

WELCOME, TO THE LAND OF THE LIVING DEAD

warning! 
readers may be distressed by some of the images in this report; one of them, anyway; 
 I know I am.

Christ Almighty, it's like fucking ZombieWorld around here, recently.

PinstripeMick Heseltine, on The Daily Hobgoblin, the other day, I swear he was fast asleep, most of the time, mad old git.

Fuck, have I nodded-off, again,  and missed the biscuits, be a good chap, Neil,  and fetch me a couple of garibaldis, they're my favourite, you can dunk them, without too much risk of them falling-off and making your tea all lumpy.  I hate that, don't you, when you're just coming to the end of your cup of tea and you feel lumps of soggy fucking biscuit on your upper lip, must be hell for chaps with a moustache, getting it coated with warm  digestive biscuit paste. And you can't just wipe it away, with an Irish  linen napkin, off the Sheraton sideboard, because parts of it are slop and relatively easily absorbed but other parts haven't quite dissolved and they rather abrade one's upper lip, or,  indeed, clog-up one's moustache, if one has one.  Either way, it's the very Devil of a biscuit management problem.  But you can rely on the Tories to deal with this sort of thing.  No, you just keep the digestives for eating your brie or camembert, off your Royal Worcester bone china plates, out of the Sheraton mahogany and  rosewood credenza and keep the garibaldis for dunking in your PG Tips, like a chimp. Only of course, one shouldn't park oneself on the Georgian mahogany extending dining table  and masturbate oneself all over the tea service, grinning like a Scottish tribesman.  Y'see, Andrew?  Takes a special kind of chap to be deputy prime minister.  Only not that arse, Clegg, obviously. Stroll on, 'drather be in coalition with Andy fucking Pandy.  Get more sense out of a papier mache Teddy fucking Bear than you would out of that cunt.

That'll do, won't it, time for my tablets and my nap.

That was Lord Mick Heseltine there,

joining us on the Daily Hobgoblin.

And if it seems like I've been interviewing him for the past fifty years, it's because I have.

But don't worry, I think when this lot's over I'll be hanging up the old ginger-and-white toupee,

and spending some time with friends. 

 

an old, and much unrespected, well-disliked  journalist,

 unencumbered by wig, make-up or patent Squeeze-U-in suit, tie'n'hankie, enjoying his Midnight Hour.

 Before that, before BiscuitsMick, it was Johnny Underpants, doing his soapbox drone in The Solihull Dementia Sufferers LunchClub. Oh yes.

Oh, yes; oh, yes; oh, yes.

Hear this, church-going spinsters, the very salt of England, bicycling home, on your Raleigh Back2Basics Ladies' cycles,  to a glass of warm beer and an interracial gangbang. 

These Milibands, they're right bastards. 

What, just one of them? Where's the other fucker gone, then? 

America?

Well I never.

I have been not unsignificantly inaware of that.

But even if there's only one of them, he'll cause more trouble than that bastard, Portillo.

Oh yes.

Remember, voters of Britain,

a vote for Milband is a vote for Portillo.

And you might let those Torybastards in.

And today, the Filth-O-Graph has that model of public service, 

Edwina Shagbag,  
all dolled-up for the Ugly Whores' Ball,

gobbing-off, not about doing the GreyManFuckShuffle, not about appointing the worst sex offender in history to run a fucking hospital but on how Tory activists, all seven of them, are going to dash about on their strong legs and jolly well get the slackers out to fuck, I mean vote. 

Edwina Currie, Jesus fucking wept. 

They have no shame, at the Filth-O-Graph, none at all, they'd join a shit-eating competition, and win, if they thought it would keep-out the not-very-red menace.  Christ, they'd eat buckets of it, lorryloads of it, rather than pay tax.

And for the LibDems, facing wipe-out, there's

mad old bastard, Field Marshal Pantsdown, of the Dogshooters Regiment,

 he's developed that senile Tourette's syndrome

  

 Bastards, bastards, bastards, bastards, bastards,

not my word - bastards, but I love saying it, bastards, bastards, bastards, bastards, sixty of the fucking bastards, not sixteen fucking Tory bastards but sixty Tory bastards, it's just great saying bastards, I don't think I'm ever gonna say anything else, I'm just gonna look into the distance, with my steely, soldier's eyes, and shout,

 Bastards! Bastards1 Bastards! 

I betcha I can say bastards more times'n any other bastarding bastard. 

 Dogs? Shoot the bastards. 'Salways been our policy.

 Vince Cable? Shoot the bastard! 

Voters? Shoot the bastards.  

Go on, Michael Crick , you try saying bastards, you'll fucking love it, go on, it gets easier, after me, one-two-three, Bastards! Bastards! Bastards! 

You're all bastards, all of you bastards, you're all bastarding bastards. Vote for me.

 I'll sort out the fucking bastards.

Sharp sticks, that's what we need, and loadsa garlic. 

 Beware the undead.

On the bright side, Neil, Heseltine and  Pantsdown will have been carted-off by the time of the next general election, unless it's in November;  Major'll be retired to the Channel Isles, watching cricket on skymadeupnewsandfilth and his doxy, Edwina, should be dead of the House of Commons Pox,

Praise God and may He send a plague of rotten eggs to rain on her funeral. And on theirs.