REASONS TO BE TRUMPFUL. PART ONE.

Under the deluge of shock-horror-recrimination-hysteria surrounding the Terrible Trumping of Tragic Hillary the  plight of one young Briton is in danger of being overlooked.

Dave Bananas speaks exclusively to the New York Ishmael  about his distress.  
We started by asking him  about his close friendship with former President Trousers.

Well, it all started when I was Gordon Snot's foreign seckaterry and President Trousers asked me tell lies to the British courts about our colleagues in the CIA torturing and murdering innocent people.  Well, I say innocent, although most of them were Muslims, so odds are that they were guilty of something. 

 
And that's why the CIA and the MI5 tortured them, even though they didn't, wouldn't, couldn't possibly have. As I told the courts, on behalf of Seckaterry President Trousers, as she then was.

Yes........?

And then, when I was robbed of the Labour leadership, by a person whom I don't mention, 

 
Brothers? Fuck 'em.

President Trousers offered me the job as Head of Thunderbirds.  

 

Yes, it was all very equal opportunities, nobody else but me was offered the job and you can't get fairer than that, can you, unlike in Labour party leadership elections, which are ruined by there being more than one candidate. As I found to my cost.........

 

And as President Trousers just recently found out, too, didn't she?

Yes, thassright, and to be fair to her, I would just like to point-out that this is emerging as one of the biggest isssues of our time, people not voting as they are told to, by people like myself and not my brother.

Did you have any experience in International Rescue?

No, none at all,  but that wasn't the main concern.

What was?

Well, there were  two, actually. 
The first was that the salary is £400,000 which is considerably more that I was getting as a football club director and part-time MP.

Did you have any experience in football?

No, none at all,  but that wasn't the main concern.

What was, then?

Well, it was the money; 

 fifty grand  a week, for not doing anything.

I mean what do I know about fucking football?

And as for heading-up Thunderbirds,  

well, in addition to putting very large sums of money in my pocket, it meant that I could be very close to President Trousers, in case she needed me to do something. Oh, I dunno, make her a cup of tea, something like that. 

You wanna fuck that mad ole bitch, why y'all just be my guest.

Tell her the only president there's ever gonna be  in this family sent y'all.

Fill yer boots, Davyboy.

She has no Administration now, though, does she,  so are you still on her payroll?

No, but there's aways the Clinton Slush Foundation.

Would she or Spunky Bill give you a job,  then?

Oh, no, shouldn't think so. 
But they might give me some money.

You also, considering you're such a great statesman,  spectacularly misjudged the UK's EU Referendum, didn't you?

 

Well, my considered position, which President Trousers instructed me upon, was mature and pragmatic;  it was just that the people voted the wrong way. Frankly, I don't know how long we can continue to let them fuck things up like this.

But you and she were totally wrong.

 

 Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together.

Yes but in politics that isn't the point. Getting elected, that's the point. And coming from the right family. Like hers and mine. Only not my brother. Whom I don't even have one of. 

And what now for David Bananas. You are a shoddy arsewipe of a statesman; you are a man who believes in torturing his fellow man; a man who dismally failed to win his party's leadership; you are a slut, a stooge and a leech; you are the ridiculous notional head of a Mickey Mouse charity and you are the enthusiastic, paid  praise-singer to a corrupt, derided and discredited,  criminal politician, finally rejcted humiliatingly by her own electorate. Dave Bananas, how much more of a failure can you yet become?

 

Well, I would've thought that was obvious.

What, a quick retirement and a dignified silence, thereafter?

No, no, I would expect that with my proven track record, my rescue skills and my curriculum wotsaname, and with my distinguished political family background I should within a few months be leader of the Labour party, the vast majority of whose MPs are even bigger cunts than me. I mean, have you seen Liz Kendall?

But as a Labour MP you betrayed your constituents, the moment President Trousers whistled for you to come, you went. 
People who campaigned for you, voted for you, trusted you, you just ran away from them and whored yourself in the US. 
Just like she was the hag and you were the fag, fag-hagging.

You just ditched your voters.
Like Kinnock did in Europe.
Like Farage is doing, now, in America.


Dave Bananas, you're just a cunt, aren't you?

Well, these people you say I betrayed, they're just voters, aren't they, who gives a fuck about them?

Dave Bananas, Chief Thunderbirder, 
thank you very much.

No, no, thank you.

 And that'll be thirty-five thousand pounds, please. 

See, every redneck cloud has a silver lining. 

Can you imagine it, that cunt Miliband, working for the Spunky Ones, in the White House?

 And she'd probably've put Tony'n'Imelda on the payroll, too. 

Give 'em all US (White) Citizenship. 

Almost makes Trump's Farage Initiative look palatable.

Whenever the political stew appears entirely inedible I console myself with the thought that  I no longer have to see Straight Simon Hughes; the LibDems' queer Queerbasher and  never have to see Wee Dougie Alexander, one of the freak, Snotty's, mutant proteges. I console myself with the knowledge that NewLabour is on borrowed time, never to regroup, that the Tories are utterly clueless; that Gnasher is increasingly desperately irrelevant, given the international bum's rush by all whose eyes alight on her angry wee face and grating wee voice, dressed-up like she'd borrowed big sister, Maggie Thatcher's,  clothes and high heels, increasingly she comes to resemble the Crankie woman with whom she has always been compared.

That the irritant, Miliband minor, now pipsqueaks from the backbenches, remembered mainly for his self-carved ungrammatical headstone and that Milband major loiters aimlessly in Humiliation's ranks adds just a little picquancy to our otherwise miserable gruel.

Those simmering in Corruption's cauldron continue as though their doings were unchangeable, ordained by God. 

Chancellor Pip wipes Bukkake Boy's phantasmagorical, spermy equations from the blackboard and says firmly, Now, children, x equals this and y equals that and I smugly commend myself to the House.  

Once more for luck, the whole wretched MediaMinster prefecture sets dutifully to explaining to We, the Innumerate People, what all this clever stuff means to Us, to Our petrol tanks, Our shopping trolleys, Our credit cards and  Our mortgages.  So clever are they, the money correspondents, the financial editors,  that with their heads up their arses, not one of them predicted the Great Tits-Up, the one which a blind man, or a  young Polish plumber,  could see coming ten thousand fucking miles away.

We must, therefore, take it where we find it, comfort. 

 Miliband Bros, Rescuers & Stonemasons; the Browns of Auschwitz; the Obamas of Gauntanamo Bay and Drone Murder Pioneers; 

Dave'n'Sam of Chipping Sodom and their driver, Clarkson;  

Junky George, looking as though awakened from a deep trtance, scratching his arse on the back benches, must surely seek his reward from Vodaphone or any of the other branches of Organised Crime whose coffers he has swelled; 

the Clintons of Wall Street and Saudi Arabia will hurtle into recrimination and dissolution;  

Frankie Hollande, of Vichy France, is Melba toast; 

their legacies, all, are puke and shit, toxic and embarrassing, 

best buried; 

all of the fallen mighty must  be hoping for a distracting war or the death of Good Queen Brenda;

 run for months, that will, sweeping all mortal sin from  the front pages; 

the Commonwealth will crumble, the EU will collapse, 

apres Madam le Pen, le deluge.

Y'see?  It's not all bad news.

 And although the New Order which emerges may be worse than this one the choice between infinite, Ruinous economic Growth and sustainable restraint may at last  become clear.  The Meek may yet inherit theEarth, snatch it back in the nick of time, from the Greedy, and their Godlessheathenbastard servants in global MediaMinster.

Be glad, for - as yet -  the song has no ending.