Gorgeous, pouting, 40 year old, pocket- sized Venus, Chancellor Sunak, a petite 5 foot 7 inches, in his tight little rent boy suit, stuffed it to the public sector this week. You'd have thought he could have afforded some decent threads, a nice bit of schmutter, on his Chancellor's salary of £71,090, on top of his MP's salary of £
Then there's his wife, one of Britain's wealthiest women, richer than the Queen, who is worth a mere £350 million. Mrs. Sunak's shares in her family's tech firm are worth £430 million. You'd expect a suit with a little more gravitas, a superfine wool to grace the spider-like Chancellerian limbs, with trouserings that cover the Chancellerian socks
And have you noticed the essentially GilbertandSullivan titles of the great Offices of State? Chancellor of the Exchequer, FFS.
Oh, fuck me, is dreadful, says one lady, and poor Mrs Dave, why can't everybastard just be nice, eh? Poor Mrs Dave is just doing stand by your man - or in this case prat and fucking idiot of public school layabout and waster and never days work has done just good for fuck all is, not even for leading Torybastards and all drowning up shit creek are, even though prime minister Snot is degenerate fucking lunatic and not fit to tie own shoes and should in backwards-fitting jacket be, useless fucking bastard and Dave and braying hangingandfuckingflogging Davettes should be on top of polls and not crawling around in shit, like one- legged bloke in competition of arse-kicking in muddy field in middle of fucking hurricane.
The big news, even though it isn't, is that Mrs Dave is up in the Duff Pudding Club, just like probably millions of other women but being Mrs Dave must get the job done right, on budget and in time, otherwise is like most of Good King Henry Eight's bints and good for fuck all and have head chopped off from neck by skymadeupnewsandfilth, or Princess of Tarts and come to unfortunate but very convenient tragic end in subway with coke-snorting wog playboy.
Whether is despotic, lardarse monarch or whining Prince of fucking Wales or snot-eating iron hoof a baby is a PR plus, is call noblesse oblige and can be top baby even if is not strictly come out from top of drawer and father was call Hewitt, or ten times fucking worse, Blind Blunkett. Baby is good shit. But only for as long as it lives. Will be lots of bookie somewhere, making-up odds on Cameron sprog, 10/1 Dead on Arrival, even money Deformed or Handicapped, 100/1 Its a Frog with Two Heads in a pinstripe suit. .
Is absolutely fuck all can be done with dead baby. stanislav has all the dead dogblokes' ashes on a shelf. Is nice, don't get them out and stroke them or take for walk but is better than Rocky and Barney go in fucking glue factory. But wouldn't dream of keeping dead baby. Only good place for dead baby is somewhere else and not in house. People soon would stop coming in house or reading blog, if they knew the place was all festooned-up to fuck with incinerated infants in jars or urns or some fucking thing, maybe with a picture on. From the scan, because baby was born dead and no proper picture is. Like fucking nutter off Jeremy Kyle show.
Oh, fuck me, no job, no benefits, bloke and mrs is fighting like fuck and nasty fucking poisonous consumer brats all want new Ishit and no fucking money is and credit card company is phoning every five minutes, like stalkers, watching and listening until they know you are in, and writing every day and can't afford to heat the fucking house any more and can't go down Harvester shithole or even drive to MacDonald Typhoid Emporium and get familysize bucket of mutant chicken and baked fucking beans and all for twelve quid, fuck me hasn't seen twelve quid in fucking months but comes in house after fruitless search for shit job on half wages and bring your own tools - is the only way to get economy right, is pay everybody half and give cunting fucking banker couple of million fucking pounds bonus for buggering-up the whole fucking world, yes, I know, is good for me - and first thing he says is, Oi, Mrs, how is Mrs Dave getting on, everything is OK, innit, baby developing healthy and all, not got six fucking toes, has it, and cleft palate, like Orkney presbyterian, Oh, thank fuck for that, just as long as Sam Cam is all right, Wot, the bailliffs have been and taken the wallpaper and the lightbulbs, well, never mind that, look on the bright side, Sam and the Baby Dave are doing well, we can read by candlelight, Wot, they took the candles, too, well, just as long as it helps get the economy right and the public finances balanced, that's the main thing.
Is too much of a risk for Sam and Dave. Just imagine, useless airhead prat loses the election and Mrs loses the baby. Fuck me gently, there wouldn't hardly be no sympathy, you already done that one, would be the hooted public response off starving bloke and mrs closely following baby progress, you and Brown, Westminster is fucking littered with baby corpses off you lot, Jesus, must be like Midsomer Murders round your houses. Massacre of the fucking Innocents.
Is Tory Assassins committee of old men in undertaker suits, the backstabbing nineteen twenty-two committee is called and sole purpose is for removing useless bastard from leader's office and drowning in lukewarm shit, like with Ian and Duncan Smith, the quiet bastard and not turning up the volume is. If Cameron baby goes the way of Brown baby then, within five minutes, 1922ers calling would be with messages of sympathy and betrayal. Terrible thing, old man, but twice is taking the piss a bit. Good of the party and everything, S'the Chiltern Hundreds for you, old chap. No, immense respect for the NHS is no good, didn't work last time, you lost one just before the last election. It's just bad ju-ju, dead babies all over the shop, unsettles the voters. Spend more time with your family. That's the thing. The surviving ones. While you still have 'em. Before they all drop dead from some form of spasticity or mad cow disease. Yes, got a speech drafted for you, here.