|And aren't I a clever fat fuck?|
Salmond Launches Alibaba Party.
Where are the Forty Thieves?
That'll be the Conservatives. And they only have 31. I have 2. So far. Three days in and I have 2. Without an election.
So what are the policies of the Alibi Party?
Elect me as First Minister. Or Eminence Grise. At a push, I'll settle for God Emperor of the known Universe.
I'm going to give every school child in Scotland a laptop or tablet. With internet connectivity. That will get their votes. They don't do thinking, young people. Should I throw in a PlayStation?
|Prime Minister, with the English Jack|
|Could have, mark my words, means certainly did.|
|No, you can do me without a johnny, if it'll help. Just as long as you do me.|
Well, that was the prime minister there, revealing how the Russian premier had ordered the bombing of his own aircraft, killing everyone aboard and stranding many idiotBrits in the desert. Some of whom, as well as being separated in the womb from their minds now can't get hold of their fucking luggage, which is probably just a load of old rubbish anyway, stuff from, where is it, Primart? And cheap sunlotion from the UKIP Shop, Poundland. Fuck me, get a load of this loony, she's so shitmad crazy she can't even string three words together. If I was in the Foreign Office I wouldn't let her back in, look you, isn't it.
|Geriatric parenthood - the new normal|
Did you know Jon, that it was Scotchmen, invented the Ku Klux Klan? No, really, it was.
After the First Civil War a bunch of disgruntled Aberdonian-immigrant slave owners set up the KKK, in order to frustrate reform and terrorise nigger trash, deprive them of the vote, yes, just like now, only they initially called it the KKC, KuKlux being a greek phrase meaning circle and the C standing for the Scottish clan - a circle of family, geddit? - and the fiery cross which they used to intimidate negroes originated in the Scottish cran tarra, a burning cross signifying a declaration of war, back in the Old Country.
No, no, Jon, I wouldn't mention it to First Minister Gnasher, next time she's on the show; mad enough, isn't she; I know she's a woman, Jon, and therefore automatically suited for, well, whatever she wants to do, really, but there's just no sense in fuelling her illness by calling her
the Imperial Grand Wizardess of the Scoattish people.
Is there, Jon? That would just be pure nutterophobia, wouldn't it
Well, Kylie, as everyone knows I've actually won many prizes for being phobia-phobic,
so you'll get no argument from me but don't you worry your pretty little head, only her own klansmen take Gnasher seriously, don't they, so we don't concern ourselves about her rantings and ravings.
Especially not, going forward, after the Great European Rejection Tour.
La porte, Madame Gnasher, pour returnez-vous a l'Ecosse avec les mains empty, c'est ici.
Au revoir, ma petit chien fou,
et ne hastez-vous pas back.