More Old News: As We Forgive those who Westminster Against Us

Lovebirds Laws and Lundie. £40,000 scam. Bless

David Laws, a Liberal Democrat politician in the 2010-12 Cameron-Clegg Coalition Government claimed more than £40,000 on his expenses in the form of second home costs, from 2004 to late 2009, during which time he had been renting rooms at properties owned by what the newspaper claimed to be his "secret lover" and "long-term partner", the dazzlingly handsome, cocktail-drinking, spinach mousse-eating James Lundie, a former Liberal Democrat Press Officer. They were not in a civil partnership. Laws misclaimed second home allowances of between £700 and £950 a month rent between 2006 and 2007, plus typically £100 to £200 a month for maintenance, to rent a room in a flat owned and lived in by Lundie. After Lundie replaced his property with a house in 2007, Laws then claimed rent at £920 a month, until September 2009.  Since 2006 the relevant rules banned MPs from "leasing accommodation from... a partner." He also claimed small amounts in respect of his main home  in his constituency and his Provencal holiday home^. Laws resigned as Chief Secretary to the Treasury on 29 May 2010. His stated reason for his expenses misclaiming was that he had wanted his sexualityto remain private and that he had not benefited financially.  No prosecution necessary. Laws returned to Government as Minister of State for Schools in the Department for Education and Minister of State in the Cabinet Office in September 2012.

A Kensington benefits cheat, Mr David Laws, was today given another  week's leave from his job - he has been missing for months - and told not to be a silly-billy, or billyana.  Laws, a multimillionaire who defrauded the tax-payer of tens of thousands of  housing benefit pounds, said he only done it because his parents was against him being a poof, otherwise he wouldn't of done it, he definitely didn't do it for the money, even though he was rich enough to bung his loverboy a few quid, himself,  and not trouble the taxpayer. It's true that he claimed the money and gave it to his wife or husband delete as appropriate but he hadn't meant to steal the money, but he did anyway, it was there, and so he had it,  that's how you get to be rich, the former banker said, stealing money what doesn't belong to you. And then giving yourself a bonus out of somebody else's money, anybody's'll do.

The thing is, said Unelected Prime Minister, Mr CallHimDave, this is just the sort of deserving case that I and I am sure members of the public are happy to have our taxes spent on, unlike all these cripples pretending to be ill or something, when they could perfectly well go and do a jolly good day of work.  Mr Laws is a perfectly decent chap, even though he is a snivelling, lying, disreputable  thieving cocksucker, whom no-one has seen for months whilst he has been sulking and licking his wounds and puking his yellow guts up at the unfairness of it all. And quite right too. It's not as though he did anything wrong.  I mean, you and I know that our Coalition partners are all arsebandits, every last one of them, and worse, and nothing is safe with them, but Mr and Mrs Law Senior clearly didn't know that junior fished from the other bank, travelled on the other bus or, as my friend, Boris,  says, pushed the jolly old brown wheelbarrow uphill.  What was he to do, he could either tell his parents that he played the spunk trumpet in his private life or, well, he could steal a load of money from the govament, ie me. But since he stole it but didn't really need it in the first place, that makes everything alright and we look forward to having him back in the govament as soon as jolly well possible.  Unlike, of course, Mr Lord Taylor who will, most likely, be going to jail for doing much the same thing. But then he is a jungle bunny, not the sort we want in the Tory party, as I thought had been made clear to him.

The example of Mr Lawses honesty in the face of these allegations makes us all the more determined to crack-down on benefits,  I mean benefits fraud, wherever we find it, only not in this place, or the other place, or any of the places where honourable and right honourable members go about their business. Unless they're Darkies or Scotchmen.



ANYDAY, NOW, ANYWAY, NOW,

I SHALL NOT BE RELEASED.

OUT IN TWO.

LORD SILLY-FUCKER.

THE WRONG SORT OF BENEFITS CHEAT.

On 16 July 2010, Lord Taylor of Warwick resigned the ToryWhip after being charged with offences connected with claims totalling £11,277.
Several hundred members of the House of Commons and House of Lords were involved in the expenses scandal but only six members of the House of Commons and two, including Taylor, of the Lords, were charged and convicted.(Is it becus I is black?)
Taylor's defence in the Crown Court was that on appointment to the House of Lords he had asked other peers for advice on expenses and allowances and that he was told that the overnight subsistence allowance, the office allowance, and the travel expenses were provided in lieu of a salary, as well as the daily attendance allowance. As a result of claiming for the cost of journeys he had not made, and the cost of accommodation he had not occupied, Taylor was convicted of six counts of false accounting. Mr Justice Saunders imposed a sentence of 12 months' imprisonment, relating to £11,277 in falsely claimed expenses^{. h}e also said that the expenses scandal had "left an indelible stain on Parliament". About 15 members of the House of Lords refused to give evidence to support Taylor's defence. - mrs ishmael

DREAMS OF NO RETURN. A MADMAN DEPARTS.

Waddawewant? Anal rape.

Whendowewannit? In the next Cleggalition.

Clegg supporters at the launch of  his party's ShitBook, yesterday.

My fellow child molesters,

All Cyril did was assault some children; what's so bad about that? Dave Boy Steel, former Chief Shitman.

my fellow shit-eaters,

 

 ShitParty copraphiliac shadow home secretary, 

Mark Oaten.

 look, I've eaten so much teenage fecal matter

 it's made my hair fall out.

How so Liberal is that?

my fellow wealthy benefit cheats,

 

 So I only stole fifty grand because I was gay and I didn't want my parents to know. ShitParty Education minister and ShitBook author, Dave Laws. 

So yes, of course I'm a millionaire, isn't everybody?

my fellow jailbirds,

 Yes, I deeply regret it, being found out. 

Former ShitParty energy minister, Chris Huhne, 

writing in the Guardian,

 on wife-bullying and perverting the course of justice.

And on claiming twenty grand of taxpayer pounds when his criminality forced him out of the Cabinet, as they call organised crime's HQ.

Yes, of course I'm a millionaire, isn't everybody?

my fellow incompetents,

The building contractors' friend, 
Lord Boy Steel-Shitman, 

presided over the Holyrood parliament building costs rising from fifty million pounds,

 to five hundred million pounds, half a billion fucking pounds for a talking shop.
It was a foreign architect, said  adulterer, Steel, Liberally; 

what do you expect from foreigners? 
Yes, of course I'm a millionaire, isn't everybody?

my fellow gropers, grabbers and bottom fingerers,

Mike Hairy Hancock, CBE,  ShitParty Portsmouth MP, 

where he molested every constituent he encountered.

 Now believed to be standing  as a Groping Independent.

my fellow dipsomaniacs,

Charlie Pisshead, deeply principled former Chief Shitman and TeeVee non-personality, courageously  admitted to incompetence and unsuitability  through alcohol addiction a full ninety seconds  before his former aide was to blow the whistle on him.

my fellow raving lunatics

Field Marshal Lord Paddy Rupert-Golightly-Jockstrap-Narcissus, PC; VC, Croix de Guerre, Congressional Medal of Honour;

Nobel laureate, Oscar winner;

former Commanding Officer, Queen's Own Shitmen Regiment;

war hero, visionary, historian, distinguished statesman, orator, writer, philosopher, economist,  theologist,

TeeVee personality, adulterer and steely-eyed delusional maniac.

Delirious, stark, staring, raving, dribbling, foot-stomping, door-punching, climbing the walls bonkers, is Paddy; raging, unhinged, preposterous, rabid, demented, frantic, Napoleonic, gibbering out of his mind, mad as a box of fucking frogs;  Paddy is the ShitParty Election Supremo; how can it lose?

and last but not least, sickening hypocrites.

Straight Simon Hughes, 
warty, pervy,  bisexual queerbasher; liar, ponce, pseudo-Christian, cynical polytheist and all-round creepily untrustworthy bastard;  the ShitParty's justice minister.

What I say to you, all my colleagues, in the parliamentary party. And those several dozens of members and activists up and down the country, in the nation's public conveniences. What I say to you. Is this. 

Has it been  easy for me, a lifelong Tory, to lead my party into coalition with other lifelong Tories. Yes, of course it has.

And the nation should give me credit for doing the easy thing.   Not the hard thing, it's easy to do the hard thing. Not everyone would have done it the easy way. Some would have stood on their principles. And let the Tories fall, within a few months. But not me.  

Did I desperately want to be Deputy Tory Prime Minister?  Of course I did. It's what I came into politics for. I'd rather have been Tory prime minister. But we all have to make sacrifices. And I am sure the voters will give me credit for it. Has it been easy to pretend  that I'm not a Tory? Yes, of course it has. The main thing is that I have been in govament. And that I have managed  to keep the Tory faith, whilst destroying the prospects of you Liberals ever being taken seriously again.

 

Did I ever doubt what we were doing to Britain, throwing sick people out of their homes because they had an extra broom cupboard, where they kept their wheelchairs or dialysis machines? No, of course not.

People will know that as Tories our manifesto is our solemn word to the British people that we can be relied upon to break our every pledge, piss on our every promise and betray our every principle, not that we have any. And this one offers people the stark choice of me being in Downing Street, shafting poor people

 or him

 or him

People ask me if this election is about one thing and one thing only.

 Of course it is.

Me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me.

HOW TO SPEAK COALITION

ONCE MORE FOR OLD TIMES' SAKE.

HUHNE FLEECES TAXPAYERS,

 A COALITION MINISTER HEADS OFF FOR A NORMAL DAY OF LYING TO THE COURT.

  I am perfectly entitled to my seventeen grand as I am entirely innocent of these charges as I am sure a jury will agree. All my team and I need to do is blacken the name of my wife in front of the whole world.  And our children, too, of course.  I won't flinch from thsi arduous duty because someone has to do it.  If I'm not to go to prison.

My wife made up all this shit simply because I stopped knobbing her and formed a deep amd meaningful relationship with Ms Carmina Trumpington-Carpet, a political activist, and boy, is she active, knows just how to treat me like a real woman, her, I mean, not me, although I''m not so sure, I am  a Liberal democrat, after all. Consensual shit eating within a loving relationship? Well, not so far.  But there's always room in a marriage for experimentation, although not with Ms Price and myself,  oviously, frigid old crow. And a liar, too, did I mention she's a liar?  Not fit to lick Ms Trumpington's Doc Martins?  Can't think why I gave her the best years of my life;  'snot as though she helped out in my career, apart from telling lies to the police, which, of course, if she did do, she did do behind my back, as I was most certainly the one driving the speeding car, although, of course, I wasn't, I would never do that, even though I have been banned for it despite my wife's best efforts to stop me being banned.  there will be no further statement until my lawyers have nobbled the CPS or, at worst, the jury.

( trans: I am the sort of cunt which no decent person would piss on were I on fure, as, in this world or the next, I most assuredly will be )

A DOCTOR WRITES.

People simply do not understand the very great pressure which we as ministers are under and my right honourable friend,  Mr Who, is, like myself, quite entitled to the measly seveneen thousand pounds Shut Up And Go Away Money he is claiming.  It is not easy, as I can confirm, to maintain a relationship with a pushy bisexual tart,  even for  a multi-millionaire property speculator and complete cunt,  like Mr Who is.

Dr Liam FucksYoungMen

I of course accepted my seventeen grand because quite simply I was hounded  out of Mr Werrity's arse even though I had done nothing wrong whatsoever. 

( trans: I am the sort of cunt which no decent person would piss on were I on fure, as, in this world or the next, I most assuredly will be. )

THE CABINET SECKATRY SPEAKS

 Mr Angus  Maude, MP, cabinet seckatry  for punishment and hair loss.

Mr Bouffant, above, issued a statement through his adjutant.  Ve are eine family-friendly occupation power und zat is vy ve haff given Herr von Huhne so much money, zat he might spend some quality time mit his family, before he goes in Auschwitz.  Iff he vants to be mit his scrubberwomasn, Frau von Trumpington-Dildo, zat iss entirely hiss own affair. And zat of ze press und his proper missus and ze duly appointed military tribunal, vich vill probably haff him shot in a display of vot Herr stanislav, ze young Polish plumber describes as Up against ze vall, motherfuckerism. Sieg Heil, und remember liebschen, ve are all in dis schidt together.

WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A MARTIAL LAW NEW YEAR

Speaking from the top of his Civil Contingencies/for the use of tank,

Lt Col Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap, of the Queen's Own NancyBoys Regiment, the Military Commander of London said, There is a very real terrorist threat, here, in London, twelve million of them in fact and it is my proud duty  to keep the streets safe for govament limousines to sweep past, carrying people who are very important to the economic recovery of the armed forces and my children's school fees.  Is this martial law? Well, only in the sense that we will shoot people who complain about the govament.  As I said, there are at least twelve million people in London who think they have the right to, well, say anything, really.

Mr Phil  "Greedybastard" Hammond, MP, Minister for Internal Torture

Philip Hammond was criticised in 2009 when it emerged during the MP expenses row that he claimed just £8 short of the maximum allowance for a second home in London from 2007 to 2008 even though he lived in the commuter belt town of Woking. As a result of the criticism Mr Hammond told his local paper that he would pay back any profit he makes on the future sale of his second home to the public purse.^[7]

Mr Philip Hammond, the Junta's Obedience Minister, said, Now look, Kirsty, there are sixty million people in this country who might want to upset things for the not-law-abiding, not-tax-paying but nevertheless extremely important families who selflessly run things   and the Junta was elected by itself just to stop this very thing happening. Did I say selflessly, a slip of the tongue, of course I meant selfishly.

 KILL THEM, KILL THEM ALL, HOW DARE THEY QUESTION MY EXPENSES?

 Francis Maude, the shadow minister for the cabinet office, attempted to claim the mortgage interest on his family home in Sussex. This arrangement was rejected by the Fees Office. Two years later, Mr Maude bought a flat in London a few minutes walk from a house he already owned. He then rented out the other property and began claiming on the new flat: the taxpayer has since covered nearly £35,000 in mortgage interest payments

Mr Frankie Bouffant, minister for cabinet office fraud, above, said  I have been waiting all my life for this, and my father before me, him, too;  shooting people on the streets, it's what a true Tory lives for;  Winston, Margaret, it's what a truly great leader does, confront the people and kill them. Olympics, who gives a fuck about a load of nignogs runninmg around in circles?  No, this is proper law'n'order, at long last.

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO WAS WON ON THE PLAYING FIELDS OF ETON. SHAME ABOUT BRUSSELS.

 

The unelected prime minister of England

at the Euro jamboree.

If he wasn't such a contemptible bastard one might feel some sympathy for the wretched Cameron. No amount of his  public school posturing, his shiny-face conceit, his hands-in-pockets insousiance, his tongue-tied, unimaginative cliche stuttering could disguise the group body language of  all the other out-of-step so-called leaders -  at best indifference and at worst contempt. 

Up all night, he was, talking his arrogant, idler's jivetalk.  And they gave him what the Barbarians call the bums rush.  Not even Gordon Snot, in his unelected premiership, made such a dog's breakfast of things European as did  Cameron, marching from one dick-hanging-out embarrassment to another, bravefacing his incompetence;  it can't have been pleasant, even for an unprincipled dignity-bankrupt like him, squatting in Downing Street, thanks to the repulsive Nick Clegg and his band of shit-eating degenerates. 

Maybe if he'd won an election - instead of nicking one, like a proper Flashman - maybe then he might have made some progress.  Frau  Lardarse comes from a land of coaltions and reunifications and a filthy,   make-your-blood-run-cold  history which we don't talk about but she has the confidence of her own party, unlike our own, unloved Mr Fishface.

What you see is what you get.

Not very much.

Who knows how or  if the never-ending Euroshit crisis will end, how the speculating thieves and gangsters, sorry, wealth creators, can be placated;  if they're not driving up the prices of foodstuffs, energy and raw materials,  they're shorting entire nations, cheered on by a self-selecting political-media elite, the word elite being used advisedly,  they're all just filthy bastards, Brussels and MediaMinster, shitting, multilingually, in our faces.

L'entente discordiale.

Shakez-vous by ze 'and?

Vous etes joking, n'est ce pas, M'sieu ShinyFace/

Even so, Cameron is a uniquely contemptible bastard and his cold-shouldering by the dwarf pimp, Sarkozy, is a defining moment for him and his govament of spivs and carpetbaggers, defining as in regime change. Not that it matters  much.

RECESSION, IT'S OFFICIAL. AT LAST.

The OECD, a respected economic forecaster, whatever one of those is, and where have they been this past fifteen years, has reported that after Christmas the UK will be in double-dip recession, due to, well, due to everything being shit  and being run by an international kleptocracy.

The OECD has also said that in order to make matters no worse than they inevitably will be due to the Euro and all that nonsense, the UK must develop a Plan B, including a drastic slowing of public sector cutbacks.  The chancellor, below  and his economic team consisting of the foxtrotting, elderly  nitwit Vince  Cable and the former skis monitor in the Cairngorms National Park, Master Danny Alexander, have all said that there is no alternative to what they are doing.  That's what they were elected for. Even though they weren't.

Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr George Osbo, 

prepares his Autumn budget statement.

NICK CLEGG TO BE HOME SECKATRY.

THERESA SHOE-FETISH.

DANCING ALONE

Ten little nigger boys sitting on a wall. 

Whoops, I mean illegal immigrant nigger boys

Now look. Let's be clear about this.     Frankly, I don't care if the home secketary wanders up and down Downing Street showing her thighs to all and sundry.  As she does. Silly old crow.  What matters. And what matters to the British people who elected me prime minister is that she's getting on with the job.  That's what people care about.  Not whether she's any good or not.  And quite frankly Mr Tiny Speaker,  just because she called this bloke a cunt and didn't give him a chance to reply, well, it simply doesn't matter. He's only a fucking civil servant.  We'll be doing a lot more of that -  doctors, teachers,  anyone who disagrees with us -   so people had better  jolly well get used to it. What I'm concerned with is privatising everything, kicking shit out of everybody and talking my arse off on subjects I haven't a fucking clue about.  Like history. And economics.  Fuck me, Mr Tiny Speaker, the Chancellor's a fucking doctrinaire windbag -  is doctrinaire a word?  fucked if I know -  the Governor of the Bank of England can't do his two times fucking table and I have a cabinetfull of arseholes, many of whom are fucking younger men.  Only not Mrs May, of course. Who gives a fuck about what this silly old bint is up to.  Niggers?  Keep them the fuck out,  that's my policy and it's what got me elected prime minister.

I mean, don't these fucking people,  these fucking complaining bastards, don't they know that , don't they realise that the Defence Seckatary, no, not the angry old faggy one, the new one, who looks like he should be perched on top of a panzer with an Iron Cross around his neck, yes, him, Richard Hammond, the bloke off TopGear

 Defence seckatry, Mr Philip Christ, what an ugly bastard Hammond.

No, is that not the one, the little fucker sucking Clarkson's knob ?  Right, well, how should I know? Anyway, the Defence seckatry is busy frightening people into believing Hell is at hand unless we line the streets with missiles and throw all the protesters in jail. Or execute them.  You know the people of this country elected me to discharge the basic responsibility of a govament which is to keep itself safe  from the people by any means necessary.

So what with all that going on and having to every five minutes  try and find something sensible to say  about Europe although, frankly, just like everybody,  I haven't got a fucking clue, why is it that  people expect me to have an opinion on this silly old boot.  She's had a big job in govament and can retire on a big pension, which is more than most people can say, so who gives a fuck if she resigns,  she's good for fuck all, if you ask me, Mr Tiny Speaker.

And I can always shove the gimp in there,

into the home office.

Mr Nick Gimp MP, Deputy Prime Minister.

he'd fucking love that, prisons and shit like that, surveillance, torture, right up his street.

HOW TO SPEAK COALITION.

 THERE NOW FOLLOWS A NOT EVEN A PISS-UP IN A BREWERY PARTY BROADCAST.

A MESSAGE FROM THE CUPBOARD OF MR NICK GIMP, MP, THE UNELECTED DEPUTY PRIME MINISTER, IN WITH THE BROOMS AND MOP BUCKETS, UNDERNEATH THE STAIRS,

 TEN DOWNING STREET.

Mr Nick Gimp:

My fellow Toiletpersons. In the light of our stunning victory in the elections and in the referendum I have decided that under my leadership we must now blow our own trumpets a bit more, I mean cocks, we must blow our own cocks a bit more,  no… no……I don’t mean that, I do mean trumpets,  a Jeremy Thorpe moment, there, or do I mean Charlie Kennedy or David Laws or Simon Hughes or, Oh, take your prick,  I mean pick, blow our own trumpets, that's it…….Am I asking myself to blow my own cock?  Of course I'm not. I didn't come into govament to do this stuff, but if self-fellation is in the interest of the nation.  I'm not in this to be popular. Which is just as well

Straight Simon Hughes:

Make your mind up duckie, trumpets, trombones,

which is it, not that it matters to me because I'm not gay, I'm bisexual. And of course if the party asked me to stab you up the arse, I mean in the back, I would be compelled to serve the party which is my first priority and not going off to Spain on holiday every five minutes.......

Mr Chris Who:

My cock is entirely green.
Energy minister, Mr Who, his poor old Mrs and his new partner,
as they call them, Ms Carina Cigarillo-CarpetMuncher. 

Just because I left my wife for a lesbian doesn't mean I'm a Liberal Democrat, no, of course it doesn't, I'm a multi-millionaire and that's why I can identify so much with all these cripples and blind fuckers but that's no reason for them to clog up the Westminster thoroughfares, making it difficult for Ministers like myself to roar past in a green convoy of motorcycles, armoured RangeRovers and three-litre limousines. And anyway, anything anyone says about me is all lies and I'll sue them.  I've got the money, you know. Nick Clegg? Man's a cunt. 

Disconsolate Scottish LibDems head North for the last JockLib redoubt of Orkney and Shetland, where, unknown to them,  they will probably be burnt at a Presbyterian stake.

Mr Big Al "Big Al" Carmichael, MP,
Orkney and Shetland.

Do you know I get to go in and out of Downing Street? All the time. Almost.
(from Big Al's weekly fan letter to himself in the Orkney&Shetland Catechism, circulation 127)

What, men and men, together, you mean, Och No, we don't do that sort of thing here, certainly not. The Lord is my shepherd and he maketh me not to lieth down with other men and lick their bottoms;  well, only in London, anyway, and at Party Conferences. Blow Nick Clegg? Well, He did make me chief whip, so fair's fair, a man's a man for a' that, as we say in Scotland, or we would, if we had any MSPs there, which now we don't. Thanks to Mr Clegg.

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY. THE FILTH-O-GRAPH, AY VEE CAN RAISE THE DEAD.

The late Field Marshal Lord Paddy "Paddy" Pantsdown PC,  former Leadet of the Dogshooters, former UN Supreme Excellency in  Bosnia Herzegovena and all around arsehole, emerged from his crypt, yesterday, to say that the Tories shouldn't be cunting Mr Clegg over the referendum which isn't on everybody's lips, other than when they say, as most people do, if that worthless, shiteating, pussywhipped, mommasboy cocksucker,  Clegg,  is for it, I'm against it, whatever it is.

I was only unfaithful to my wife the once; alright, it was for seventeen years, but we've got over it, especially now that I'm dead.

Emerging from his tomb in the SAS regimental cemetery, Lord Pantsdown said that he had never heard such low jibes as those which the No campaigners were making about his leader, Mr Nick Cunt.  Even in the grave, he said, his piercing blue eyes  squinting  and staring into the distance, I can hear them, those fucking Tory cunts, making personal remarks about Nick Cunt, it really is too bad for those public school wankers, like that snooty cunt Osborne,  to be making personal remarks like that. When I was leader of my party I wouldn't have stood for the brownhatter, Simon Hughes, slagging-off Peter Tatchell for being gay when the fucker was gay himself,  the cunt, even though I did.

Asked about Mr Cunt's future, should he lose the referendum, which he will, Field Marshal Ashdown fixed his piercing blue eyes at a point far in the distance and  squinting against a Sun no-one else in the Any Questions studio  could see, said,  Well, I was a soldier y'know, so I know everything, and if I were him I would resign and spend more time with my filthy Dago family, leaving the party in the safe hands of an elder statesman, an old soldier who knows the ropes and can provide a steady pair of pants, I mean hands. Anything, after all, is better than being buried six feet below ground, as I normally am.

SINGING TOGETHER WITH MR CAMERON

 OH, DOCTOR, I'M IN TROUBLE

WELL, GOODNESS GRACIOUS ME.

Altogether, now, we are scrapping Mr Andrew Spivsley's Health Service reforms not because they are shit, which they are, not because they were dreamed-up while he was drunk in the bath, even though they were and most definitely not because people realised that I hadn't a fucking clue what was going on in my govament.  No, we are scrapping them because they are too good. And people don't deserve them.  So there.  Just because the doctors and the nurses and the midwives and the occupational therapists and radiologists, yes, and the patients, too, so everybody, in fact,  says Mr Spivsley's proposals are unworkable, unthought-out, ruinous rubbish doesn't mean they are right.  I mean, what do they know, compared to Mr Spivsley? When I say we are scrapping them, what we mean is that we are postponing them for three months whilst we listen to people. And then we will scrap them. Or, better still, just forget them.  Like our election promises. I can always blame wotsisname, Clegg,  the thicko.

It's rather like the woods, or the forests or whatever it was.  Just because Mrs Spellman is a useless, expenses-fiddling, shitbrained,  gobby airhead didn't mean that she had it wrong on the woods, or forests, even though she did.  Mr Spivsley, oh, I have every confidence in him and will sack him at the earliest possible opportunity.

 Mr Andrew Spivsley.

Whilst shadowing the health department in opposition, Spivsley  insisted that his moonlighting in the private sector, at fifty grand a year, kept his feet on the ground.  Shame it didn't keep his head out of his arse. Cameron will announce this morning that he is temporarily shelving  Spivsley's lunatic plans to destroy the health service and sell the good remaining bits to his mates.

MORE BUDGET NEWS. OSBORNE ANNOUNCES CARPET CLEANING CZAR.

"One of our greatest high tech innovators, James Dyson, has urged me to increase the support they get. I have listened to him, and have gone even further than he recommends." Rt hon George Spunkface, MP, Chancellor of the Exchequer.

LORD DYSON OF MALAYSIA. BUY MY NEW MACHINE, IT'S MILES BETTER THAN THE LAST ONE, BUT JUST WAIT UNTIL YOU SEE THE NEXT ONE. THAT'LL BE MILES BETTER THAN THIS ONE, HONEST, YOU CAN TRUST ME, I'M AN ARSEHOLE.

How does he do this, year after year, this vacuum cleaner shit, and not feel embarrassed?

 The Shakers were one of those religious nutter sects which fled England  to found Uncle Sam's lunatic asylum, across the water.  Shaker dwellings, textiles and especially furniture have become stylistically iconographic;  blessed with massive forests of walnut, oak, ash,  cherry and pitch pine the Shaker settlers crafted austere, ultra efficient and durable pieces of furniture which these days change hands for tens of thousands of dollars and their designs  are widely reproduced by craftspersons all around the New and Old worlds. Shaker homes and furniture were a celebration of the covenant which timber represents between man and nature,  a celebration peculiar inasmuch as the Shakers practised celibacy and have now, pedictably, died out.

As well as  repudiating their own reproductive  urges, the Shakers hated dirt.  Around their rooms, at shoulder height,  they fixed pegrails on which they could hang stools and chairs and stuff, 

whilst they swept out the rooms,  chastising their polished floorboards with bezam brooms, brushing living's detritus  straight out the door.  No carpets for them, fuck no.

My Shaker carpet moment came   years ago, long before I knew about Shakerism, when, as a young man, in the kaleidoscopic embrace of lysergic acid dyethelamide,  I dropped on the floor a tiny sliver of cannabis resin with which I was hoping to ape the Saviour on the Mount and build a joint which would stone the five thousand - or at least the handful of people in the room,  it was an  immeasurably small  fragment of dope, its retrieval almost requiring an  entry into the sub-atomic universe.  Down on my knees, I went, fingers carefully parting the aforestation of carpet fibres,  Jesus, there was some horrible stuff  living in there,  all manner of bits of shit and filth, rotting food, dust and vast herds of nasty, dangerous insects, little armour-plated bastards, waving claws and fangs, sawbills and sabretails, snapping and hissing,   multi-legged, with eyes on stalks.   Fucks sake, lads, we're under siege here, get the fucking vacuum cleaner out. After what seemed like centuries of earthquake-noisy hoovering I got down again,  prised the fibres apart again and it was all still there, the snarling carpet universe. I don't  believe I was hallucinating,  you only need to think about carpeting for a moment to get the horrors;   the Japs and the Chinks and the Muslims all take their shoes off indoors but we don't and even if we do just the very construction of carpet, it's woven density, will swiftly make it home to stuff you'd rather not think about, and life being what it is, shit survives, adapts, clings to its environment.

Never been happy with carpets from that day to this and generally manage to  throw the fucking things out and clean  and polish the boards;   twenty coats of varnish'll do the trick,  two or three a day, a light wire wooling and a wipe with white spirit between coats;  a week to empty the room and sand  and stain the floor and a week to varnish it.  And then you can just mop it over with some gentle detergent,  a gleaming,  natural,  vermin-free surface you could eat your dinner off of. For me the fitted carpet is as desireable as the Ahn Sweet bathroom.  A shithouse in the bedroom. Aye, right. Luxury.

And so the vacuum cleaner  strikes me as the most useless, redundant piece of junk you can own.  Even the Kirby one, the one that costs over a grand and is made out of some intergalactic heavy metal that you can't hardly lift, even that one, a thousand horsepower hoover can't clean these little fuckers up.  At least they last a lifetime, though, the Kirbys, don't jam up, chew up their belts, refuse even to do all that whirring and wheezing that the Dysons do.  Just go down any council tip in the country,  the section where they put the tellies and computers and printers and fridgefuckingfreezers that they pretend to recycle and there'll be platoons of those fucking Dyson things, purple and yellow and grey, standing to attention, fucked and useless, clapped-out,  shiny, plastic, planned obsolescence, worn-out, right on schedule; junk,  good for fuck all.

First they sold us, at exorbitant cost - on HP, even -  intrinsically filthy floor coverings  that we didn''t need and then they sold us shitty, noisy bits of junk  to keep them clean, even though they didn't, couldn't;  Hoover beats, as it sweeps, as it cleans.  And now Dyson, having shipped his business out to the Far East, where folks work for fuck all, bombards us,  year after year,  with variations on his pointless, plastic theme. He needs one shoving up his arse.

And Mr George Spunkface, smirking and coughing his way through his non-budget  dragoons this clown, Dyson, to his cause,  as though he was a hybrid of  Michaelangelo and Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Brilliant inventor, James Dyson, says I should do this or that  and  this or that that is what I am doing. Aren't I clever? And I commend myself to the house.

Trains and boats and planes, we used to make,  from needles in Redditch to ocean liners on the Clyde and everything in-between.  Now, we lionise the City's financial terrorists and govament kowtows to tax-dodging, sweatshopping rag traders at M and S and TopMan.  Seems quite appropriate that Dyson, peddler of worthless, plastic junk, should be whispering in the Chancellor's ear. High-tech innovator, right up there with the large Hadron  particle collider,  that's bagless vacuum cleaning. Dyson, the modern charlady's best friend.

HOW LONG CAN THIS CAMERON SHIT CONTINUE?

The Filth-O-Graph is reporting that the Duke's family friend, the nonce, Epstein, was permitted to land his GulfStreamNonceJet at  RAF Marham,  the sooner, one imagines, for them to enjoy the weekend together at the Queen's - that is to say our  estate at Sandringham, presumably a host of servants - public sector employees - would have been on hand in order that the Duke could see his friend entertained right royally, so to speak. Air Vice Marshal Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap insisted  that the landing, among frontline Tornado squadrons was not at all unusual, was, in fact, a wizard show. It happens all the time, said Marshal Golighty-Jockstrap, how many times? Fucked if I know, old boy, but I am sure it must have. What, rename the base RAF Nonceham ?  I should co-co.

Princess Sarah Freeloader,

Hangover? No, just been up all night with a couple of pretend sheiks, Okay, yah?

former Mrs Duke, said what a terrible misunderstanding it had all been, her begging money off of the nonce and the Duke making free with HM Armed Forces premises like that in return.  And as for introducing little Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie to a man who  might well groom them to be his sex slaves, well,  people simply had to understand  that she was under an incredible amout of strain, freeloading her way around the world, selling introductions to their Dad to dodgy geezers from Mr Murdoch's newspapers.  I wish people would understand that I only do these things for the money, complained the greedy, idle slut, if only the Queen had given me  a few tens of millions I wouldn't have to hang out with paedophiles. Or Andrew.

In Downing Street, Mr CallHimWinston, our next great war leader,

said that the only way to reduce the defecit and win the next election was to declare war on some wogs, somewhere. It is simply the only thing to do.  By my unfailing support for His Royal Highness, a bent, thieving playboy,  my support for the bungling fucking useless arse burglar, Hague and my stuffing the cabinet with retarded mutants like Duncan fucking Smith and his free-pensions-for-all-nonsense I have revealed myself to be even more useless than Mr Snot and my hero, Cardinal Blair. Three failed leaders in the same cabinet, Hague, IDS and myself - four if you count the halfwit, braindead  dogshooter, Clegg, didya fucking see him, yesterday, apprenticeships, in loft insulation, fuck me, Jesus, must take all of half an hour to get good at that, even I could do it - 'sawonder the Brits, too,  aren't storming the barracks and  waging war on their unelected govament. And that's not to mention Mr Coulson, Mr Laws, the forests, the disappearing aircraft carriers, inflation, unemployment, the bankers and the cost of petrol and Christ only knows what else. Fuck me, they must all be stupid.

Ian Duncan-Gargolye.

Yes, everyone can have a big pension.

Not as big as mine, though, obviously.

In fact I should probably say that everyone might have a big pension.

When? Fucked if I know. Ask the Chancellor.

 

Mr William Gay Gargoyle.

Yes, Mr Deputy Speaker, Iyam, if you will permit me,

ay very capable foreign seckatry.

And that's why everyone is laughing at me.