Yes, I go to the same barber as Lady Sir Paul McCartney
We're much of an age, you know.
Born to a very wealthy family, Fatty Lawson wasn't what you would call a self-made man; as is the way with this lot, he fucked about as a money journalist for a while and then the usual path for rich Tory boys - safe seat in Leicestershire and into Whiskey Maggie's cabinet of spivs. He always repelled me, just viscerally, when he was bloated and then, when, after his second - or third - marriage failed he slimmed himself down.
It's his bullying I-Know-Bestism, he can't hide it, not like he hides his proper hair colour. It's a weirdness, that, it's like Terry Wogan's wig, or Andrew Neil's, everybody knows they're fake, pathetically so, yet nobody mentions them, just like nobody mentions the noncing. There's some level of power that these arseholes reach where they think they can enslave everyone in their own pathetic self-delusion. And generally they do.
Lawson is a freak. He called his daughters, Thomasina, Nigella and Horatia, all men's names, crudely feminised; has there ever been a Nigella, before this irritating soft-pornster cum cook? His fat son, Dominic, ran the Sunday Telegraph, in Conrad Black's day, like a family newspaper, the Lawson family, shamelessly full of himself, his sister, his dying brother-in-law and his Da' and now, without an editorship, Dominica whores around writing columns nobody reads and fucking about on Sky's midnight news review. With the drunks.
All Nigel's marriages were shit - well they would be with him in them - and he, now, at seventy-nine, let's call it eighty, courts a woman half his age,
Vampire love.
Yuk
they must be well-met, or she must be a canny and thick-skinned gold-digger, to chance, as she does, Death's coitus interruptus, if coitus it be, with this old coffin-dodger.
He eventually flounced out of Maggie's cabinet after a couple of years of her humiliating him with an unofficial chancellor of her own and has spent his time since then disputing global warming or EarthCrime as we call it here - an old boy needs to do something useful in retirement. Look, these icecaps melting like never before, there are plenty of reasons for that to happen and good reasons for us not to be alarmed. No, Nigel, there aren't.
Anyway, the spiteful old fart, like so many of them, sees a new lease of life in CallHimDave's inept knee-trembler with Clegg; as their hasty passion subsides, now, as they wipe their cocks, shove them back in their trousers and hope nobody's seen their mutual discharge, all the aged vermin, the half-dead and the undead sniff the rank wind and sense their own, albeit momentary, resurrection, maybe one more hard-on before they die forever.
And out they crawl, among their familiars, Nick Robinson and Adam Boulton, mouthing, from dribbling lips, their slimy worldview. We must leave Europe trans: if the nation calls on me to serve, I stand ready to do my dirty, I mean duty.
Does anyone in their right mind, apart from his freaky totty, give a flying fuck what Nigel Lawson has to say?
And then there's this shameless old cocksucker.
Mine's a pint of B Rhesus negative, please.
Baron Samedi of Lerwick.
"Rising unemployment and the recession have been the price that we have
had to pay to get inflation down. That price is well worth paying."
from wiki: Three weeks after the government's massive loss in the by-election, on
27 May 1993, Lamont was sacked, (technically resigning from the
government because he declined a demotion to become Secretary of State
for the Environment), throwing (by his own account) Major's letter of
regret at his departure unopened into the wastepaper basket, and giving a
resignation speech in the House of Commons
on 9 June, that made clear his feeling that he had been unfairly
treated, saying that the government 'gives the impression of being in
office but not in power'; the then Party Chairman Norman Fowler dismissed the speech as "dud, nasty, ludicrous and silly".[47]
Major and Lamont agree that Lamont had offered his resignation
immediately after Black Wednesday and that Major pressed him to remain
in office. Lamont came to the view that Major had sought his survival in
office as a firebreak against the criticism of the ERM policy
rebounding on himself.
Lamont, the staggeringly incompetent author of Black Wednesday, slithers out from his lair, too, where he hedge-funds and investment-banks and does all the usual forms of uppercrust thievery, the mangy-looking ponce, and, scenting blood, lisps Out of Europe, Now.
And this one, Mr Shouty Rifkind.
In Google Images, Rifkind has more "posed" photographs even than most of the filth in showbusiness.
Quite the Christine Keeler, our Malcy.
wonder if he's got any trousers on.
Hold that thought, it's what they're like, these people.
"Conservative Malcolm Rifkind got 3,066 pounds ($4,800) last year
for flights to his home in Scotland -- though he represents a district
three subway stops from the Parliament in London.
“It’s amazing some of the
things they’ve given themselves over the years,” said Andrew Rawnsley,
author of “Servants of the People,” a history of Tony Blair’s
government. “Why on earth would you need to visit Scotland in order to
represent people in London? It’s all within the rules, but it all repels
voters.”
"Sir Malcolm Rifkind, the former Tory Cabinet minister, raised
eyebrows by claiming £499 for three trips by his wife. His constituency
is Kensington and Chelsea, three miles from London”
from The Motley Fool blog
Old ShoutyGob Rifkind, briefly foreign seckatry, enjoys, too, in these troubled times, a rebirthing, shouting about Iran, Syria, China and of course Europe. A CallHimDave loyalist, maybe hoping for office, hoping for an Indian Summer of bullying and fiddling and all the vices his skill set lends him to, the horrible fucking bent Anglo-Jock bastard hedges his bets on Europe, Well, I'm not persuaded of this and I'm not persuaded of that, he shouts to a dwindling Newsnight audience and to the bombastic Jocky Neil on his many platforms.
Mr Politics, resting from his demanding job at the Paedo Broadcasting Corporation.
And, finally, for now, old FishHead, himself, old no-balls Portillo,
Of course, I'm half-Spanish, half-English, half-American and three-quarters Shirtfish. So I can talk about all sorts of things, as long as the taxpayer keeps on coughing-up.
journalist, broadcaster, moral-maze-ist - mind-boggling that, eh? - and now Tory grandee, Portillo, all innocent-like, as though he were really a right honourable person, writes in Murdoch's madeupnewsandfilthTimes that actually he's always been against Europe - not Spain, especially Guernica, which was bombed in his father's honour, and not the European railways, from which he may yet wrest one more episode of his dire, stuttering, corpsing teevee show - or at least he's against the bits which everybody else is banging-on about.
Unlike, let's see, where to start....unlike the pisshead, Roy Jenkins, the obnoxious fascist, Leon Brittain, his grace the Lord Kinnock and LadyStickyFingers Kinnock et famille, her grace the Lord Mandelstein, his excellency Baron Robertson of the Secret Dunblane Massacre and her grace the Lady Ashton, none of the above were ever pensioned-off to Europe, on half a million quid a year, plus all the expenses they could dream up, the Kinnocks especially. There must be more, I just can't remember them.
Maybe, if Brussels could do a job creation number for every shopsoiled and discredited politician in the entire continent then we wouldn't have these half-dead night creatures crawling about, howling their hunger, frightening the children. They've done enough of that already.
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