(I make no apology whatsoever for the excessive swearing in this post. It's for medicinal purposes.)
Jesus. You massive, heaving collection of absolute bell-ends.
The next person who whines to me that they can't shift the Tories out of their district council is going to get punched in the windpipe.
Yeah, you might have stuck two fingers up to Nick Clegg - in retaliation for the way he's annoyed every Lib Dem voter over the last year - but you've also just spat on your own cornflakes. Not so much cutting off your nose to spite your face, as tearing off your head, drop-kicking it into the path of an oncoming truck and shitting down your own neck.
Knobbers.
Showing posts with label nick clegg. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nick clegg. Show all posts
Friday, 6 May 2011
Monday, 10 May 2010
The Game Is Nearly Afoot
So, here we are. After our big demonstration of democracy in action, after all the hoohah about this election being so important and our vote really, REALLY counting, here we are. Standing impotently on the sidelines while the politicians decide amongst themselves who's going to be in charge.
Is it me or does it all feel a bit like being back in the playground, picking teams for elastics or that sadistic version of dodgeball they used to make us play at primary school? David Cameron stands on one side of the court, his swaggering pals resplendent in shiny new squash shorts, jeering and quaffing swan juice while he looks thoughtful and tries to make that nylon Ken hair move a bit when he turns his head.
On the other side, the Labour party languishes against the wall, expressions sullen, dirty socks bagging around their ankles. They are fat, spotty and on the losing side already. On the edge of the crowd, Gordon Brown dangles hopefully and tries to catch David Milliband's eye, before having an empty Dr Pepper can lobbed at his head with a cry of 'sod off Fatty, we missed that goal coz of you!'
Between the two factions, Nick Clegg and his hyperactive cohorts jog on the balls of their feet, yellow tabards glistening in the sun as they twist excitedly from one direction to the next, awaiting the shrill whistle blast that will signal the kick-off.
Because they might not be team captains, but they know they're going to be picked first. For them, there'll be no dawdling about, one leg twisted behind the other, almost dying of embarassment as the crowd thins around them and they are left wondering who will be chosen last - them, the Green Party or the I Eat Chickens In The Bath Party.
As poor old Brown (whom the sublime Charlie Brooker once described as 'a haunted elephant' and no other description can possibly surpass that) drags his sorry ass away from the match and roots about in the stinky Lost Property box for a decent pair of trainers to wear on the bus home, the fit kids get ready to play nicely and show just how co-operative and mature they can be. While secretly working out how to kick each other in the bollocks the moment Teacher's back is turned.
Is it me or does it all feel a bit like being back in the playground, picking teams for elastics or that sadistic version of dodgeball they used to make us play at primary school? David Cameron stands on one side of the court, his swaggering pals resplendent in shiny new squash shorts, jeering and quaffing swan juice while he looks thoughtful and tries to make that nylon Ken hair move a bit when he turns his head.
On the other side, the Labour party languishes against the wall, expressions sullen, dirty socks bagging around their ankles. They are fat, spotty and on the losing side already. On the edge of the crowd, Gordon Brown dangles hopefully and tries to catch David Milliband's eye, before having an empty Dr Pepper can lobbed at his head with a cry of 'sod off Fatty, we missed that goal coz of you!'
Between the two factions, Nick Clegg and his hyperactive cohorts jog on the balls of their feet, yellow tabards glistening in the sun as they twist excitedly from one direction to the next, awaiting the shrill whistle blast that will signal the kick-off.
Because they might not be team captains, but they know they're going to be picked first. For them, there'll be no dawdling about, one leg twisted behind the other, almost dying of embarassment as the crowd thins around them and they are left wondering who will be chosen last - them, the Green Party or the I Eat Chickens In The Bath Party.
As poor old Brown (whom the sublime Charlie Brooker once described as 'a haunted elephant' and no other description can possibly surpass that) drags his sorry ass away from the match and roots about in the stinky Lost Property box for a decent pair of trainers to wear on the bus home, the fit kids get ready to play nicely and show just how co-operative and mature they can be. While secretly working out how to kick each other in the bollocks the moment Teacher's back is turned.
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