Wednesday, 15 April 2009


The truth is dead? Of course it is, as a concept it popped it’s clogs years ago, and in politics it never even existed. When I say truth in politics does not exist, I err slightly. The politicos do occasionally tell it as it is, usually in the week following an election, when they admit they fed us a cartload of porkies to obtain our vote and now they have no intention of keeping their promises. At this point, one or two of you may be wondering where this ids leading, apart from the establishment of a new religion of the bleeding obvious.
Truth to New labour is what bubonic plague was to the Middle Ages, a lethal visitation upon society, and that same plague is about to administer an enema to our ruling commissars. It all started with Derek Draper, a labour groupie who, in his heyday, was known under the soubriquet Dolly. Now why a red blooded macho male would be labelled Dolly, is beyond my ken, perhaps someone out there could put a finger on the reason.
Dolly and his pal, who was Gordon Brown’s hatchet man, Dildo Mcpoison, or whatever it is he is called, decided to smear the opposition with a shower of fabricated and scabrous fables. Strange as it may seem, two can play at that game, so, stand up Nu labour and take it on the chin like a person.
Let’s start with Gordon Brown, who never does anything wrong and is too busy saving the World to tell fibs. As everyone has suspected for years, our Gordy is a woofter. There is nothing he likes better than a nob noshing session down Old Compton Street. But, the more gullible amongst you may say, what about that lovely wife of his? Really darlings, that arrangement would not be the first lavender liaison in the history of Westminster.
While we are on the subject of left footers, there’s Dandy Mandy, the peoples poof. Well, I’ve got news for you, he ain’t. Talk about bare arsed cheek, the buggers as straight as they come.
Then there is Jacqui Smith. I’ll bet money you did not know she’s been in and out of the Cleveland Street clap clinic so many times, the woman is in line to get a gold watch for regular attendance. Unable to spread her expense claims any further, she decided to spread her legs to make up the shortfall. No wonder her hubby is reduced to beating the meat up in Brum. Hazel Blears, the malignant midget of modern politics, opened up a brothel over a chip shop in Whitechapel Road. Jacqui was one of Hazels first “Girls” It was at Hazel’s that she caught her first dose of crabs.
Tessa Jowel has a lucrative sideline in arranging dodgy mortgages for illegal immigrants, of course, she would deny this until she was blue in the face, but with her old man doing time for perjury, the family relationship with veracity does not inspire confidence. Lastly, there is David Milliband, the Baby Jane Hudson of British Politics. Word is he’s fencing diamonds for grace Mugabe and using the proceeds to procure to purchase elocution lessons for his brother, who’s diction is routinely slaughtered in his attempts to sound working class. Why do these posh Marxists think we are so easy to fool?
Time to call it a day. As you will all realise, the contents of this blog are made up, and meant to be taken in good part, but, on the other hand?

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