PLEASE CRY FOR ME MIDDLE ENGLAND.

Oh, the pity and the pathos of it all, the heart wrenching bathos, Gordon Brown wants our sympathy, not only that, the mendacious two faced thieving son of a bitch wants us to vote for him, and the tool he uses to prise our votes from the mamaries of common sense is the sight of him bawling on the box over the death of his daughter. Who could refuse to vote for him after such a performance? Well I could for a start, I might not be thick but by God I am heartless, and the sight of bum face emoting on the tele did nothing to alter my disposition, not that I was inclined to be changed in the first place.

Of course lots of folk are weeping buckets already, it’s a wonder entire suburbs have not been submerged in the anguished tears of the middle classes, not that they are mourning Gordon’s pain, far from it, they are howling in grief over the fact that the fat Scotch tosser destroyed their pensions with a vindictive levy, financially raped the hard working bourgeoisie with surreptitious taxation, then went on to wreck the economy, all the while pretending that he was prudent, a fiction the gullible ranks of the press corps were ready eager and willing to go along with, despite abundant evidence to the contrary, but then that is journalism for you, never let the truth get in the way of your proprietors prejudices. And, to top it all the bastard let Harriet Harman loose on the nation, that alone would make most people bawl until Christmas 2020.

The strategy was that we would feel so sorry for the desolated soul, that we would rush out and vote for him at the earliest oportunity, well that was what the Downing Street spin doctors calculated, which only goes to prove that such creatures, anaesthetised to the realities of life beyond the perimeter of the M25, are nothing more than the faeces of the political hierarchy. So there was old bum face, he sat there in front of us trying desperately to squeeze a tear out on our behalf with an intensity which suggested he was sitting on the lavatory while trying to overcome the effects of constipation. If that charade was not tasteless enough, there was dear Sarah sitting in the audience with a camera full on her, joining in the waterworks like a re-run of the dam busters. We know Sarah loves her misogynous spouse, at least that is what she has told us, although why she should think that was necessary, or that we were interested to know in the first place is beyond my comprehension. If there is one consolation to be gleaned from this tawdry saga it is that even less people are likely to vote for bum face than ever before.

As was the bubonic plague in days of yore, this disease is catching, scarcely had Brown ceased weeping for votes than Alistair Campbell, the colostomy bag of New Labour takes up the lachrymose baton to bleat and weep over the fact that folk do not like him, fancy, at his age one would think he would be used to the fact. How thick does this hectoring thug suppose we are? This is the not so wilting violet who pushed government scientist David Kelly into committing suicide. Campbell was Tony Blair’s Tyrell, the man Blair licensed to commit the sins he did not have the guts to undertake himself, Campbell was and remains a psychotic bully with a mouth resembling a blocked lavatory, and we are supposed to feel sympathy for this lout? Give me strength.

But we are not finished yet folks, oh no, alas, there is more to come, Dinkie Davie, the Romulus Augustalus of the Conservative Party, determined not to be left off the band wagon, bags a camera to tell us of his anguish at the loss of his son, well I am sure he was devastated at the passing of his little boy, we all have bereavements in our lives. Not so long ago I lost my pet hamster, did I go on the tele to bawl for Britain and beg the public to go out and buy my books? No, but that was just be cause no one would have me, but that is not the issue, I stiffened my upper lip, put the remains of the hamster in the recycle bin and got on with my life, as one does.

Could I be the only one to feel the whole tribe of politicians and their hangers on are due their comeuppance? I genuinely feel that come the next election the nomenclatura of the British establishment will be given a pasting by the electorate, and Nigel Farage and Nick Griffen will form the next government, then Brown and co really will have something to cry about, and so will the rest of us. Plus ca change, plus ca la meme chose.