THE BALLAD OF THERESA MAY.

When a man grows old and his balls grow cold,
And the tip of his prick turns blue;
When it bends in the middle like a one string fiddle.
He can tell you a tale or two.

So pull up a chair and stand me a drink,
And a tale to you I’ll say,
About Dick Head Dave and Bollockless Clegg,
And a trollop called Theresa May.

When Dick Head Dave and Bollockless Clegg
Go forth in search of fun,
It’s Dick Head Dave who wields the prick.
And Bollockless Clegg the gun.

Now Dick Head Dave and Bollockless Clegg
Live round by Downing Street
And such was their luck that they’d had no fuck for nigh on half a week

Dave pounded his cock with a huge piece of rock,
And he said I want to play.
It’s been almost a week on this friggin’ street
With no fanny coming my way.

So do or dare, this horney pair
Set off for the street called Strand.
They jumped on their bikes
In search of some dykes,
And Clegg with a gun in his hand.

They reached that grand old street called Strand
At the height of a blazing noon.
To slake their thirst and do their worst
They sought slack Alice’s saloon.

The swinging doors they pushed back wide,
Both prick and gun flashed free.
“According to sex, you bleeding wrecks,
You’ll drink or you’ll fuck with me”.

Now they’d heard of the prick of Dick Head Dave
From Hampstead to Potters Bar,
So, with nothing worse than a muttered curse,
The fellows all sought the bar.

When Dave walked in to a house of sin,
The whores all cursed their luck,
Not even a tart, dared let out a fart,
When he said, “I want to fuck”.

The girls they knew of his playful ways,
Down on the street called Strand,
And forty whores pulled down their drawers
At Dick head Dave’s command.

For they saw the finger of Bollockless Clegg
Move on the trigger grip,
So they did not wait, and at a fearful rate
Those whores began to strip.

Now Dick Head Dave was breathing quick,
With lecherous snorts and grunts,
So forty bums were bared to view,
And so were forty cunts.

Now Dick Head Dave had screwed a few
On the last preceding night,
This he had done just to have some fun,
And to whet his appetite.

His phallic limb was in fighting trim
As he backed and took a run.
He made a dart at the nearest tart,
And scored a hole in one.

The lady he bore to the dusty floor,
And there he filled her fine,
And though she grinned, it put the wind
Up the other thirty nine.

He had made a dart at the next fair tart,
When into that harlot’s hell,
Strode a gentle maid who was unafraid:
Her name was Theresa May.

But Dick Head Dave had got his prick
Well into number two,
When Theresa May gave out a neigh,
She bawled to him, “Hey you”.

Dave gave a flick of his muscular prick,
And the girl flew over his head,
He then wheeled about with an angry shout;
His face and his balls were red.

Theresa glanced our hero up and down.
His looks she seemed to decry,
With utter scorn, she sneered at the horn,
Which rose from his hairy thigh.

She blew the smoke of her dainty fag
All over his steaming knob.
So utterly beat was Dick Head Dave,
That he failed to do his job.

It was Theresa May who saved the day,
In accents clear and cool:
“You cunt struck shrimp of a Taffy pimp,
You call that thing a tool?”

“If this here town can’t take that down”
She said to the cowering whores,
”There’s another cunt who can do the stunt,
But it’s Theresa May’s not yours.

She dropped her garments with an air of
Consummate pride.
And as she stood in her woman hood
They saw the great divide.

She flexed her knees with supple ease,
And spread her thighs apart.
With a friendly nod to the mangy sod
She gave him the cue to start.

Now Dick Head Dave knew more than one rave,
And he meant to take his time,
For a woman like this was orgasmic bliss,
So he played the pantomime.

He flexed his arsehole to and fro,
And made his balls inflate,
Until they looked like granite knobs,
On top of a palace gate.

He blew his anus inside out,
His balls increased in size,
His mighty prick grew twice as thick
And reached almost to his eyes.

Then he did neither start to run,
Nor did he take a leap.
Nor did he stoop, but with a swoop
Began a steady forward creep.

As a marksman might he took a sight,
Along his mighty tool,
And his steady grin as he pushed it in,
Showed a calculated cool.

But Dick Head Dave would not come quick,
He meant to conserve his powers,
For if he’d a mind, he’d grind and grind,
For sixteen solid hours.

Theresa lay a while with a subtle smile,
Then the grip of her quim grew keener,
And a squeeze of her thigh sucked him dry,
With the ease of a vacuum cleaner.

She performed this trick in a way so slick
As to set in complete defiance
The principle cause and the basic laws,
That govern sexual science.

She calmly strode through the phallic code,
Which for years had withstood the test,
And the ancient rules of the classic schools
In a moment or two went west.

Right here my friend, we come to the end
Of copulation’s classic:
The effect on Dave was sudden and grave
And akin to an anaesthetic.

He fell to the floor, and he knew no more
His passions extinct and dead,
Nor did he shout as his cock fell out
Though it had shrivelled right down to a thread.

She rose to her feet with a smile so sweet,
The “Bully” She said “For you.
I might have guessed that that was the best
That you poor pimps could do”

When next my friend that you intend,
To sally forth for fun,
Buy Dick head Dave a sugar stick,
And yourself an elephant gun.

She’s going forth to London’s north,
Where the peckers are hard and strong,
And Theresa May offers a nicer brand
To pricks that are nine inches long.

When a man grows old and his balls grow cold,
And the tip of his prick turns blue, and the hole in the middle refuses to piddle,
I’d say he was stuffed, wouldn’t you?

DAVID CAMERON’S ORATION.

Friends Britons and Conservatives,
lend me tour ears:
I come to shit on Boris, not praise him.
The cock-ups men make live after them, the expense fiddles blown on their tarts.

So let it be with Boris. The ignoble Milliband hath told you Boris is a wanker.
If 'twere so, he was telling the truth for the first time,
for Boris is a dicky whacker, and he will go blind..
Here, under Milliband and the rest, for Milliband is an ignoble sod, so are they all, and this is not Balls.

Come I not to speak in Boris’ Praise, he was never my friend, he was always unfaithful and unjust to me.
But Milliband says Boris is faithful, this from a man who stabbed his own brother in the back.
Boris brought many to the Olympics to bask in his glory, but they were too busy watching the tele to fill the traders coffers.
Does this in Boris sound competent?

When the poor have cried, Boris has snuck off for a slash, is this unconcern or just incompetence.
Yet Milliband hath said Boris is ambitious, and sure, he is not an honourable man.
I speak not to approve Milliband spoke, but I am here to speak on what I do not know, I am but a politician.

You all did love Boris once, why not? You are but plebs.
What cause enjoins you to cheer him?

O judgement thou art fled to pedestrian breasts.
And men have lost their marbles. Bear with me, in my heart I know Boris is false fleeting and perjured,

and I must pause until the cunt falls under a bus..

THE BASTARDS OF BASTION.

It seems there has been a rumble in the jungle down Afghanistan way, it’s the female British troops, they’ve been dropping bastards like they was bombs, they are everywhere you look, just like Kate Middleton’s tits. Now I have to admit that only one “soldier” has fessed up to being up the duff, the authorities do not want to be gender specific but you can bet your last jock strap that there are others waiting in the wings, eager to discharge their duty. Notice that the term used by the Ministry when making the announcement, was soldier, must not be sexist must we, but with all respect to the haemorrhoids of political correctness, unless they have been putting something exceptional in the tea down there, it was not a bloody man, I mean to say, it’s bad enough trying to swallow the virgin birth, but a squaddie having a C section? Give us a break. Of course the only people to be surprised at any of this are the daft bastards who decreed that members of the opposite sex should be sequestered together in remote locations lacking the distractions of soap operas and Saturday football, nature might abhor a vacuum but it don’t half love a bit of how’s your father in the Afghan mountains, especially as a means of ascertaining that ones balls have not been blown away during the course of the working day. The propagated squaddie is to be flown home, but mindful of the trollop’s human rights, a team of nurses will be flown out to tend to her needs at god knows what cost while troops are forced to buy items of their equipment in order to save the Ministry of Defence money. By the way, it has been announced that women about to be deployed on the front line will not be tested for pregnancy as this would infringe on their human rights, one can only assume that should we ever be attacked, the invaders will be met by regiments of expectant female soldiers chucking unused pregnancy testing kits at them, the men will be reduced to making the tea and the government will be on a plane to a safe bolt hole, leaving the rest of us to get it in the neck. In the meantime, back to Bastion, where the troops are bonking for Britain, their balls bouncing around like ricocheting bullets, when Adam Delved and Eve span, who was then the rifle man? The problem here is that the randy bastards will be so busy screwing each other that they will not have noticed that the Yanks will have screwed the entire British army and by decamping home and leaving them in the lurch. The moral of this tale is this, we have spent countless billions, lost hundreds of lives, and what did we get out of it? A pile of shitty nappies.

ALL COCK AND ISLAM.

Now I have heard it all, there is that old saying,”Stranger things have happened at sea” but it seems even stranger goings on are being launched in Cairo. On the banks of the Nile, strange things are stirring, and while the dead have not come back to life they are certainly being screwed some thing rotten, you couldn’t make it up, and if you did, people would think you to be one sick bastard. That is enough faffing around, let’s get down on the heart of the issue. The good Mullah’s of Cairo have decreed that a man may have sex with his wife for up to six hours after her death. There, I have said it, but, this needs a little deeper analysis. Is this diktat valid for only one toss of the caber? Or is it a license for six hours of the non stop screwing of the dear departed? One presumes this sanctioning of necrophilia applies only to the land of King Tut, but who knows? The way things travel these days the practice could be over here in weeks, then no stiff would be safe, the authorities would not put a stop to any of this in case objecting to a Muslim screwing a corpse could be construed as racist, and one would not want that? Would one? Certainly not, carry on copulating Abdul, just don’t do it with someone who is breathing. All this may have some positive side effects, if they can go down on their dead wives maybe they would stop kidnapping white teenage girls for a bit of how’s your father. Imagine the scenes in places such as Bradford, that citadel of multiculturism, as the grieving spouses queue up at the undertakers, and the Tannoy belts out a contemporary version of that sixties Engelbert Humperdink classic, in this case it would be “I’ll have the last bonk with you” or the Stones one that goes “I can’t get no satisfaction” Not that complaining to a corpse about her performance would achieve much. Brings tears to your eyes it does. Naturally Hollywood could not pass up the chance to get in on the act, Steven Spielberg would make a blockbuster movie called Raiders of the Dead Cunt, oh, the possibilities are endless. But what if you are away from home when the missus pops her clogs, could you get a stay of execution while you are belting back home for that last encounter of the third kind? I suppose you would have to stuff the old bint in a cool place. There you are, home at last, the kids bawling their eyes out “Mam’s in the freezer dad” Do you thaw her out a bit? Or just get stuck in and risk getting frostbite of the dick, try explaining how you got that down at A&E. By the way we must not forget our bent friends, no stonewalling on this now folks, open minds and all that, they are just as entitled to a bang in the morgue as those straight perverts. I can see an entirely new cottage industry opening up in Soho, where there are plenty of homeless, who could vouch for the fact that there is no bum like a dead bum.

POOF THE MAGIC CAMERON.

When I was a lad, in days more innocent than those we inhabit today, practically everyone had a trannie, it was a plastic box which squawked pop music, in short a miniature wireless, which is what we called a radio in the days before Americanese was adopted by the Marxists of the urban inteligensia in order to disguise their posh origins and expensive educations with jargon and accents which would shrivel the balls in embarrassment of your average fine upstanding English man. At this point I should point out that this elegantly crafted bile has absolutely nothing to do with transistors, wirelesses or radios, and there is no way of putting this in a politically correct turn of phrase, not that I would in the first place you understand. Now, I am giving you this straight, the government is obsessed with ‘omos and I am not referring to the washing powder, I would not be surprised if the bent bastards did not start the Cabinet meeting with a gang bang instead of a prayer for heavenly guidance, which considering the cock up they manage to make of most things is not an activity they pursue with any perceptible vigour. Our current Government is obsessed with homophobia, to get ahead in this brave new world you have to be able to prove that you go out polishing knobs on a Saturday night on a regular basis. While the British Government can try to bully the native population into believing that buggery is the natural order of events, Joe Soap on the Clapham omnibus might take a little more convincing, not that anyone in North London gives a toss what he thinks, the working classes are for patronising not listening to. After the recent budget we realise that the Government is prone to getting itself into a hole, but there is no need to make a religion out of the activity? What is it about shirt lifting that so excites them? Is there something here that the rest of us are missing? Not content to badger those on the home front on the joys of turd burgling, the queens of Downing Street are turning their guns on the recipients of foreign aide, principally those nations of this Earth who chose to trade in the stability of British rule for life under a home grown kleptocracy. More that one of these ramshackle nations have been told that a continuance of aide is dependent on a more vigorous promotion of arse banditry. So much for international relations. The number one obsession in fairy land at the moment is gay marriage, especially in church, although why the insistence on the right to be spliced in the parish gospel hall looms so large in the utopian visions of the intelligentsia is beyond my ken. And as we all know, marriage was designed for the procreation of children so how could two blokes getting it together manage that? Talk about being up shit creek without a paddle. Technicalities apart, who would be the bride and who the groom and what would happen if both parties turned up at the altar in white frocks? neither willing to give way and ending up knocking seven bells out of each other, I pity the poor vicar. It is only time before Cameron decides on a physical monument to this queer policy. The North has it’s Angel of the North, I suppose it could be re-named the Nancy of Newcastle, but that would cause a bit of a kafuffle amongst the Geordies, better to have such an edifice down south. Alexandria had its Pharos, Dover could have it’s Phallus. Picture it, a gigantic bronze representation of a dick at the entrance to the harbour, they could call it the colossus of cock. There would have to be a suitable inscription, something along the lines of “Give me your poofs and illegal immigrants, yearning for a council house and the dole, we will cherish them, even if they wish to blow us to kingdom come”. It is a queer old world, that’s for sure and nothing is what it seems, Cameron is not a Conservative and I have heard a rumour that not only did he vote for Brown at the last election , but that Sam is actually a trannie. Not many people know that.

U.N. HAPPY.

Now let’s get one thing out of the way before I start, a rant is like a dose of diarrhoea, it comes upon one suddenly and once it starts there is no stopping it, overall it is a gut busting blow out which gives much relief to the sufferer, even if it does not clear the air so to speak. Having got that off my chest, lets get down to the nitty gritty.

The U.N. in it’s wisdom, which is not saying very much, as sagacity and the international body have but an imperfect appreciation of each other, has compiled an index of happiness which ranks the nations of the World according to the jollility of their inhabitants. Number six on the list are the Swiss, well that in itself is hilarious, the only time that lot are happy is when they are grassing up their neighbours for farting late at night. Before the Swiss in the league tables are the Scandinavians, it gets better does it not? After all, the Swedes have the highest suicide rate in the World, just imagine your average Swede looking the bathroom mirror first thing of a morning “Oh! I am so happy, I won’t have a shave, I’ll go and top myself instead”, happy? They must be friggin delirious, well the U.N thinks they are

Now where does this leave us poor Brits? Easy, back of the bus stop with no chance of a ride. Take my circumstances for example, and as you will see, the U.N. certainly did not consult me on the question of happiness, although compared with the Swedes I reckon I must be pretty chipper. I live in Whitechapel, the Riviera of the East End of London, a more sorry dump you would not have seen this side of the Pearly Gates, I share my garret with another, he has fur, four legs and loves cheese and if the bastard does not find another gaff pretty damn soon then I am going to present him with a rent book.

Last week I went off to vote, nothing wrong with that you might say, right, except that I got the date correct but the month was a bit out of kilter and as the polling station doubled up for a school, and I was poking around looking for a voting booth I was nearly arrested for paedophilia, the fact that I happened to be wearing a dirty old raincoat did not help matters.

On my way back from the West End the other day, the journey had the added attraction of a cabaret. A fellow passenger who bore all the traits of what I call a Monica, every bitch I have ever known has been a Monica, that is they all have big mouths, bigger arses and faces pebble dashed with zits, this example of the genre had the added attraction of a bald patch the size of a dinner plate, either that or her roots were seriously in need of attention. The dame started shooting her mouth off the instant she stepped on the bus and managed to antagonise every other passenger before completing her journey, after which we all had a jolly good time slagging the old bitch off. Now that was happiness, it would have been complete if the old hag had fallen over and broken her neck.

I got back to the residence to find the lodger had finally popped his clogs, to save on funeral cost, I dropped him down the bog, well, he was only a mouse after all, then I decided it was time for a leak. Unfortunately, my pissing on the poor four legged mite revived him, with the result that he leaped out of the crapper and bit me on the dick. Now if you think running around the joint with a rodent hanging onto your foreskins adds anything to the happiness of the nation then all I can say is that you had better run away and join the rest of the dopes at the U.N., where you can assist in the proclaiming of Syria as a haven of peace and tranquillity.

THE PIES PIPER OF OLD LONDON TOWN.

There is nothing more hilarious than a bunch of politicos, drenched in taxpayers cash and trying to be working class, nobody in public life will admit to being posh, which is why Ed Milliband’s adenoidal tones are such a Godsend as it is impossible to discern what is beneath them, his old man could have been a lavatory attendant at Camden bogs for all we know, but in this case we do know better, his father was one of those relentless hypocrites who came to this country to preach the destruction of capitalism while making a mint in the process, cosseted and protected by the society he despised, no wonder his sons are such a pair of wankers.

Class is never far beneath the surface of our national life, indeed, without it we would have no life, such is the obsession we have for the social standing of our neighbours, thus the outrage of the Pasty tax. Pasties, you see, are cheap nosh for common sods, not the sort of grub your political aristocrat would normally stumble upon on his way to the Fat Duck for a plate of slugs in slime. No wonder Georgie Porgy, oily and fly, taxed the pasties and made us cry, he did not think it mattered and he certainly did not think that we mattered. Well, there is no fool like a government fool.

The obsessions of the political class are a wonder to behold and before you could say jellied eels, the hierarchy of Parliament was in a stampede to be the first to be seen on camera necking a pasty in a working class establishment. First over the threshold was Red Ed, the posh prick from North London, plus entourage of course, like Louis theXIV he will not go from so much as one room to another unless there is someone in attendance to hold the pot should they need to take a piss, not that it happens very often as they are too busy taking it out of us to indulge in a leek themselves. Clock the look on Milliband’s face, the poor sap could not tall the difference between a pork pie and a pig’s trotter let alone a Cornish pasty.

And now we come to dick head Dave, doyenne of the Parliamentry spives, chomping on a sausage roll, by the look on his face his staff had evidently not told him what it was he was eating, to top it all there was SamCam riding a bike, just when the cameras happened to be pointing her way, fancy that now. Dear God, do they think we are all simple? Now that is one question we do know the answer to.

This ends where it begins, with Georgie, to sell his pasty tax to the working classes he is going to slap a tax on chilled Champagne, what next? Making the eating of caviar an indictable offence, don’t laugh, not with this lot in charge. Where will it all end? There will probably be a riot in Sunderland Co-Op over the last tin of baked beans with the one who bags the can being crowned working class twit of the year.