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.