Thursday 30 April 2009

BORIS JOHNSON, NON AGRICOLA EST.

Let no one doubt the mayor of London’s infinite capacity to add to the gaiety of the nation, and once more dear Boris has come up trumps with his latest announcement. Not only has he admitted that he may not run for a second term as our inglorious buffoon, but to cap absurdity with historical myopia, the man compares himself to Cincinnnatus, one of the great heroes of Republican Rome.
  Due to circumstances, largely due to his own making, Cincinnnatus was forced to live in the country, a bit like the modern equivalent of being sent to Liverpool to apologise for telling the truth about the moaning, self pitying Scousers. There the similarity ends. Cincinnatus supported himself and his family in poverty, by farming a small plot of land. Now apart from the fact that Boris could not tell the difference between a bucketful of manure and a field of parsnips, he makes a mountain of dosh by being paid to write a load of self serving shite in the Daily Telegraph.
  Now, it came to pass, (It always did in them days), that a crisis arose in Rome, and Cincinnatus was recalled by the Senate to save the state. By this time it is easy to see why Boris fancies himself as the Roman yeoman riding to the rescue, but I digress. Cincinnatus was made dictator, and off he went and defeated the Aequians, Rome was saved. Being the noble fellow he was, our hero then resigned his office and returned to the farm. Boris resign from office? Don’t make me laugh, he will have to be dragged screaming from the portals of power. The only thing Boris has in common with the ancient Roman is his barnet, the name Cincinnnatus refers to the man’s somewhat unruly mop.
  Having established that our Boris is no Cincinnnatus, who in ancient Rome can we compare him to? How about the Gracchi, the brothers Tiberius and Giaus. The Gracchi are regarded as the founders of populism, in short a couple of rabble rousers who came up with the then novel wheeze to pinch from the rich to buy the votes of the poor, now that’s Boris for you. There is one fly in this particular jar of ointment, the nobles whose wealth was to be plundered to fund the ambitions of the Gracchi, turned on their tormentor and sliced him up like a salami in a dark corner of the Forum. Gordon Brown beware. No. We can’t have such an end for Boris, but who in the ancient world can we compare him to? Well dears you can rely on me to come up with the answer.
  Boris can be equated with Odovacar, “Oo?” You may shriek, at least the less erudite amongst you will. Odovacar was a barbarian chieftain of Hunnish and Scimian ancestry, a bit of a fruit salad, like Boris, who, despite his posh accent is half wog himself. It was Odovacar who deposed the last Emperor of the West, Romulus Augustalus, a young lad who had scarce matured enough to spit in the eye of puberty, now, who does that remind you of? David and Goliath? Odovacar hustled Romulus into obscure retirement, the fate of most Tory leaders. Yes, Boris can best be compared to Odovacar. 
  One last question, is Boris chasing after destiny because he feels the tug of mad political ambition? Or, if the fellow running scared because he fears he my end up with more sugar in his tea than he considers palatable? 

Wednesday 15 April 2009

NUFF SAID, TRUTH IS DEAD.

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?