Catching up

Time flies, doesn't it? Suddenly you realise it's been a while since you heard from them. Or indeed about them. And that your life went on perfectly fine without them. Improves, even.

You have finally got the beer, wine, tea and coffee stains off the soft furnishings, replaced all the small china and glass thingies with which you destroyed a few TV sets which you have also replaced.

Then...

Oh, shit. No. Please...

One of them hoves into view, eyes glinting, her hand reaching out towards your wallet and your credit card, salivating as she surveys the possibilities. This is 'our most eminent European' (copyright 'Shorn of all Integrity' Woodward). Her new brief, now that she is a Lady occupying an office to which you did not elect her courtesy of the most unpopular, anti-democratic and anti-English Scotch Ruiner in modern British history, is to destroy British (and especially English) identity with all convenient speed and make the fuckers, i.e., you, pay for it. And for her.

And horror of horrors, she flourishes photos of her ghastly offspring under your nose.

One of them is embedded in the Dear Leader's Bunker, closer to actual power than either her sire or dam. There is a small grain of comfort there for you, in knowing how it will gall the Ginger Git to know that she has access to all the areas robustly denied to him, at the height of his hubristic ambition, by intelligent electors. So, just like Ma and Pa, she has managed to eschew 'work' and attach herself to the public teat from the beginning.

Her sibling is a quasi-diplomat, a wannabe-aristo with the British Council (well, of course, darling) whose contortionist mission is to patronise, brown-nose and further corrupt the world-champion corrupt dictators of the benighted continent. This is another work-free job carrying immense troughing privileges and offering excellent opportunities for making close personal connections with a view to obtaining future sinecures. It is the perfect career for an ambitious International Socialist, paid for by you of course, for which his musical Welsh Windbag parents began tutoring him from the beginning, teaching him N'kosi Sikelele Afrika when he was still in the cradle. He is married to a European Socialist, as instructed by his tribe, to carry on the traitorous International Socialist work of the Kinnocks unto the last generation. Which we can only hope is this one.

Taxsucking Socialist bastards, the lot of them.

Isn't it funny how they proudly wear the label 'Labour' when they have never soiled their delicate hands with anything like, er, labour?