It's over, but the old fool just won't go away

You're lying to the people again, Prescott, you fat tosser.

The East Coast Line has not been re-nationalised, may never be re-nationalised and even if should be, would pass rapidly through Mandy's revolving door and back into the private sector before even st-st-stuttery G-G-Gordon could say N-N-N-Nife, Mister Squeaker.

It's over, Prescott, and your latest fantasy - that it isn't - is an embarrassment even to the few in your Party who remain capable of living on Planet Earth and exercising the little grey cells of which you were blessed with fewer than normal.

Your day is done. Your pathetic, failed, Marxist Clause Four ideology is dead, you gross, greedy, abusive sexual predator. Dead and buried. Get over it.

Oh, and why aren't you in jail for your disgusting and illegal bullying workplace practices? Did you give Harriet one when she was a slip of a gel and you were younger and slimmer yourself? Is that one of the 'bodies' everyone says you know about, you know, the ones that kept you in office long after any normal organisation would have fired you for gross misconduct and indecency? And if not, why not? Because a nice toff gel like that has better taste? Is that it? I merely ask.

Prescott, you are an unappetising arse of the first water. And a fucking hypocrite with your family's nice little PRIVATE SECTOR property empire and consultancy business. And the two lavatory seats. One for each lardy cheek?

I paid out of my limited income to keep you and your family in gracious luxury so that you could trough and sluice ad nauseam (sic) and roger the secretaries while leaning on antique Whitehall wainscoting or lying on priceless palace carpets.

Just when I thought I was free of you, there's your horrible cocky face thrust into the lens of a camera yet again, distorted to even greater ugliness than before and drooling your usual fact-free class war drivel for all the world like anyone gave a toss about you or the Party formerly known as Labour, and provoking me to throw something heavier and harder than a fucking egg at your fat fucking head.

Piss off into the wilderness, will you, you treacherous troughing socialist bastard, and give us a chance to forget you ever existed? You are a living insult to the people of Hull (thousands of whom are deeply and personally ashamed of you, by the way) and to the rest of Britain.

OK, you got away with it. For years. Be satisfied with that and go. Get out of my face.

Bastard.