pic by GOTIt has been one hell of a return to the blogosphere for me.
And as I have just gleaned A Future Fair for all is an anagram of Our Fearful Fat Liar
Do you believe him, I dont trust the fat fucker further than I could throw him.
Showing posts with label Labour Lies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Labour Lies. Show all posts
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Married to the Mob
Dan Hannan has been desperately searching for someone who will admit an intention to vote for Brown's shower of shit on June 4th. He eventually found one.
She was a pretty, friendly, gently-spoken single mother in her mid-thirties, and she had voted Labour all her life. "What, even this time?" I asked, genuinely startled. "I suppose it's like a marriage," she said, loyally. "You shouldn't walk out just because you're angry about something".
An interesting analogy.
We can assume, then, that she would stay with a hypothetical spouse who lied about his intentions in order to move in, then proceeded to take as much of her money as he could grab to give to his mates or the next door neighbours. She wouldn't leave when he dictates how she should live her life, by banning her from doing things she enjoyed, and taking more cash off her if she wished to continue doing other things she has always done. She'd also not pack her bags if he decided to watch her every move and demand that he know exactly where she was at any minute of the day or night, and if he was suspicious of her, to be able to keep her locked up in the basement for up to 42 days. She wouldn't even run bawling to her mum's place if he racked up huge debts on her credit card but, instead of economising, decided to spend his way out of it, thereby putting her in debt for the rest of her natural days. And she'd still snuggle up to him of an evening even when she realised that, while she was eating beans and dry toast during the hard times, he was raiding her bank account to gorge himself on chateaubriand and champagne.
Not really a marriage, is it? More like domestic abuse.
From Dick Puddlecote
She was a pretty, friendly, gently-spoken single mother in her mid-thirties, and she had voted Labour all her life. "What, even this time?" I asked, genuinely startled. "I suppose it's like a marriage," she said, loyally. "You shouldn't walk out just because you're angry about something".
An interesting analogy.
We can assume, then, that she would stay with a hypothetical spouse who lied about his intentions in order to move in, then proceeded to take as much of her money as he could grab to give to his mates or the next door neighbours. She wouldn't leave when he dictates how she should live her life, by banning her from doing things she enjoyed, and taking more cash off her if she wished to continue doing other things she has always done. She'd also not pack her bags if he decided to watch her every move and demand that he know exactly where she was at any minute of the day or night, and if he was suspicious of her, to be able to keep her locked up in the basement for up to 42 days. She wouldn't even run bawling to her mum's place if he racked up huge debts on her credit card but, instead of economising, decided to spend his way out of it, thereby putting her in debt for the rest of her natural days. And she'd still snuggle up to him of an evening even when she realised that, while she was eating beans and dry toast during the hard times, he was raiding her bank account to gorge himself on chateaubriand and champagne.
Not really a marriage, is it? More like domestic abuse.
From Dick Puddlecote
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