Labour Pains

From our Guest Blogger Juliette

I'm about to make a fairly radical comment here

I can't stand Labour.

Whether it's Old Labour, New Labour or sort of Middle Aged But Young At Heart Labour, it gets on my bloody nerves. And it always has done

Normally, anyone who fancies themself as a bit on the intellectual or satirical side is duty-bound to say the exact opposite. Labour is my bestest friend. And Convervatives are stupid/boring/ ugly/unsexy/smell of poo-poo/have nits/can't play with us.

Well, sorry. But - while I'm no great pom-pom carrying cheerleader for the Right (and I still think George Osbourne is Central Casting's ideal choice for a Home Counties Patrick Bateman) - the fact is, I hate the Left a whole lot more.

There are many vices in this world I can happily tolerate.

However, hypocrisy is not one of them.

And the Left is absolutely crawling with the stuff. Exuding it from every sanctimonious pore.

Read the Guardian comment section, and its columnists are constantly warning of the hell that will await us under the Tories. Within months of Cameron acending to power, England will become a nightmarish dystopia of cruelty and evil. Peasants being whipped to death in the street for the crime of pulling a rickshaw too slowly. Babies starving in gutters as top-hatted capitalists whisk past lighting their foot-long cigars with hundred-pound notes. Serfs, vassals and droit de seigneur. People of England, you have been warned.

Well, I hate to burst their bubble, but - unlike the proles in 1984 - I do have a fairly reliable memory. And it tells me that day-to-day life under the Tories was pretty much same as it is now.

Maybe a bit lighter on Diversity Co-ordinators, Traveller Liaison Support Workers and Equality Support Strategic Development Co-ordination Czars.

But what the hell, we survived.

And yes, I know there are statistics showing that there's less crime, safer streets, happier pensioners, better healthcare etc etc etc under Labour. Thing is, you can prove anything with statistics. Literally anything. Especially if you threaten the people producing them with demotion or dismissal if they can't make the numbers go the right way. You can prove that Iraq is a safer place to live than Tunbridge Wells. Or that you're in more danger from a feather duster than a terrorist bomb. Don't believe me, watch The Wire some time.

IMHO, all politicians without exception are dodgy, thieving, lying wankers who care about exactly two things - getting elected, and getting rich(er).

The only difference is that the right are (very slightly) less hypocritical and annoying about it.

And while they're ripping you off, screwing the public for every last penny, not giving a tinker's toss about the poor and needy, crawling up the arses of any dodgy Russian billionaires that happen to bung them a few (milion) quid and scrounging freebies right, left and centre, they don't simultaneously expect you to bow down and worship them as the public-spirited holiest of public-spirited holies.

Here are my top reasons why the right-on left wing sucks...

1
Polly Toynbee

God, how I loathe this woman. How can I even begin to convey the depth of my hatred and contempt for her, and everything she stands for?

Here is my case for the prosecution.

Exhibit A - her smug, annoying, sanctimoniously smirking face - which acts much like a government health warning on a packet of fags, immediately warning you of what horrors lurk within. She has the most instantly dislikeable visage this side of Mark Thatcher.

Exhibit B - her relentless patronising air of holier-than-thou superiority, which she takes to a level that would make Lady Bountiful physically sick. Underscored by the certain knowledge that, for all her pontificating on the tragedy of inner city estates and what must be done to help their unfortunate underprivileged inhabitants, she lives about as far away from an inner city estate as it's humanly possible to get without the aid of space travel.

She is the sort of person who will earnestly use the phrase 'people less fortunate than ourselves'

The sort of person who will say 'it is tremendously important to understand the social context that compels under-privileged young people to demonstrate challenging behaviour and become involved in the justice system.'

But you can bet your left tit she's got a bloody good burglar alarm.

The only good thing about Polly Toynbee is that - if you read her column right before Body Combat - you'll go into that class like a young Mike Tyson on crack.

So from the narrow perspective of my health and fitness, I guess she's not a complete waste of space...

2
John Prescott

Yes, I know he's yesterday's man. But for me, his entire being summarises an entire breed - he's the sanctimonious Old Left incarnate. And highlights a rather awkward truth which the likes of the Ragged Trousered Philanthropists somehow endeavoured to ignore.

People in power immediately become greedy bastards. Fact.

This applies whether they were born in a forty-bedroomed stately home with wall-to-wall housemaids and hot and cold running butlers, or in a cardboard box in t'middle of t'motorway a la the Monty Python sketch.

Far as I can tell, the only difference between old-left John Prescott and old-right Nicholas Soames is that Nicholas Soames a - knows how to hold his cutlery, b - isn't carrying something on his shoulder that's less a chip, more a fair-sized branch of McDonalds, and c - isn't a hypocritical cock jockey who thinks he's a man of the people despite owning five dozen polo ponies, eight mansions and a private army.

Apart from that, they're two smug greedy fat peas in a particularly ugly pod (think the horrible great slimy things in Gremlins...)

3
Virginia/Harriet/Jacqui/Margaret/Hazel/Thing

Aaargh! It's a multi headed political monster in horrible flat brown lace-up shoes, and it's trying to bore us to death! It's bombarding us with heavy-duty jargon at machine-gun pace! Multi-agency-working! Robust strategic partnerships! Outcome-focused patient-centric services! Use the Farce, Luke. Use the Farce!

4
The Observer On Sunday Magazine Section

Lost. Will to live. Answers to the name of Fluffy.

5
Polly Toynbee

Yes, I know I mentioned her before. But I hate the pious old bag so much, I just had to give her a second reference.

So it's another mention for the intrepid people's champion, with a real intuitive grasp of how ordinary British citizens live, think, work and feel. Daughter of rich literati. Great-niece of billionaire philathropist. Alumnus of Badminton School and St Anne's College, Oxford.

Anyone know where I can buy a decent voodoo doll round the Liverpool Street area?


6
The Right-On Teachers Of My Youth

If a teacher attempted to brainwash kids by reading them right-wing propaganda, there would be an uproar - and rightly so.

So how come, in my youth as now, it's perfectly okay to do the opposite?

Today, the offending books would almost certainly have been the staggeringly over-rated works of Philip Pullman - whose entire philosophy could be summarised as follows. Brainwashing kids to be conservative or religious is vile and unforgivable, and CS Lewis was a wanker. It's quite okay to brainwash them to be liberal atheists, though. Hey kids, God is dead, gay is good and anyone who says any different is evil and deserves to die.

Back in the day, however, it was a book series named The Borribles by a man named Michel de Larrabeiti. Which was read out to our primary school class, in not-particularly-eagerly-awaited instalments, by some Thatch-hatin' commie twat of a teacher called Mr Wilson. He had a guitar, too. And wore jeans. If he'd been any more of a cliche, he'd have been removed from the first draft of his own life by an eagle-eyed editor.

For some inexplicable reason, the Borribles series has fallen into obscurity. But here's the story in brief, if memory serves. Kids (who are good) run away from home and from grown-ups (which are bad), and form an anarchic tribe of their own called the Borribles (which is good). They survive by stealing (which is good) from adult businesses (which are bad). But they only steal food, and not money (which is bad). Their enemies are the police (who are bad), who try to catch them and make them become respectable law-abiding citizens (which is bad).

The police are led by an evil man named Inspector Sussworth, who is short and dark-haired with a toothbrush moustanche and a passion for order. The author doesn't actually give him one bollock or a German accent, but you get the impression it was a close-run thing.

It was the most most glaring attempt at childhood brainwashing since Swastika Press released their children's classic Jenny Lives With Adolf and Eva.

Although actually, it didn't work. Because even at the tender age of nine, I privately considered Mr Wilson to be an annoying cock monkey - and hence believed the exact opposite of anything he told us.

To this very day, I still think the police are better than shoplifters.

Sorry, Mr Wilson.

I'm voting Conservative next election, anyway. And at this point, I'm going to come right out and tell you the shocking truth.

I voted Conservative last general election, too.

Hey, sue me...

J x

Wild Wild Westminster

For your delectation and delight here is some satire and fun from a guest blogger

She will occasionally be writing here for juicy salacious satire and sarcasm.


Todays Guest Blogger is Juliette from http://thenewadventuresofjuliette.blogspot.com/


The original is here

I've just been reading about the unfounded political rumours of Damian McBride. Now, I'm sorry, but if you're going to make things up, you could at least make something up that was a bit funnier or more interesting than that crap. So I started thinking along these lines myself. Admittedly, I haven't got a clue what I'm talking about, but it didn't slow Damian McBride down...

Things You Never Knew About Politicians (And Never Wanted To Ask)

Lembit Opik is a cunningly disguised alien. I mean, just look at him, for God's sake. His head's the wrong shape. And the name's a dead giveaway. Clearly he skimped on the research back on Planet Zog, and thought Lembit Opik would be nicely inconspicuous. It's Ford Prefect all over again.

*
Gordon Brown was inexplicably used as the model for the 'devastatingly handsome' human Shrek in Shrek 2. The truth is out there...

*
Cherie Blair is a fully paid-up member of the Undead. I can't believe nobody's figured this one out before.

*
George Osborne is concealing a terrible secret.

In 1998, ten prostitutes were found murdered and mutilated in Oxford. Horrific crimes that shocked even the hardened lead detective on the case - the hard-drinking, twice-divorced, reckless but loveable maverick Jack Riley.

When Riley interviewed the helpful, blandly smiling clean-cut student George Osbourne to take a routine witness statement, a distant alarm bell started ringing in the back of his mind. There was no evidence tying this handsome and well connected young man to the horrific murders, but....

There's something about him, thought Riley starkly. I can't put my finger on it. Something wrong.

He started investigating Osbourne's movements and alibis for the nights of the murders, and told his sergeant. The next day, Riley was summoned to a private meeting with his sergeant. He was formally told he was being removed from the investigation.

'We're replacing you with Detective Muppet,' his sergeant told him awkwardly. 'You're being transferred to the Makework case.'

Riley stared at him in disbelief.

'You can't be serious. Muppet's never solved a case in twenty years.'

His sergeant didn't quite meet his eyes.

'I'm sorry, Jack. This comes from higher up. I'm just following orders.'

Yet, haunted by his suspicions concerning Osborne, Riley continued digging in secret. God damn it, he needed to know the truth. The more he learned, the more chillingly certain he became that Osborne's charming facade concealed a deadly psychopath. He learned of the woman who'd been found killed in the exact same way near Eton five years ago. Another identical case near the village where Osborne had grown up. Jesus, Osbourne had been doing this all his life. And now he was out of control.

Then quite unexpectedly, Riley was summoned for a meeting with the Chief Commissioner. The urbane and silver-haired older man greeted him warmly, and ushered him into his book-lined inner sanctum.

'Care for a glass of scotch, dear boy? Forty years old. I have cigars too, if you'd care to indulge.'

They stood together before a roaring fire. Riley felt as tense as strung elastic. The Chief Commissioner patted Riley's arm. The gesture was avuncular, yet somehow sinister.

'You are a young man. You have a promising career before you. I will do everything in my power to help that career progress. But first, you must let these ridiculous suspicions drop.'

Riley stared at the Chief Commissioner. He could feel the blood draining out of his face.

'W-what do you mean?'

There was a new and steely note to the Chief Commissioner's voice.

'You know exactly what I mean, Detective Riley.'

Riley hadn't told anyone he was still investigating Osbourne. He was sure of it. Jesus Christ, was he being followed?

As soon as he got back home that night, Riley went straight to his computer and started searching for answers. The luminous white light from the screen illuminated Riley's disbelieving face, as the final piece of the puzzle fell into place - and he found himself looking at a family photograph from an old news article that said it all.

Oh my God, Riley thought starkly. The Chief Commissioner is Osborne's uncle.

He grabbed up his mobile and rang a trusted friend - a newspaper journalist. He had to share what he knew with the world, before it was too late. His friend's voice answered on the sixth ring, sleepy and irritated.

'Jesus. Riley. Do you know what fucking time it is?'

'I've got something to tell you,' Riley said urgently. 'This is front page shit, Greg. I can't talk over the phone. It might be bugged.'

'So come on over,' his journalist friend grumbled. 'But this had better be good, motherfucker.'

Riley raced out of his flat, down the dark and silent stairs and out into the freezing, moonlit night. The world was deadly silent. Nobody around. He got into his car, his heart hammering away inside him. He slammed the door behind him, and turned the key in the ignition.

The car exploded in a ball of flame. Riley died instantly. His knowledge intact.

His death was blamed on a terrorist ring he'd helped to lock up five years ago.

To this day, the ten prostitutes' murders have never been solved.

Okay, it's not even remotely true, but it would make a fantastic story.

*

David Miliband has the smallest cock in Parliament. Ten gets you twenty.

*
David Cameron is actually a freshly boiled and buttered new potato with a smug, annoying little face drawn on it with a biro. Designed by the same dark CGI arts that created Piers Morgan.

*
Jack Straw is a serial killer. The sort whose neighbours say 'such a nice quiet chap. Keeps himself to himself.' Until the police break in and find he's got a fridge full of severed willies and a month-dead rent boy sitting on the sofa. Look at the face, for God's sake. Look at the eyes.

It's Fred Westminster.

*
Boris Johnson is the only remotely likeable person within five miles of Parliament. This may actually be true.


*Please share these completely unfounded rumours with a political editor friend, and get my blog in the papers*

J x

Posted by Juliette at 21.11