The Apprentice: Westminster Special

From our Guest Blogger Juliette

In the light of Alan 'Surrallun' Sugar taking his seat in the House of Lords - presumably with the blessing of our political elite - I couldn't help thinking of The Apprentice.

And how much better things would be if only everyone's favourite bulldog-licking-piss-off-a-thistle could oversee the world of politics...

(Scene opens with a bunch of people in suits, milling round in front of an anonymous looking pub on a cold grey English winter morning)

Baron Alan Sugar (standing before them) - This is the pub near the one-bedroomed council flat what I grew up in, cos I went to the school of 'ard knocks and I don't owe nobody nothin' and I din't 'ave a pair of shoes till I was faw-een. And the bizarre and tenuous link leadin' into this week's task is alcohol. Because this week, you'll be organisin' a piss-up in a brewery. Team Idiocity, you'll be followed by Nick - Team Entitled, you'll be followed by Margaret. Now off you go. And at the end of this task - one of you is gonna get fired.

(Cut to Team Idiocity - Gordon Brown, Peter Mandelson, Ed Balls, David Miliband - sitting together at a table, as they plan out their strategy in a nearby cafe...)

Peter: Gordon, you're team leader - but I'll tell everyone what to do, so you can focus on gnawing the tips of your fingers off and having a mental breakdown. Ed and David, you get together an eighty-strong task force to research national statistics on drinking habits and alcoholic preferences over the last 50 years. Gordon, you go and borrow forty billion pounds to build the biggest brewery anyone's ever seen, which won't be finished within any of our lifetimes. And I'll go and spread vicious career-ending lies round the media about Nick being a paedophile, a drug dealer and a vampire bat. So when he tells Sir Alan we were shit, nobody's going to believe a word he says.

(Cut to Team Entitled - David Cameron, George Osbourne, William Hague and Boris Johnson - in the process of completing their task...)

David - Gosh, these new bottle thingies look super - it's awfully lucky that my old chum Gussie Fink-Nottle works at Asprey's these days, and was able to turn some out for us at a reduced price. I say, look at that little diamond thingy on the cork. Simply wizard craftsmanship. I must get Samantha to buy some for our annual servants' ball.

Margaret - Would it surprise you to learn that each of these bottles of wine now costs 250 thousand pounds each?

Boris - Well, gosh, Margaret. That's chicken feed.

William - Oh, Boris. That has to be the single dumbest thing you ever said in your life...

(The teams have been called back to the boardroom. They sit around nervously in silent groups, as Baron Alan Sugar comes in.)

Baron Alan Sugar - Well, well, well. Team Entitled, you wasted ten million quid buyin' platinum and diamond bottles off some old school mate who works at the country's most expensive jeweller's. That's got to be the most schtoopid fing I ever heard in my life. Boris, you also said that two 'undred and fifty grand was chicken feed, which made Margaret attack you with 'alf a brick. I'd watch your mouth next time. There's a recession on, son.

Boris - (strapped to backboard and wrapped from head to foot in bandages) - Mmph.

Baron Alan Sugar - Now. Team Idiocity. You wasted £40 billion on buyin' a huge empty brewery that won't even be completed for another forty years. What's more, Nick, who was reportin' back to me on you, has recently died under mysterious circumstances, leaving a suicide note in what don't look like his writing. I ain't happy, gentlemen. I'm gonna be callin' you back into this boardroom - when one of you IS gonna get fired.

Meanwhile, Team Entitled, you are the winnin' team - if only by default. Which means that you get this week's treat. I've arranged with an old friend of mine for you to spend the next five years runnin' the country, and getting crucified by the national media because you went to Eton and can't perform fuckin' magic. Now off you go.

(Team Entitled carry Boris out of the boardroom, and high-five one another over his supine body.)

Come on, that's got to make great TV....

J x

WACKO! - A Musical

From our Guest Blogger Juliette


Following the raging success of Mamma Mia and We Will Rock You, I found myself thinking - what could be more topical than a musical based on the songs of Michael Jackson?

And what subject matter could be more topical than the end of New Labour?

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present...

WACKO!
A Political Musical

by Juliette

Scene 1 - MAD
(Dynamic opening number by leading man Gordon Brown, performed to the tune of Bad)

My smile is weird
It just don't look right
Go check it out
On that YouTube site
I'm telling you
Better watch your butt
Because I look
Like a scary nut...

I'm giving you
On count of two
To shit your pants
And vote for blue
I'm tellin you
Just watch my eyes
You wouldn't trust me
To serve you fries

Well they say I'm going crazy
And for me that's just a fact
But my friend, you have seen nothing
Just wait till I get sacked

Because I'm mad, I'm mad - come on
You know I'm mad, I'm mad - you know it
You know I'm mad, I'm mad - come on, you know
And the whole world has to answer right now
Just to tell you once again,
Who's mad . . .

Scene 2 - I JUST CAN'T STOP ROBBING YOU
(Passionate duet for two MPs, to the tune of I Just Can't Stop Loving You)

Each time the bills come
Stick 'em up your bum
I ain't got to pay ...
New suite this morning
Get some free porn in
It's on the UK

You know how I feel
This scam can't go wrong
I'm so proud to say
It's rent-free
I may be a scrote
But I got a clean moat
We'll get this shit forever
Thieving's the answer...

Off to the shop now
Get a free mop now
And carpet spray
Look voters, see here
Can't buy my own gear
On 90K

I won't spend my dosh
But I want to live posh
My life ain't worth living
If I can't steal from you...

I just can't stop robbing you
I just can't stop robbing you
And if I stop . . .
Then tell me just what will I do...

'Cos I just can't stop robbing you...


Scene 3 - KEN
(A sweet-faced young voter sings affectionately to a small evil-looking ratlike creature burrowing into London Paper, to the tune of Ben)

Ken, the Londoners need look no more
They all found what they were looking for
Like a mayor who isn't shit
You newt-loving old git
So you, my friend, are sacked
Piss off and don't come back

Ken, you're always slagging Boris off
You say he is just a useless toff
If you weren't a bitter knob
You might just shut your gob
You just look even worse
Can someone call for nurse?

Ken, most people would turn you away
They don't listen to a word you say
And they're absolutely right
You washed-up commie shite
I bet they'd vote again
If they had a mayor like Ken...


Scene 4 - MILIBAND
(The finale. A big show-stopping song and dance number performed by huge crowd of TV viewers, to the tune of Thriller)

It's close to midnight
and something scary's there on your TV
Right there on Newsnight,
You see a sight that makes you spill your tea
You try to scream
But terror takes the sound before you make it
You start to freeze
And wish you hadn't taken those Allis
That was unwise...

'Cos this is Miliband, Miliband night
And no one's gonna save you from the freak with scary eyes
You know it's Miliband, on Newsnight
You're fighting for your life inside a Miliband interview tonight

Christ, he looks scary
Like something off a Hammer Horror flick
You try to calm down
And tell yourself he's just another prick
But Jesus Christ
He's like a dummy haunted by the devil
All through the night
You'll see his freaky likeness in your dreams
You start to scream...

'Cos this is Miliband, Miliband night
Just quickly change the channel, he's one spooky-looking shite
You know it's Miliband, on Newsnight
You're fighting for your life inside a Miliband interview tonight...


(Any Cameron Mackintoshy types want to buy the rights, you know where I am...)

J x

Blind State

From our guest blogger Juliette


When I fell asleep last night with people talking about the European elections on the radio, I was feeling seriously pissed off about the whole thing. There's really sod all choice. They're all rubbish. And people wonder why I don't bother voting. Jesus.

Then, like the great Martin Luther King, I had a dream.

Apologies to those of you who are too young/American/Australian to remember that landmark of vintage televisual brilliance Blind Date. But the dream in question went something like this...)

(Blind Date opening credits. Cilla Black comes onto the set, grinning perkily)

Cilla - Hello, and welcome to Blind Date! And now, it's time to meet the fellas that one lucky lady will be choosing between tonight! Ladies and gentlemen, let's have a big hand for our Nick, from Nuremberg!

(audience applause. Enter Nick Griffin, who walks in and perches on one of the stools.)

Cilla ; Now, Nick, that's a lovely black shirt you're wearing tonight.

Nick : Thanks, Cilla. It's funny, because black's not my favourite colour normally!

(audience applause and laughter)

Cilla : And let's give a big hand to Number Two, Our Dave from Eton!

(audience applause. David Cameron walks in and perches on one of the seats.)

Cilla : So, our Dave. I hear you lead a bit of a glamorous life - tell us all about it!

Dave : No, really - I'm just like any other ordinary working dad trying to balance work with having a family and owning a 25,000,000 acre estate housing 5,000 serfs, 8,000 vassals, 98 serving wenches and a private army.

Cilla : And you live in a castle, is that right?

Dave : Well, yes... but it's not a big castle. It's only got 25 bedrooms. I'm just a regular guy when you get to know me, Cilla.

Cilla : And last but not least, let's hear it for Number Three - Our Gordon, from Rampton!

(Audience cheers. Gordon Brown led on by white-coated aide and coaxed into chair, where he sits staring into space with a spreading wet patch on the front of his trousers).

Cilla : And here's the lucky girl who'll get to pick one of these three charming fellas! Let's hear it for Juliette!

(Blind Date music. Audience applause. Enter Juliette).

Cilla : So what sort of fella are you looking for, Juliette?

Juliette : Well, I'm just an old romantic really, Cilla. I just want someone who's going to listen to me, and treat me like I'm special. Not lie to me or mess me about, or drag me into dodgy wars, or steal my money to get his moat cleaned out. That sort of thing.

Cilla : Let's get down to business, then, Juliette! You've got your three questions for our fabulous fellas - take it away!

Juliette : Okay. My first question is, how would you take me to our first date? And that goes to.... Number Two.

Dave - On my ecologically friendly vote-winning bicycle - and I'll give you a ride to remember every time!

(audience shrieks and whistles)

Juliette : Number One?

Nick - I'd get you there in a racing car - because when you're with me, we'll always win the master race!

Juliette : And to Number Three?

(Gordon stares blankly into space with spreading wet patch on front of his trousers)

Juliette : Okay, my next question. If you could be an animal, what sort of animal would you be - and why? And that goes to.... Number One.

Nick - Well, Juliette, I'd be a polar bear - because they're big, they're cuddly and they're totally white!

Juliette : And same question to Number Two?

Dave - I'd be a baby seal - because I'm cute, fluffy and clubbable! And if you don't pick me, Juliette, the fur's going to fly tonight!

(Audience cheers and whistles)

Juliette : And to Number Three?

(Gordon stares blankly into space with spreading wet patch on front of his trousers)

Juliette : And my final question. If you took me out for dinner, where would you take me - and why? And that goes to... Number One.

Nick : Well, Juliette, I'd take you down to the local Indian curry house where we could throw bricks through the window - and we'd be sure to have a smashing time!

(audience laughter and applause)

Juliette : Same question to Number Two.

Dave : I'd take you to a Jamie Oliver restaurant, for an ethically-sourced, nutritionally-balanced meal to remember. And Juliette - when you see my meat and two veg, you'll definitely come back for a second helping!

(audience goes wild for a full minute, whistling and cheering)

Juliette : And Number Three?

(Gordon stares blankly into space with spreading wet patch on front of his trousers)

Cilla - Oh, Juliette, decisions, decisions - but before you make your mind up, let's have a re-cap from Our Graham.

(voice over from Our Graham, to Blind Date music)

(Our Graham) Well, Juliette, are you going to go for our saucy Number One, who doesn't believe the Holocaust ever happened - but who could be the final solution for your love life?

(Nick grins and winks at the camera)

Or will you choose sexy Number Two, who looks like a freshly buttered new potato - but he'll eat you for lunch?

(Dave grins and winks at the camera)

Or will you choose our catatonic Number Three, who may be mentally unstable - but get your straitjacket, love, you've just pulled!

(Gordon stares blankly into space with spreading wet patch on the front of his trousers)

Juliette - Well, Cilla - it's a tough decision, but I think I'm going to go for Number Two.

Cilla - Oh, Juliette - look who you turned down! How could you resist our Nick, from Nuremberg?

(audience applause. Nick goose-steps out, gives a Nazi salute, kisses Juliette on the cheek and walks off stage.)

Cilla - And you also turned down Number Three - our Gordon, from Rampton!

(audience applause. White-coated aide hurries out again, takes Gordon's arm and guides him slowly round the concealing screen and out of sight.)

Cilla ; But now, let's see who you did choose! You chose Number Two - and that was our Dave, from Eton! Come out, Dave!

(audience applause louder than ever. Dave walks out looking reasonably normal, and kisses a relieved-looking Juliette on the cheek.)

Cilla (holding out a selection of envelopes) Now - it's time to decide where you're going to go on your date! Who's going to pick?

Juliette : You can, if you like.

Dave : No, really, I insist.

(Juliette murmurs 'thank you', picks an envelope, tears open the envelope excitedly - then, momentarily speechless, shows Cilla what it says.)

Cilla - Oooh, Juliette, it looks like you're both off to Hell - in a handbasket!

(Audience cheers and applause)

Cilla : Off you go, and have fun! And be sure to come back in five years' time, and tell us all what a nightmare it was - and why you're never voting for the fucking Tories ever again!

Exit, pursued by a Blair...

J x

Bit of Light Relief

I thought I should share a nice little photo session ( courtesy of B3ta) with you.

Midweek light relief ( yes I know its Thursday) I was busy... click on the picture to enlarge it and read it in full Technicolour.

Ten Good Reasons To Vote For The BNP

From our guest Blogger Juliette. Satire is her strongpoint.


'What the hell do you mean, you're thinking of voting for the BNP?'

This was me. Last night. Talking to someone I know. It may scare the shit out of you when I say that the person in question is a perfectly pleasant, normal, politically moderate individual, with no racist tendencies beyond a mild to moderate dislike of the Scottish - but nothing heavy even in this area. I mean, they wouldn't want to throw Scottish people into concentration camps or torture them to death or anything.

Well, apart from Gordon Brown, obviously. But I think that's fairly universal.

'The other parties are all completely useless,' this person said defensively. 'At least the BNP might give a toss about what ordinary people actually want.'

I stared at her (oops, I meant 'this person') in total and utter bewilderment. From my point of view, this whole situation is like something off Invasion of the Body Snatchers. All my life, I'm used to being the right wing one in any conversation with normal, moderate people. One of the finest and truest political quotes I've ever heard in my life - 'a liberal is a conservative who hasn't been mugged yet.'

It's come to something when I get handed the role which was originally earmarked for Polly sodding Toynbee.

'Jesus Christ. They're neo nazis. You cannot seriously, genuinely intend to vote for these people.'

'Oh, come on. They're not that bad.'

'Yes, they are that bad - I've met neo nazi BNP scumbags, remember? Back in the day. They threw stones at me. For being sort of pale olive ish.'

'Well - they were just kids, Juliette. They've grown up now.'

'Damn right they've grown up now. Into neo-nazi scumbags. Who vote for the BNP.'

This conversation could have gone on all night, but was happily derailed by the subject of Katie and Peter's separation. This topic was considerably less controversial, and we rapidly arrived at a consensus opinion. Definitely her fault. Dead eyed cow.

Nonetheless, what my companion had said about maybe voting for the BNP haunted me all night.

Holy crap, what if lots of normal people are thinking like this?

What if the buggers get in, just because they're not called the Useless Thieving Scumbags, the Old Etonian Smug Bastards or the Total And Utter Wastes Of Space (sorry, New Labour, Tories or Lib Dems)??

Did a tiny handful of Cassandra-like people lie awake thinking thoughts like this in Berlin, circa 1930???

Was I being paranoid?????

However, I always think it's best to look on the bright side. And, as I did so, I may have inadvertently come up with a new advertising campaign for the not-racist-at-all-when-you-get-to-know-them gentlemen in question (some of whose best friends are black, gay, Jewish or Asian)...

Ten Good Reasons To Vote For The BNP

1 - If we descend into a nightmarish Nazi state where every aspect of life is under rigid and tyrannical state control, I may finally get my Boots advantage card replaced. I don't wish to sound petty, but it's been three months now.

2 - If the British film industry is forcibly turned over to producing nightmarish Nazi propaganda movies, they may finally have to cut back on the Lottery-funded turkeys about mockney gangsters called things like Harry the Hatchet. And slice it however you will, The Triumph of the Will is a significantly better film than Shifty.

3 - The BNP would, and I quote, offer "firm but voluntary incentives for immigrants and their descendants to return home." Which, to be fair, does mean that we'd finally see the back of Omid fucking Djalili.

4 - The BNP would also refuse to promote or encourage homosexuality and would, I quote, 'return it to the closet where it belongs". Come in, Little Britain. Your time is up.

5 - And take that dick Graham Norton with you.

6 - Everyone loves a bit of 80s retro chic, and it's all the rage this season. Stonewashed denim. Neon hairbands. Graffiti on corner shops screaming PAKIS OUT. All together now, let's go into that retro 80s hit, 'ain't no black in the Union Jack...'

7 - Hitler famously made the trains run on time. So perhaps a like-minded dictator could work his magic on fucking Virgin.

8 - National obesity crisis. Concentration camps. No national obesity crisis.

9 - Systematic elimination of the disturbed, insane and retarded isn't always as bad as it sounds. Yes, Kerry Katona, we just need you to have a quick shower. In you pop.

10 - More anti-semitism, less Peter Mandelson. There's always a silver lining, if you know where to look.


Hmmm... come to think of it, maybe I could get to like these BNP guys.

Especially if they take me on as their six-figure-salaried Head of Advertising, hint hint...

J x
Posted by Juliette

Henry's Editorial Note

It may be worth anyones time who seriously think that the BNP would do anything to remember that their constitution bars anyone not of AngloSaxon or Celtic heritage from joining their party and that if the BNP actually got in to power Britain would be likely to have international sanctions against us like we did against South Africa when they had apartheid. Basically our economy would fall apart,and they would appropriate everything. You'd end up having to grow food in your back garden and there'd be no cheap imported food anymore. Don't say you weren't warned.

Edit:We would have to grow food in our garden FOR REDISTRIBUTION, as these are Socialists aligned along national and ethnic boundaries. Thank you Roger

WESTMINSTER SIDE STORY

Our Guest Blogger Juliette writes


(If you don't know the songs of West Side Story, this post will make absolutely no sense to you whatsoever. If you do, however, allow me to present...)

WESTMINSTER SIDE STORY

A Recession Era Musical

By Bernstein, Sondheim and Juliette

Scene 1
(Tough-looking ministers pirouette down Downing Street, and launch into the first big song-and-dance number - to the tune of When You're A Jet.)

When you're in debt,
You're in debt all the way
From your first cigarette
To your last dyin' day

When you're in debt,
And the worst comes to pass,
You got bailiffs around,
You're chucked out on your arse!

You're never alone,
You're never undetected!
The bank is on the phone
The bailiffs are expected
Your leccy's disconnected!

Then you are screwed
With a capital S,
And you'll never forget
It's a right fucking mess.

When you're in debt,
You stay in debt!

Scene 2
(Tony and Cherie Blair are lying on a sunny beach, surrounded by hundred dollar bills and bottles of Cristal. The couple launch into a perky duet, to the tune of I Like To Be In America...)

I like to be in America
More cash for me in America
Scrounging's okay in America
Ten grand a day in America

I'm glad we went into that war
Or we might still be a bit poor
Everyone there's scared they'll get shot
Everyone there can suck my cock

I like to be in America
Everything free in America
Not called a bitch in America
We're fucking rich in America...


Scene 3
(Alone in Ten Downing Street, Gordon Brown gazes out of the window thoughtfully. Begins to sing a moving solo, to the tune of Maria...)

Oh Dear!
I've just seen the figures, Oh Dear!
And suddenly my name
will never be the same

Oh Dear
We're right in the brown stuff, Oh Dear!
And suddenly I've found
How frightening a sound
Can be!

Say it loud and I hear angry scousers,
Say it soft and I just shit my trousers

Oh Dear

I'll never stop saying Oh Dear!




Scene 3
(Policeman sits at his desk in front of a mountain of paperwork. Suddenly, a group of people burst in and launch into big song-and-dance number, to the tune of 'Officer Krupke')

Dear kindly Sergeant Krupke
You gotta understand
It's just that we've been burgled
and the cunts took twenty grand
It's not that hard to find them
Unless you're fucking thick
Golly Moses, chuck 'em in the nick

Gee, Officer Krupke
We hate to be pests
A bit less PC bullshit and a few more arrests
Hugging a hoodie's
a right waste of time
Just go and solve some fucking crimes

Right! Officer Krupke
We know you're not Morse
And we know you've got to get to your diversity course
It's just that some scumbags
Broke into my flat
And now they've gone and nicked my cat

Oh, Officer Krupke
We know that you're stuck
It's not your fault you're managed by some useless old fuck
Your sergeant is a tosser
His chief of staff's a twit
Goodness me, of course you can't do shit

Dear Officer Krupke
What are we to do?
Gee, Officer Krupke, Krup you!

Scene 4
(Middle aged man pirouettes round room lined with final demands, and full of blank spaces where bits of furniture used to be. Admiring his stanley knife wielding reflection in the mirror, he sings to the tune of I Feel Pretty...)

I feel shitty
Oh, so shitty,
I feel shitty and just want to fight!
And I pity
Any fucker in a suit tonight

See the shitty flat in that mirror there
Whose can that depressing flat be?
Such a shitty mess,
Telly repossessed,
Family looking stressed
Such a shitty me!

My mood's crashing
I hate bankers
Feel like smashing some wankers with bricks
For I'm fucked
By a pretty detestable clique!


Scene 5
(Grand finale. Gordon Brown and Alistair Darling dance off into the sunset hand in hand, and launch into a stirring duet, to the tune of Somewhere....)

There's a place for us,
You'll find it on the bus
Lose your job and we'll take you there
Where you'll wait for hours on a wonky chair

There's a place for us
Called the Job Centre Plus
Get your cards and we'll take you there
It all started with Tony Blair

Somehow
We'll make a shitload of money
And wriggle out of this scot-free

Somehow
Somewhere
Somewhere.....

J x
Posted by juliette at 21.14

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