Corbyn’s week off

David Cameron. Prime Minister. Pig fucker.

This is big news. The biggest news. News so fucking big it’s taken five copies of The Mail to tell it.

It’s worth pointing out here that in addition to printing Lord Richard Ashcroft’s book ‘Call Me Dave’, The Mail is also reporting on said book as well as providing comment on it. David Cameron’s various misdemeanors ricochet throughout The Mail like some sort of hammered home metaphor about lost innocence. This creates a surreal stereo like effect in the reader as news is imputed into the brain in the 1st person, then in the 3rd person, before finally moving onto the Quentin Letts personas. the disorienting effect is similar to that generated by stage one MK Ultra programming. Said user plummets through stages of nausea and vomiting, wild shitting and nosebleeds before moving onto complete loss of sense of self, enhanced obedience and complete dependence on The Mail. 

Monday 21st: Cameron Confidential 1 – Pig Fucker

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Lord Richard Ashcroft is a man you don’t fuck with. He’s not the kind of man who will confront you about your transgressions, nor is he the kind of man who breaks out a flamethrower and then punches your burning meaty corpse to death when you piss him off. No, when Lord Richard Ashcroft has ‘personal beef’ with you he researches your entire life, waits six years and then publishes a book about you fucking a pig. That’s 100% more painful than any drive by shooting. The serialization of Lord Richard Ashcroft’s Call Me Dave is a word bullet shot straight at the heart of the conservative voter, fired by a sexy future love gun called The Daily Mail

Lord Richard Ashcroft has ‘personal beef’ with Davy C, that’s a phrase I kept coming back to as I read about the revelations of Davy Dave Dave Dave’s secret life. ‘personal beef’.

“A normal university experience”

“When Cameron arrived at Oxford, it was in the wake of the huge success of Brideshead Revisited…It featured the handsome and decadent Lord Sebastian Flyte, who wore a cricket pullover and over indulged in alcohol. Did Cameron take this Edwardian fop as his inspiration? James Dellingpole, an Oxford friend, certainly recalls the Future PM being fond of wearing a cricket sweater.”

The whole thing reads like a massive fuck you to Ravy Davy Gravy Davy, all of it written in the same sneering, accusatory tone as the paragraph above. You can palpably feel Lord Richard Ashcroft’s spindly little hands embodied in the page flicking the Vs at D.C. He even makes wearing a cricket sweater sound as bad as throwing acid in a kitten’s face. Everything about this is firmly designed to out Mr.C.M.Ron as the stereotypical Tory Bad Guy that he actually is. The decadent, unhinged, wobble faced pig fucker that he actually is.

The only real difference between this and any other hatchet job is that David Cameron actually did fuck a pig (in the mouth).

Yes as part of his Brideshead Revisited re-enactment Dave smoked some dope while listening to Supertramp, looked at some cocaine from across the room, burnt a £50 in front of a homeless person, and put his winky in a ikkle dead pig. But as Dav Dav himself has admitted, he had a “normal university experience”. We can assume from that, that this sort of activity is a common occurrence in Oxford.

Boris Johnson: “I once cut an emu in half and attached the bottom legs to the top half of a homeless man. I called it the Mer-Emu. But then of course, I had to fuck it to death. Eddie fisted a budgie, Mark had to ingest a guinea fowl and shit it out without breaking its bones.” 

David Cameron mouth fucked a pig, but worse than that, worse than any of this, was that he didn’t do it out of love. This wasn’t some torrid affair one summer rock climbing in the Andes, he didn’t fall in love with a tropical mountain pig and bring it back home to meet ma and pa in some beautiful grand gesture about man pig interspecies love. No, he fucked a dead pig so he could get into a posh diner club.

That pig must feel so cheap right now.

This is when it hit me.‘Personal beef’ isn’t a colloquialism, Lord Richard Ashcroft and David Cameron must have once spit roasted a dead cow, there was literally ‘personal beef’ between them

Admit it, there’s nothing more personal than watching someone fuck something you are also fucking.

Tuesday 22nd: Cameron Confidential 2 – Drugged out on Supertramp

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Have you ever actually fucking listened to Supertramp? I’m doing it right now. It’s like smashing yourself to pieces and rebuilding a fucking hippy with the bits. It reminds me of that time I was locked in a tiny box and forced to watch That 70’s Show over and over again while my family were outside being shot.  I dare you to listen to Supertramp. Go on.

Meanwhile, the destruction of Dave’s life continue…

After the Supertramp gateway drug M.C Pig Fucker soon found himself in need of harder activities. So he upgraded to hanging out with Alex from Blur and Jeremy Clarkson, the heroin combo of celebrity, all of them scoffing their faces on cheese jam tarts with oil in them. It was here, as part of the creme de le creme of the Cotswolds, the ‘Chipping Snorton Set’, that he was introduced to cheese, cars and c-c-c-cocaine.

But who doesn’t take a bit of cocaine to get them fired up to go and strangle a mangled fox to death with their bare hands?

The book is determined to paint Old Came’O-roon as the regular party boy, flipping his eyes out on medical grade drug bastards while simultaneously ‘not giving a fuck’ and can’t stop whipping out examples of Druggy Dave as if the book where a cock and there was a pig in the room with an exceptionally nice mouth. I’ll leave you with this passage:

All hocked up on a drug binge with Alex from Blur at the Chipping Norton 2008 new years party Dave took part in a gnawing contest. A former newspaper executive said: “It was incredible to see all these people letting their hair down. There were just biting at these bits of wood, just whittling them down with their teeth. But something felt wrong…I remember saying: This will end in tears…” Daddy Dave, having lost the contest, grabbed his wood and started beating Alex from Blur around the hands and face, screaming ‘Whoo-Hoo”. It took Jeremy Clarkson’s best dead prostitute jokes to calm him down. 

Meanwhile over at the bar Samantha (drunk again) shouts at passers-by as if they were friends, telling them stories of that time her and David were so drunk that set an orphan on fire, or that time they photoshopped pictures of Diana’s head onto porn and sent them to Windsor Castle, or that time they vomited, or that time they ate salmon, or that time they used Margaret Thatcher’s corpse as a horse, or that time she mistyped ‘bum’, or that time she listened to Supertramp, or that time she washed John Majors tie by accident. She paused only to gulp at the bottle of wine in her hand breathlessly like an otter that’s been starved of love.

By this point Dave was vomiting from both mouth and bum and crying about a pig for some reason, I tried to tell him the drugs don’t work, like I said in my hit 1997 song with The Verve, The Drugs Don’t Work. But he wouldn’t listen. 

Dave and Sam are turning out to be quite the party couple.

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HermaphroMail

Sit now in a place where everyone’s in love with the Honey Monster.

Be inside a thing that breastfeeds second-hand wine to a million babies.

Run now to the world in which everybody points at each other’s genitalia and says “Oooh that’s different“.

Enter The Mail…

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In a shockingly bold move that could finally render gender differences obsolete, The Mail ask: “If different coloured people can now use the same bathrooms, why can’t men and women?”

Nah, I’m just fucking with you. The Mail loves segregation. The Mail loves segregation so much so that staff are made to wash their right hands in different sinks to their left hands. The Mail loves segregation so much that a good wall gets it aroused. The Mail loves segregation so much…yeah, you get it.

But seriously, the Mail loves segregation so much that on Thursday,the paper had been split into two separate and completely distinct parts. Two parts that had no real bearing on or relationship to each other, I couldn’t help thinking it was like one part was from Mars, while the other was from Venus…

Yes, on Thursday The Mail came with its own fully formed pieces of genitalia. Two of them.

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FEMAIL Magazine: Papery genitalia

In including the vaginal news shape of FEMAIL magazine The Daily Mail has signified two things:

  1. That everything outside of FEMAIL magazine is Man News, and should not be read by the soft emotional eyes of a women.
  2. That the Daily Mail has both a penis and a vagina, The Daily Mail is a massive hermaphrodite.

Let’s double fist some news.

Male Mail – News with balls

Standing erect throughout the entirety of the paper like a penis shaped monolith from 2001, is Man News. Man News features gun carriers, boob holders, quiff mongers and cock pinchers. All of these people do things, all of these things are news worthy.

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Alexander Blackman is a gun carrier. He’s also the only British Serviceman to be have been jailed for murder on the battlefield due to his shooting of a wounded, unarmed Taliban insurgent, a direct consequence of him being one of those people who carry a gun all around the place. The Mail don’t mind that he definitely killed some people, The Mail want him free and have launched a massive campaign to protest for his freedom, presumably so he can shoot up a mosque or something.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been away from it for so long, but this really feels like the Daily Mail has snapped. Like the Daily Mail is the kind of person you’d find wandering around a park shitting into a plastic bag muttering about “west eyed cats”. The latest evidence in the case, the evidence that The Mail believe should absolutely get this man finally successfully freed isn’t ‘that he didn’t do it’, because everyone knows he definitely, definitely did. No, the Mail are trying to get Alexander Blackman freed because he was angry when he shot an unarmed man in the head, he was angry and there was nobody else around to tell him that shooting unarmed people isn’t a good thing – this is the entirety of The Mail’s reasoning, it’s actually pretty scary.

In reality I can only see two reasons The Mail believes that Alexander Blackman should be free, 1. Alexander Blackman is white, 2. the person he shot was brown.

Prince Furry

Prince Harry, the lizard man who would be king – but only if he isn’t killed and eaten in the fighting pits by his mega nephew George, has hair on his face. This is news. Harry both carries guns and penises quite regularly, so this qualifies as mega news. Headline News.

The one thing no one noticed amid all of this fucking gushing (Quentin? Lets! was heard crying: “The moustache, its amazing, like wanking onto the cover of a Mozart CD”) is that the Daily Mail accidentally posted an image of the Honey Monster on its front page to illustrate the Prince’s new hair.

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FEMAIL – The quimy bit

Dribbling down your legs like an overactive period, FEMAIL comes but once a week. This, the blissful injection of hormone replacements in the form of paper floats over your soul like the smell of your nan’s potpourri, casually dumping a wet kiss on the cheek of any lost children in the vicinity.

FEMAIL endeavours to cover all the topics that women find interesting, like dogs on the internet, kissing and smells. What follows are seven pages made up of articles about stuff that old men think women like next to pictures of the women who wrote it, as if to prove this dross actually came from a place with a vagina. It’s like the reverse of ‘What Women Want’, that classic Mel Gibson joint, but instead of men hearing women’s thoughts, men get to hear what women would think if all of them had the brain of Mel Gibson – FEMAIL is the psychological equivalent of an Escher painting, but it’s Sarah Vine morphing into Richard Littlejohn rather than lots of stairs. Let’s take a look at the content shall we?

The big story for FEMAIL this week is ‘What time’s your wine O’clock?’ because naturally women are just a bunch of drunk harlots who only stop chugging on a wine bottle to shit out a kid or two. The article itself features the real life confessions of vicious, slurring mothers that can’t survive a 20 minute period without injecting Smirnoff straight into their ageing middle class veins before flouncing around their house screaming until someone puts Googlebox on. Women who hide Super T in nappy packaging and disguise their bottle of prosseco as their new-born child. Here are a couple of  choice quotes from these ‘real life’ functioning alcoholics.

“The second I’m back from the school run at 4pm, I start to think about that first stiff drink”

“You can always tell what time it is in my house by the drink in my hand”

“I would really like to have a drink at lunch time, but if I do it’s the end of work for the day”

“My heart is longing for a drink, but my head says ‘resist, resist'”.

The most juvenile part of my brain can’t resist reading the article while replacing the word drink with the word cock.

Here’s some of the other FEMAIL headlines this week:

·         Harry the hairy hunk

·         What’s your style tribe?

·         High flyers who are far happier being stay at home mums

·         The Troubling truth about tampons

·         What sort of madwomen spends hours taking pics of her food? Me!

·         Rubber globes that do MUCH more than the washing up!

The scary part about all of this is I didn’t make a single one of those headlines up.

Hi, I’m the Daily Mail, fuck you!

The front cover of today’s Mail is a glorious gift from the heavens. A meataphorical straight punch in the face from the metaphorical god of metaphorical face punches, Metafistopheles. The frontage of this papery hate factory is an almighty and magnificent statement of intent so pure in its articulation and so unswerving in its arrogance that it destroys the concept of the Holy Trinity, replacing it with something faster, sleeker, more productive: the Holy Oblong. This Holy Oblong demands your attention as it tattoos its message across your limp soul, knifing its opinion into your mind. Fiends, I am here to translate that message for you. Simply put, that message is: ‘Hi, I’m the Daily Mail, fuck you!’

Feast ye eyes, plebs.

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Statement 1: Migrants + Ewan McGregor = NO!

The first place you’re bound to look is the HEADLINE, so let’s start with that. Classic Mail. The Mail believes that the tsunami of migrants that are flooding our streets must be stopped before they make a film about it staring Ewan McGregor,  like they do with all the other tsunamis. The mail hates Ewan McGregor movies as much as they hate migrants and wants less of them everywhere. So do the Germans, and in order to signify that yesterday they held a gigantic door closing ceremony, they found the biggest doors they could, lit some candles and then closed them slowly. The message is clear: Trainspotting 2 is not welcome here.

Statement 2: Health Bullshit = Gardens give children whooping-cough

After that, your eye can’t help but fall upwards towards the stark white of “Can going to the dentist give you Alzheimers?”, naturally moving away from the start black of the headline. You find yourself here, stranded and naked, alone in the GOOD HEALTH headline section.

The GOOD HEALTH news burst seem to be ordered by plausibility from left to right. Starting with “Why exercise won’t make up for that extra glass of wine”, which is plausible but boring, and finishing on the absolute classic “Cream that rubs away skin cancer” which is absolute horse vomit.

But taking centre stage, sitting in the golden realm of ‘just plausible enough to sell a newspaper’ (in the eyes of The Mail) is “Can going to the dentist give you Alzheimers?” , a wank magnet of a headline if ever I heard one. It’s like saying “being at the zoo can make you spindly” or “Ferrys cause rickets”.

Statement 3: The Left = people who kiss terrorists.

Then we move over to the right of the page, drinking in ‘COMRADE CORBYN’S ACCESS TO SECURITY SECRETS’. As I understand it, this covers the launch of ITV’s latest much maligned late night comedy, the premise of which involves the UK accidentally voting in the corpse of Osama Bin Laden as leader of the opposition: “OSAMinister! starring Martin Freeman as Osama’s body. Get ready for six episodes of hi-jinx as newly elected dead terrorist Osama fights off Rigor Mortis, both figuratively and literally (as well as crippling his decaying body, it’s also the name of his back bencher arch nemesis), all the while trying to escape Downing Street with the Queen’s security secrets”. 

Osaminister

Yes, the Mail still remain absolutely fukergasted at the idea that a left leaning party have voted in a left leaning man, even worse then that, they’ve just realised Corbyn is A LEFTIE. Who the fuck do Labour think they are, voting in a leftie? Twat shaped bastards that they are, why don’t they all just get on a ship and fuck off.

Apparently Corbyn is also a ‘Taliban sympathiser‘ which means he hates toast and will definitely, definitely post nuclear missiles to IS if left unattended for even a single parsec. Yes, sympathising is now a bad thing, it’s tantamount to locking someone in a plane and throwing it at a closed down branch of the Post Office. It’s like it got swapped around with bastard in the dictionary when no-one was looking. The next time someone leaves their husband, don’t make them tea, glass them up with Nana’s china cups. If you come to me looking for sympathy I’ll just bash your knees in with a dog’s face.

“Small, my kids have just died”

“FUCK OFF!”

Bam! Unsympathetic.

This entire article is a bit like what 24 would be if it starred old white men…oh wait.

Statement 4: Taliban + boobs = nice!

The final story squatting like a shitting dog on the front cover of today’s Mail is that of Claire Blackman, Claire’s husband, who’s Facebook bio reads: Franz Ferdinand for life!!, was unfairly jailed for the murder of Taliban soldiers. He definitely, definitely did it, he definitely, definitely murdered two men. No-one’s disputing that, The Mail just think it’s unfair he had to go to prison for it.

“Why the hell is this on the front page?” You scream, quite rightly, “The Taliban haven’t sold newspapers since 2013”. It’s on the front page because it seems in Mail land, there’s only one thing that sells more newspapers than Migrants, lefties or bullshit, and that my friends is a little bit of cleave. Claire, like any self respecting distraught army wife is showing off a little bit of cleave. Admit it, it’s not often you get to report on the war on terror while showing off a fistful of titties.

Sum it up

In one glorious oblong the Mail has stated that it hates the left, hates foreigners, likes killing the Taliban, enjoys bullshit health news and loves a little bit of boob.

I was not ready for this.