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


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


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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