From Westminster to Wetherspoons

All week out here in Hanoi there’s been a storm brewing. God himself tore the sky asunder, bringing his omniscient cock down to bear on the Vietnamese capital and opening up a stream of holy piss the likes of which haven’t been seen since the time of Noah. Turns out the vicar’s daughter hadn’t been prudent enough to heed the warnings of senior Tory party reptiles and there will be no ark for her when the floodwaters start rising.

And rise they shall. We’re a little more than a week on from the election, and for all the tooth and nail gibbering that took place during that sordid chunk of history, there emerged no victor.

My predictions failed me. The Liberal Democrats were hung by the gonads from meat-hooks while students hurled rotten fruit and used tampons. That detestable invertebrate Nick Clegg lost Sheffield Hallam to Labour for the first time in over 100 years, slinking off with big watery puppy eyes. Dark times indeed for the centre-ground of politics, but the failure of the Glib Dems is no doubt indicative of the times we live in; madness begets madness and Tim Farron’s mild-mannered attempt to offer sanity was drowned out in the calamity and cacophony of a battleground for which he was not properly equipped. Farron too, lacked the guts to fight a campaign and now he goes snivelling back to lobbying on behalf of the Church, leaving the Liberal Democrats as impotent as eunuchs until Vince Cable steps up his game.

The list of casualties goes on, with the next head to be mounted on the mantelpiece of No. 10 belonging to former UKIP leader Paul Nuttall. Spare a thought for Paul. A truly reckless excuse for a politician, his failed abortion of a political career has tunnelled back into the dirt. From Westminster to Wetherspoons. There will be few tears shed for Paul’s demise and nor should there be. The town drunkard was a fraudulent charlatan, a snake-oil salesman and a blithering moron of such epic proportions, it’s some sort of anti-miracle that he survived this long.

But the press remain hungry for meat and only a prime cut will do. Theresa May was savaged by even the Murdoch owned papers, who turned on her like a leper in paradise. The Sun and Daily Mail ran a better campaign against Corbyn than May could have ever mustered herself, but in the end this vitriol did not translate into votes. Her career is as dead as her eyes, yet she limps on, dripping blood, forked tongue hissing violently at anyone she passes.

From day one she’d had all the support possible: the papers, the polls and even the public, but post-election that hereditary smugness transmogrified her face into a haunted lump of waxen dried fruit. But her talons are dug deep into the democratic hog and she has no plans to relinquish her death-grip, even enlisting the Neolithic troglodytes of the DUP – summoning them via time machine into the foul year 2017 to ensure the survival of her reign.

It will not be enough. A fire in a tower block is all it took to expose the hastily erected façade. Soon May will go quietly into that good night of politics the same way that Cameron did and while Dave has switched smoothly back into the meanest yuppie ever to roam the earth, Old Tessa will be lucky to run a village fete when they chase her out of town. All that remains to be seen is whether she runs weeping back to the wheat fields or if the reptilian Tory party will slide its barbed cock so far into her softer regions that she chokes to death on her own minced offal.

Somehow, Labour succeeded in pulling off some maniacal supernatural experiment where the embalmed remains of Jeremy Corbyn were reanimated and sent forth into battle like a withered Furby hooked up to the mains. Coming across as more human than a startled banshee caught in the headlights of youth in revolt probably wasn’t that hard and I suspect Corbyn was living off a diet of Viagra and espressos throughout the campaign, but it was still a better comeback than Jesus given the polls two months ago.

I expected Corbyn to be taken out back and shot. May was going to beat him like a drum and skull-fuck the Labour party into a shallow, unmarked grave. The whole left-wing was to be tied to a rocket by the genitals and fired off into a black hole, never to be spoken of again. For Labour, it’s difficult to see this as the defeat that it was. Yes, objectively speaking they lost, but they have shown there’s a real appetite for Tory scalps these days. Tom Watson has taken to wearing a necklace of ears and even Diane Abbot has one of Paul Dacre’s testicles for an egg-cup.

The good ship Blighty has sailed deep into uncharted territory and if our sinking prison isle is to survive, we need a better captain. With some new fresh hell rising out of the depths every day now, it is unclear exactly how the gaping chasm of a wound on our nation can be healed back to unity.

I suspect history will treat this current crop of Tories like the vultures they are – even the Nazis thought they had God on their side. I have never been one for hope, but it remains possible that the Time of the Bastards is coming to an end and some new hideous mutant hellspawn will be unleashed upon a screaming British public, but perhaps not. Big time politics is a strange game with few rules and only the most debauched and cannibalistic survive.

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