Archive for April, 2012

I was reading a book the other day by Bertie Russell about the history of western philosophy which was really bloody fascinating. It’s interesting to note that western philosophy (can’t vouch for eastern philosophy – that’s probably got it’s own agenda) has been heavily influenced by the concept of religion throughout it’s history right up until the middle of the last century. I mean, you had Nietzsche banging on about god being dead and all that, but then Bertie goes out of his way to show that Nietzsche was a bit of an old nutter who had a thing for his sister and, apart from his sibling, hated women. Now, whether this was affected by the book being written slap bang in the middle of the second world war it’s not for me to say, but logic would dictate this was the case.

The other interesting thing is that it was published in 1945 so it misses out all the philosophers who came after it (obviously.) I’ve got the 1953 edition so there’s no updates concerning people like John Paul Sartre or Roland Fucking Barthes (the semiologist twat) so it just sort of stops with Bertie having a go at John Dewey because he spilt his philosophical pint or something. Being a ponce and having read some modern philosophy (well, a bit of Sartre and some bloody book about the subconscious mind where the cunt kept banging on about Cartesian fucking Dualism like it was still a modern concept, the bellend – can’t remember the author but he was probably a twat) it was quite interesting to see how the burgeoning science of quantum physics is handled by old Bertie. And basically he goes “Fucking hell – quantum physics – you can prove all kinds of shit with this, it’s totally mental.”

Anyway, after I read that I started reading Legacy of Ashes, which is a history of the CIA as reported through declassified documents and people who worked for – or were used by – the CIA. It’s written by a bloke called Tim Weiner, which is a bit like calling yourself Tim Cock in America. Anyway, it’s interesting because it lays truth to the idea that the CIA – throughout history – doesn’t have a fucking clue what it’s doing and never has. The two biggest coups they brought in from the 1950s (the overthrow of Guatemala and Iran to US friendly forces) were mainly achieved through massive blundering on the CIA’s front and by throwing a shit load of money at the problem. Scary thing is that the main theme running throughout the book is how messed up and incompetent the CIA is and how riven it is with internal strife and in-fighting, which is weirdly enough what the 9/11 commission report said. The CIA missed most of the warning signs about that – as they have done throughout history – because they were too busy flicking bogies at each other and the FBI.

Mind you, any decent conspiracy theorist worth his salt with tell people that the book is probably just a massive bunch of disinformation put about by spooks, and incidents such as 9/11 was actually an inside job, despite the fact it would rely on the complicit silence of thousands of people, including ground staff willing to sacrifice thousands of people for oil profits they would never see. But let’s not let facts get in the way of a good yarn.

The best thesis on the proliferation of conspiracy theories I’ve ever come across was probably the episode of South Park slagging off the idea of the 9/11 conspiracy. Basically the concept was that it works in the government’s favour to have the populace believe conspiracy theories are real, because otherwise that would leave all governments under the charge that they’re actually a witless bunch of incompetent twats blundering around in the dark without a fucking clue where their elbows are in relation to their arseholes. Funny thing about the more rampant conspiracy theorists is that they’re more than willing to believe that their local council is run by a bunch of blundering cretins but that this incompetency doesn’t go all the way to the people who run their country, even though – as we see from the double ended dildo of Cameron and Clegg – it’s quite obvious their capacity to organise some sort of drinking night in a public house is beyond their capabilities.

Still, all this is a way of saying I didn’t actually see The Apprentice this week as I fell asleep when it was on. You can probably guess how the programme went, though. Lots of aerial shots of London with THAT FUCKING MUSIC constantly playing, followed by cretins gimballing around like the arseholes they are, followed by lots of shots of one team coming across like witless invertebrates wallowing around in their own filth to make it look like they’re losing, and then – fuck me – turns out they actually won when it comes to the crunch. Blimey – who would have thought that?

If you want to read a proper analysis go here: http://funnyfarmhazel.wordpress.com/2012/04/25/apprentice-series-8-ep-6-ooh-suck-on-my-cheap-and-porky-balls/

All I know is this week’s tedious episode involved selling meaty cocks to the Scottish and Kate – some blond bint – got booted for being a girl or something. I dunno. Doesn’t really matter in the end, anyway. It’s all a conspiracy by the government to keep us complacent in front of the boob tube as the government whittle away our public rights. WE’LL BE IN LABOUR CAMPS BY THE END OF THE YEAR, PEOPLE – BELIEVE ME!!!

As someone who’s definitely not the prime minister people often ask me, “Mr, Prime Minister, what programme do you moist enjoy on television and why.” And I have to say Jeremy Kyle as it shows me what the proles are really like and why they should be annihilated with extreme prejudice. But second to that is The Apprentice for it’s examples concerning fiscal responsibility and the sheer hard graft it takes to grow a strong and vibrant economy, with someone I’ve never met before called Mr Alan Teasmaid, or something like that. Whatever his name is he’s a hairy old man who talks like he’s never wrestled a swan to the floor with his bare hands in order to kill it, cook it, and serve it up to members of the Rotter’s Club.

I first came across this program when I was not in the shadow cabinet. An old mucker of mine commented on this wizard topper televisual entertainment where young scrappers from the old school of posh knocks like myself and my chums worked against each other in the spirit of enterprise to prove who was the best person to work with the gentleman with the visage of a pair of wobbly old hairy clackers. The first few episodes reminded me of my days beating the poor before I wasn’t elected into power because that bastard on the other side couldn’t balance the books properly. Myself and my chums would spend many an hour devising spiffo new games to play where we’d all pretend to be costermongers and wheel a cart down to the local market where we’d sell our excreta in hand crafted boxes to willing punters who were too poor and stupid to realise what a bonkers gag we’d played on them. God, I hate the poor. It’s those bastards on disability benefit that really get my goat. If you’re strong enough to propel a wheelchair you’re strong enough to be slinging crates down the docks, the freeloading swines. It’s the cripples who are bringing this country down, as I was saying to someone who wasn’t my chancellor the other day. “And charities support these rob dogs,” I didn’t comment. “Make sure the bastards who donate get taxed until their knackers bleed, Osbourne!”

Then I definitely didn’t kick a beggar to death.

Anyway, one of the things we always used to do to whoever failed whatever spiffing wheeze we’d hatch was to force a forfeit onto the loser. In The Apprentice it’s banishment from the fabbo top game they’re all playing, but for us, when Spoffo Worthington-Fabworthy or Stalin Faffingshire-Paupkiller would lose a bet, we’d tie them to a rock and let buzzards peck out their eyes. I know it sounds cruel, but luckily we were all so stinking rich we could afford new eyes and nobody was really harmed. Except the servants who we used to harvest the eyes from.

Anyway, on with the show.

This week’s comedy caper starts in York Hall, some sort of lower class ruffian factory where a big square sits in the middle of a large room surrounded by seats, obviously a gathering hall for millionaires like myself to watch orphans eat each other to death. Somebody said it was a boxing ring, and it definitely was box shaped.. Anyway, each team has to come up with a fitness class concept and then licence the rights to run them.

Stephen Brady elects himself as project manager for the Team With Confused Looking People (Phoenix). Nobody argues for a start, which is against the concept of democracy. As a leading member of the aristocracy it is essential that we pitch the lower classes against each other, and this shower seem to readily agree with each other from the start, which is quite frankly appalling.

Ricky Martin, taking a break from singing and sporting the visage of a coconut, takes over team Too Many Women (Sterling) after a brief argument with a filly who looks like one of my prize show jumping horses.

From that we quickly move on to women in leotards gyrating for the team’s pleasure. Then they all line up and do a strange dance and I believe Smithers has dropped some sort of narcotic into my Chardonnay as the next thing I see is one of Team Confused in a taxi with giant orange testicles, until Mrs Dameron points out this is what’s known as a ‘space hopper’ – some sort of toy from the seventies popularised by a comedian known as Peter Kay.

Team Too Many Women decide on some sort of mixture of martial arts and streetdance to get people healthy. This is the sort of thing which can only encourage the lower classes to revolt and take to the streets again. Much to my displeasure a massive phalanx of heavily armed police don’t run in and batter the lot into submission, so very much like the real riots then.

Team Confused seem focused on the ‘space hopper’ which Steven dangles tantalisingly between his legs in a bid to attract the females of the group. When that doesn’t work he tries to insert it into his bottom, again a slight confusion on my part as Mrs Dameron explains this is how the ‘space hopper’ is ridden.

Nick, Laura, Dwayne are tasked with shooting the video for Team Too Many Women. Dwayne decides to change the script, which as my pals in Handmade Films tell me is the death knell of any film project.

Team Too Many Women try to force one of their ilk, Azhar, to don The Shorts of Death and emasculate himself in the name of fiscal gain, which is a marvellous idea. Instead he is suddenly transported back in time to the eighties and starts gyrating like a psychopath and everyone else stands around looking confused. Either that or the narcotic has kicked in again.

Meanwhile on the other team Dwayne decides to have the instructor face away from the camera for their promo vid, which I think is a terrible idea as she’s not that bad looking. According to that Nick chappy on Alan’s squad that shows fissures starting to appear in the team dynamic, which is fab because it sorts out the financial tigers from the punched big eyed puppies.

Team Confused has the temerity to let a woman give an opinion, but luckily the well known pop sensation Ricky Martin steps in and starts talking some words.

Team Too Many Women have decided to go the full hog and argue quite a lot while Nick and his Boris Johnson hair looks very sad, like a big orphaned kitten that needs to be put down discreetly with the use of a blender.

Team Confused live up to their name in the editing room. Women are talking again. This is most unnecessary.

It’s pitching time with our young whippersnappers. Ricky Martin for Team Too Many Women pitches to Virgin Active, which involves no virgins and no activity, but rather a few old men and one women sitting around with notebooks. They pitch their fitness regime at 45 pounds a session and are told by the Virgins that’s it’s very similar and could they go away and please die as they smell like poor people.

Team Confused pitches to someone else (didn’t catch the name) and present the comedy showcase of the century and I think the narcotic is kicking away because there’s a lot of lights and colours but someone who looks like Skeletor in the judging panel mentions studio capacity in relation to handing out space hoppers. We cut to a vox pop from Stephen who talks about his balls.

Laura demonstrates a few moves she might have learnt down a few Soho bars myself and my not-cabinet definitely don’t visit after a hard night in the chambers for Team Too Many Women, and we quickly cut to Team Confused and their next pitch where they make up some quick sums to sell their ‘space hoppers’ while Karen Brady – the popular character from the Viz comic – pours oodles of scorn on their lack of fiscal proprietary, although personally if I was running the company I’d give them a place in the cabinet immediately, chiefly on the concept that they may have no idea what they’re doing (like that nice Mr Osbourne off the telly) but at least they know how to… erm… oh, look, we’re in the board room now.

Nick tries to get Sterling fighting on the production of the video but so far nobody’s been selected for the chop so they all keep schtum.

Same news with Phoenix as everyone tries their damnedest not to say anything too inflammatory until the hammer falls down. Not like the turncoat bastards in the current coalition. As soon as the rotters smell the stench of defeat they’re all over the press trying to deny the advocated concentration camps for orphans.

Anyway, the results:

Sterling – £7,970

Phoenix – £12,810

Virgin liked Phoenix’s space hoppers so Team Too Many Women go and get some executive relief at a massage parlour. Honest. Quite frankly this sort of filth should not be on television. It should instead be available for video rental for the husband’s of Parliamentarians.

Now it’s time for the final countdown to doom as it’s back to the boardroom for a damn good drubbing from Team Suger.

Ricky Martin the Pop Star goes straight for the video as the blame for the failure in the task. Not the blandness of the product or the coconut-headedness of Ricky himself, but the video. This isn’t helped by Lord Testicles telling them everyone hated the video and would rather have watched Battlefield Earth for eternity than be exposed to that pile of old badger’s nadgers once again.

Ricky brings back Dwayne and Laura for the final kiss off, and battle commences. And it’s carnage, but of a very bland variety. Ricky blames Dwayne for the video and then Laura for following orders too well. Dwayne sticks up for Laura, which is pretty terrible for a businessman. He should be tearing bloody chunks out of her and throwing her carcass to the wolves of the press to finish off, using his Teflon shoulders to deflect any responsibility from himself by saying it was all the fault of the previous week’s losing team, and if they checked the figures closely they would see they actually won the task.

In the end it’s Dwayne who gets the kick for the video as it didn’t feature spacehoppers. He should have stuck in a few shots of rolling green fields, lots of churches, and people in suits talking very earnestly to the camera about how shit the other team are.

Next week they go to Scotland and terrorise the populace with their big meaty balls (obviously a food task of some sort.)

 

 

I am the mighty one who sees all before me.  I am the colossus who sits bestridden across the very fabric of time, observing you puny human scum in your petty, meaningless lives, interfering as I see fit where and when.  A bit like Galactus, then, but without the stupid hat and all that planet eating shit he does.

I observed many of your earth years ago that there was a strand of entertainment missing from your petty lives, and that strand involved knobends in suits bickering like small children as they cosied up to some bloke with a face like a hairy arse, and thus I deemed it worthy to plant the seed of thought in the mind of some ferret-like media whore and convinced your most trusted of earth-broadcasters to stump up the readies to show this pile of old donkey’s twadge.

I would have contributed to last week’s enormously profound episode but I was far too busy planting contradictory thoughts in the mind of the sub-human gimp like bellend creature you call ‘Cameron’.  No serious person would say they were the party of the poor and then tax the rich bastards for coughing up a few shekels to their local donkey sanctuary, but since the bumfluff faced homunculi ‘Camertwat’ isn’t human he readily took the idea I planted into his tiny mind – a mind, I may add, which can only respond to outside stimuli and truly bears no inner monologue.

Suffice it to say, as regards episode three of The Apprentice, some mockney old twonk with a pair of cheeks like a slightly pruned pair of hairy bollocks was booted off for reminding Alan of himself too much and since there’s only room enough for one bullshit barrow boy in the room he was given the hoof.

And lo the credits dost roll on episode four and once more we are thrown against our will into the screaming maw of some arseholes in suits.  Laugh mightily along with me as I manipulate the very fabric of their existence and make them do and say really stupid things you couldn’t imagine yourself saying.

This week – BOSH – straight to some old cinema in Chiswick stacked to the rafters with tat.  Mr. Hairy Arse Face strides between his mighty titan helpers where he blathers on about Steptoe or Son or something.  The idea is to package up a load of old cak as shiny new shit and then flog it off to gimps.  It would be far too easy to make a joke about the Beeb’s output here being just the same as ITV or something clever like that so I’ll move quickly on instead.

The group of haughty children are split up (well, Jade goes toPhoenix).  Adam, a market trader, reckons you should buy as much crap as possible and flog it on at bargain prices to Mr and Mrs Punter, which might work in the market trader market(?) but not in the swanky world of wanky shite.

Over on Sterling’s side Tommy Rock Opera leads as Gabby comes up with some simply super an spiffing modern hip design ideas, which means slapping a union jack on anything that moves and then they’re off – straight back to the flat for the drink and drugs orgy that probably goes on when the cameras are turned off, rather than what we imagine happens which is lots of soulless people staring blank eyed into their own reflections and feeling the tug of existential despair.

Now the teams have been manipulated by my all seeing hands into their respective teams the whinging can begin.  Tom’s team are whisked off to Cockneys R US where they bid against pearly kings and queens for cak.  Then after that they head straight for the bins where they root through the rubbish looking for old pizzas because they’re hungry, and somehow manage to acquire a bit of tat along the way.

The other team rummage around a car boot sale.  This is actually massively boring.  Nick’s whining again.  When I created this programme I imagined a more dynamic and thrusting environment but it’s basically knob ends blithering about without rhyme or reason, only to start smashing up the joint when they get tired of the reality of their own existence.  Well, somebody drops a painting with a glass front.  And then a car smashes through a plate glass window.  Except that bit didn’t happen.

Gabby wants to brand the tat.  I recommend drawing a massive turd on each one with a picture of comedy not-cockney Del Boy David Jason giving it the thumbs up in a cheeky chappie way, which can only say to the purchasing punter ‘fuck off and never enter this den of pants ever again.’

Tom’s team head for the junk shop where they cockney it up with a dodgy barrow boy who tells the camera they’re complete knobends for missing the diamond encrusted crown hidden up a solid gold pope’s arse which was in plain view.

Duane fucks up his metaphor with ‘don’t look a gift horse in the eye’ which just goes to show what level of intellectuality we’re dealing with here.  To be true he actually said it right the first time, but when it came to the edit Duane didn’t look enough of a cunt, so they got the whole filming team back and went out on the street and forced him at gunpoint to sound like a total cockend for the sake of your entertainment.

And, yes, union jacks are being slapped onto every product from Team Laura.  It looks terrible but will probably win the whole thing, as the editing makes it look as if they’re a bunch of gimbling, slobbering fuck knobbits.

Making Team Laura’s shop look really groovy and fab and professional is the big pile of shit in the middle of the floor, whereas Team Tom’s shop looks like a bargain boot sale I once went to with Mrs Mysterio, The Bloody Mysterious.

Tom’s tat is proving a hit with the minimalist concept of not-having-much-in-the-shop.  Laura’s Vintage Gold, on the other hand, appears to be attracting purchasers purely made up of total cunts -the sort of cunts who wear ironic flat caps, expensive clothes, and basically look like a bunch of wanking spanners who could do with a fucking good extermination just so they don’t breed and spread their bollocks to the rest of humanity.

Fuck me – now Tom’s team is sodding off to rob car boot sales and – I’m not kidding – stiff some poor kid out of a crap camera before sneaking off with an evil grin.  This is turning into a Charles Dickens novel!

A brief scan of the patrons of Vintage Gold reminds everyone outside of London why they should never go to Brick Lane.  I thought I was out of fashion with my kicker boots, Nehru jacket, massive flares and Timmy Mallet glasses, but even I look sensible when compared to these fuck nuggets.

The union jack stuff fails to sell for a song, and is rightly classed as cheap and tacky.

Suddenly the air if filled with shrieky women shouting at people in the street, and for once it’s not a typical night out in Portsmouth.  Everything is going for a song and a shriek and before you know it we have that music again and lots of shots of people looking pensive and sitting in cars and aerial shots of the square mile and lots of sitting around.  I reckon the programme could be ten minutes long without all this crap.

The women (and Nick, who’s a woman) all say they did well and Laura says hey, they were all great at selling and there’s no winners in the game because they’re all winners until pushed by the chipmunk bollock cheeked avenger to admit to her own brilliance and everyone loves Laura for not beating them with sticks.

Team Tom admits to his cautiousness and not just betting the lot on Sad Ken at Chepstow and Mr Squeaky Hairy face digs out a bit of mild abuse about tat bought and even if you haven’t seen it you can guess the usual semi-dull shimmy shammying and in the end everyone liked Tom as well and Tom loved them and they’re all the best friends forever.

Anyway – Phoenix make 1,063 (after costs)
Sterling make 783 quid (after drugs)

TOTALLY FUCKING EXPECTED.  From the moment the union jack idea was touted as a pile of elephant poo it was obvious who was winning, and Team Tom and booted off to fanny about in an old mansion or something.  I might have said earlier it looked like Team Laura would win but that was just to throw you of the scent.  And you fell for it like the fascists you are!

My mysterious all seeing hand has guided Team Laura – or Team Schrieky based on their selling technique – to be the losing team and they toddle off to the Café of Shit to blame each other for not being big enough cunts.

Nick blames the cost to sale ratio, which is the kind of logic which makes him the guinea pig haired genius he is.  Laura blames it all on what was bought, but the reality of it was they were just shit.  Not too much bickering, though, which is a bit disappointing, so I shall wave my hand of interference in the boardroom and make them attack each other’s private parts with cattle prods of blame.

Laura blames Gabby, Gabby blames someone else (no name’s mentioned), Karen sticks her oar in, Gabby Teflon-shoulders the failure of their team onto the concept that she was told to spend money on materials to make the shop look lovely, followed by Laura and that wonky nosed Scots bird going into shrieky mode while the blokes, quite rightly, keep schtum as they know they’re onto a good thing once the women start going for each other’s throats.

Alan drags the blokes in to try and get them shouting at each other and the coconut headed one from Fareham blames the lack of research for them being cak as a team.  But it’s no good, because the women are edging back into shrieky land again and Bollock Face Chipmunk drags it back to reality by pointing out that the ladeez managed to sell a lot except Jane, who was too busy being old to sell more than a tenner or crap to knobend punters.

Gabby’s coming in for a lot of stuck when it comes to who’s responsible.  Laura brings in Jane and Gabby for a bitch-off and the blokes get away scot free by mainly keeping their gobs shut.

Why we have to listen in to Bollock Faced Alan’s conversations with his cronies is beyond me (even though the whole of universe is under my control, obviously) as they always go ‘well, so and so was cak, but then so and so was also good, so I’m stuck in a box of indecision’.  No one’s EVER surprised by anything these creatures say, but like the aerial shots of big shiny buildings it fills in a bit of time and stretches this bollocks out to the full hour.

Gabby blames the budget and now she and Laura go in for the kill.  Laura poo poos Gabby’s contribution as ‘putting a bit of masking tape on the window’ and then Jane leaps in and says Laura sucks the big one (metaphorically.)  Laura blames Jane for lack of sales and Jane tries to divert the blame onto Laura, despite selling fuck all, and Sugar pulls her up on this.  Jane talks about working hard and etc etc and you’ve heard it all before and then it’s onto Laura.

Laura ‘I’ve been successful at everything’ and Bollock Face reminds her that she failed the task so Laura’s head explodes in shame.  Or maybe it doesn’t.

Gabby’s saved by her enthusiasm and Sugar pretends it’s a tough task to chose between the shrieking twins but Jane gets the boot for being old.  Sugar says it’s something to do with her not being a great business person (note the non-sexist attitude – it’s the Beeb after all, it’s not ‘business chick’ or business babe’ but ‘business person’. Although he does check out her arse and make a ‘phwoar’ face to the camera when she leaves.)

Jane blubs in the van (hormones) and the majority decision from the back stabbers back at Bollock Mansion is Jane should go apart from Nick-Woman who says Laura should be given the boot.  They all slag off the poor woman behind her back and then we cut to next week’s waste of time as The Gathering of Swine is tasked with coming up with a fitness regime, which should be right up their alley.

Luckily myself and Mrs Mystor are going on holiday in the outer nebula so some other sucker can cover this.

In the old days you could say something like, “The CIA plotted 9/11 to further the interests of space lizards to feed on your children” and people – well, some of them anyway – would believe you because they knew, deep down, despite the total lack of evidence, it was probably true.

These days it’s getting harder and harder to convince people about government subterfuge because it’s all out there in the open.  For instance, a couple of days ago the government said they would start monitoring all the e-mail, Skype, telephone calls, etc, of everyone in the UK, regardless of how dodgy they were.  They came right out and said it. There was no pussyfooting around like Labour used to do, spouting on about it all being in the national interest that you have ID cards and be subject to having your bottom searched at random intervals by friendly, smiling coppers.  The whole gist of the argument was basically, “Well, we don’t trust you, and because of that we’re going to monitor your every breath in an attempt to crack down on either terrorism, the possibility of future social unrest, or something we’ll possibly make up in the future.”

It’s like they’ve forgotten the entire point of having a conspiracy in the first place.  The whole point is people suspect this thing is happening but have no hard evidence to prove it, and then a document gets leaked saying, ‘We don’t trust the proles, let’s keep an eye out on them and possibly sell the info we gather to Tesco so they can market Granny’s Own Lardy Pies to the areas where conversations mainly revolve around people eating pies (keep fit clubs, etc)’ and then everyone nods their heads and say they knew it was going on anyway.  Now it’s all out in the open.  It’s totally scuppered my chances of getting my new book, The Bastards Are Watching You Have a Poo, published now.  The whole point of my epic tome was that the corporations are in cahoots with the government to keep an eye on everything you do so they can bring down Al Qaida whilst targeting the right social areas for any future advertising streams.

With this in mind my next book’s going to be Naughty Ladies Can’t Stop Ravishing Me and hopefully that’ll come true as well.

Actually, in the great scheme of things, I reckon the ConDems were beaten to the punch by social networking sites and internet search engines.  It was only a couple of weeks ago Google said they were going to monitor private information and then flog that info off to advertisers (or something), and there’s the ConDems who’ve had this FANTASTIC plan to do the same thing but in the interests of national security and suddenly they’ve been beaten to the finishing line.  So with this in mind they can’t possibly go, “Blimey, we were going to do that years ago before Google got in the way, and anyway we weren’t going to sell your info off to advertisers but use it to crack down on national security or something.  And anyway, Google smell” so they had to re-think their strategy.  And what’s the easiest fall back clause for any draconian measure – terrorism, of course.

You can get away with anything if you say it’s to fight the war on terror.  You could probably go on TV and punch a kitten in the bollocks for hours on end as long as you say the kitten was funded by Al Qaida.  They’ve already started attacking our pies and caravans with outrageous taxes to help fund the War Against Terror – our civil liberties will be next!  And we’ll all have to give in and do what the ConDems say or the terrorists will leap out from behind our couches and take our remote controls so we can’t watch X-Factor anymore, and that would lead to the downfall of civilisation.

On the plus side of all this civil-liberties-bashing it probably means more jobs, and maybe that’s the point.  Maybe the ConDems aren’t actually the evil money grabbing curly moustache twirling villains we’ve all come to flick the V’s at when they come knocking at the door, but actually lovely and fluffy and intent on giving all the proles a working wage by getting them to sift through the next door neighbour’s personal mail.

Although there is the strand of thinking which says the ConDems haven’t got a ruddy clue what they’re doing, and actually they’re just flailing around in the dark like all political parties do when they get in power.  Some of the less wiser amongst us have this insane idea that politicians aren’t the evil, grasping fascist dictators intent on world domination through whatever means necessary, plotting a huge conspiracy where they take over the western world piece by piece in some grand scheme to rule the universe from their underground volcanoes, but rather a gathering of clueless buffoons.  But luckily people like me know different.  We know they’re inherently evil.

And that’s exactly what Cameron and Clegg are.  Watch them next time during Prime Minister’s Questions and you can see the steely glint of dominant evil behind the façade of blundering fuckwittedness.  Yes, Clegg may come across like a school prefect, ready to warm the toilet seat of Cameron and bouncing around like a backwards puppy, but actually he’s plotting total domination of the UK in an effort to subject the populace to his steely will. Milliband’s in on it too under the total understanding that when the populace finally turn into willing cow-beasts he too shall sit on the right hand of CamerClegg and also rule over the populace, and the only way he can achieve that in opposition is by being about as much use as a wet wank in a biscuit tin.

Some people say it’s a lot easier to believe in conspiracies than accept the idea that those in power are a bunch of witless, bumbling bum-heads, but I know the truth!!