Such a prescient, beautiful sentiment.

Friday, 15 January 2010

The Bunker Spoofs and OR's Take On Jimmy.

You All Thought I Didn't Have A


Peter Watts , "Nearly all the leading figures named and shamed in my book, "Inside Out: My Story Of Betrayal And Cowardice At The Heart Of New Labour," are still in office.
In his book, Mr Watt, who resigned as Labour general secretary in 2007, claims:
Mr Brown’s Cabinet ally Douglas Alexander said the PM’s inner circle wanted an early Election partly because even they didn’t like him – and they feared the British public would soon form the same view.
The day Mr Brown called off the 2007 Election, denying he had ever intended to hold one, Labour chiefs had a fleet of limousines circling Parliament Square ready to take Ministers on the campaign trail, and had 1.5million leaflets ready to be posted.
No10 is ‘completely dysfunctional’ under Mr Brown, who runs the country ‘by making it up as he goes along’.
Sulking Mr Brown walked out of a Downing Street dinner party with US politicians because they sat down without his permission.

The Bunker Is Thriving, by Oldrightie.

The one thing that had kept him going as he rocked gently on his latest, though already patched, Dobbin, was that no one would ever find out. Allie Kellykiller was now back in charge of his nappies and what with his one liners for PMQs, things had appeared to be looking up. The spin campaign, at vast tax payers' expense, to sow a hung Parliament meme in the gullible voters' thick skulls, had appeared to be working too. Furthermore he and Labour now had a nightly Labour Party Political show at the peak time of 7 o'clock in the evening. Fronted by a Brummie pillock and a Belfast Bimbo. Perfect. He had watched the "Toff" video by his wife's mate, Kay somebody. She was very mutton like but seemed to grasp the propaganda subject quite well. Must get her a big job with Pravda.

Then of course his mind began to drift back to the 10th of January. He had been snoozing on his bunker cot at Chequers after a heavyish dose of his meds and had just mounted his toy as the drug effects had become lighter. His loyal Butler and trouser preserver had been told not to disturb him at any price....................................

Blinky Bollocks had shared a limo with Snakeoil and was a bit embarrassed that his companion was wearing his ermine. All the Smirk had smirked was that "It's so lovely and warm this ermine, dear boy". Between them lay a copy of that morning's Mail on Sunday. "Whose going to tell him" Blinky blinked. "Why you, my little chubby cheeks, you're his favourite, after all." Testes shuffled his fat derriere nervously. Still, one consolation, he mused, Wee Dougie's in for a right terry towelling.

After endless security, they were allowed down to the bunker. They were met by The Butler, accompanied by a rather effete AK47 wielding stranger. Snakeoil swirled a coquettish twirl with his cape and a more pronounced mince appeared than as ever witnessed in public. "No way can you see him" said the pair of gas proof door keepers, in uncanny unison. The two Ministers of State smiled warmly at each other. Testes waved the newspaper before them saying, "No shit, you can have this and you can give it to him." One glance was enough. Butty (The Butler's pet(ting) name) threw the big, iron lever upwards and thrust open the door.

The two men were never able to quite get used to this vision. A grown, very overweight man, dressed in a large towelling nappy, bestride a rocking horse with one patch over it's left eye and the strangest look on the rider's bloated face. The apparition did not look at them but knew their visit was of importance. Without warning he rolled off the toy and onto the floor. The room was, as always, poorly lit. The dismounted creature rapidly crawled to a tattered sofa placed against the far wall. Snakeoil nudged Blinky and the newspaper forward. The Right Honourable First Minister of The Treasury and Prime Minister of Great Britain had hauled himself onto the seat and with a tembling hand had reached out for the newspaper. One glance was enough. A whole basket of mobile phones was grabbed and hurled across the room with a force only madmen seem able to muster. The missile crashed to the floor with a thud as loud as it had splintered against the wall. The enraged and strangely mesmerising figure rose violently upwards and proceeded to dance about whilst shredding the paper with a banshee howl at each tear. The prancing got ever more frenetic until the shredded paper was hurled upwards to fall like confetti at a civil ceremony. Wasted and unwanted for no more than just cleaning up the post nuptial mess. A loud klaxon, activated by Butty, had the standby medical team dashing in, needles drawn, as the two Ministers quietly slipped away. "I'm glad I'm not Wee Dougie" Testes whispered. Snakeoil hissed.


  1. It's been awhile, OR but OK!

  2. 'Ere, didn't you write the Harry Potter Books?

    Just like Kings Cross it is, swipe me guvnor.

  3. That was some Labour Ho trash, Cato.

  4. Superb. Just the job for a wet Saturday morning. :)

  5. It all sounds so plausible, OR!

  6. That's Fabulous! Had me in hysterics! :-)