Such a prescient, beautiful sentiment.

Wednesday, 9 June 2010

Snotty's lament!

As The Sun Goes Down.

"What a long, long month. I know dragging the sprog down The Street, hobbled after by the Milch Frau, was a bit indulgent but sod it, my one last throw at getting sympathy. Now this eerie and barren wilderness. OK, the gun toting protection bobby still hovers in the background but you can see he's forgotten who I was already. Is this the case everywhere? I get not one phone call, not one, to endorse a successor to the tattered and rancid Labour Crown. The IMF have not called. Obama sent a note in Hawaiian, well I think that's what it was. Apparently it said something akin to happy hobbing. A mystery and he didn't even wish me luck. As for that G20 crowd. Salivating over young George before I changed my first nappy when I got home. Then there is this place." He looked around the old air raid shelter that had nestled under the sod for so many years. To compare it with the bunker he had so lovingly embraced for over two years, was just impossible. It was damp, mouldy and stank of urine that had not been contained with the finest cotton Terry towelling had to offer. Light came in through the cracked timbers of the ancient door and a constant drip, drip of endless water drops was frightening.
"I still feel a sense of hair shirt comfort" he mused, before the depression again washed over him.
"I just cannot face a mirror. I have no desire to mount my Dobbin or even clothe myself in the comfort of my nappies. Besides I have no butler, no sycophants, nothing." His head drooped further, the cloth dangled from his hands and he sighed the sigh of a broken man. Only one thought began to stir him. The leadership race would end, for the victor, in a place just like this. He finished disrobing, bound the nappy around himself and leapt onto the disheveled toy in the corner and rocked and rocked and rocked until he could rock no more, plunging to the ground with a massive, self-pitying sob of realisation. He was utterly forgotten.


  1. Then, a sound from without; a shuffling slithering sound heralding an unspoken terror. He watched in paralyzed horror as the door creaked open. Could it be that the Grim Reaper had come for his soul so early? This wasn't fair - he had sacrificed so much and hadn't had a chance to cash in on the years of fucking up Britain for the good of the Faceless Ones; no self-hugging moments of glee as the hated Tories tried to clear up the acres of shit left behind. A shadow flitted into the room, cowled and awesome in its stench of misery. His jaw dropped open and closed, open and closed, open and closed as he gulped in wordless spasms of fear. The figure threw back its hood and spoke, the familiar silken tones striking appalled recognition into his blackened soul,
    "Come along Wretch - it is time to pay". It had come to this - he stumbled after the vampire form of the Ipsissimus Mandelson and his soul groaned in the dark.

    Apart from that he was having a wonderful day.

  2. Caratacus, you shame me with your more excellent prose, Sir!

  3. Now Snotty has gone, who is your next victim OH?

    This Cabinet is not half as entertaining and amusing as the last lot we had. Between Bliar, Brown, Mandelbum, the eyebrow twins, two jags, the harpie and Jacqui, we have run out of ammunition!

    Let's hope the current lot actually have personalities :)

  4. OR - I cough modestly and shuffle in embarrassment in the light of your undeserved praise.

    Sue - give it time. I have a feeling we are going to have some fun here as the little ones get used to the swings and roundabouts in the playground. Of course they are being good and trying to behave themselves, they have only just arrived. Once they start feeling their feet and showing off we can look forward to conkers in the eye, squabbles about whose turn it is on the climbing frame and tears before bedtime. Whoops! there goes that swot Gove. Has matron seen that tummy? Not a stranger to the biscuit barrel, are we Michael?

  5. I, too, await a natural target to appear. My leanings are towards a hope that Testicles gets the Labour leadership. My feeling is that Millipede Banana will be the Snake shoe in, however. Now both Millipedes are very much natural targets as Wallace and Gromit.

  6. Testicles or Flabbott would be brilliant, OR, but, like you, I have an awful feeling it's going to be one of the boring and gormless Millipedes.

  7. Did you hear Tony Benn endorsing Millipede the Younger on the radio the other day? Not quite sure whether he knew what the question was because the batteries in his hearing trumpet were obviously failing. However, if Viscount Stansgate is cheering on a particular participant I think we can confidently count him out. It must be obvious even to the most dyed-in-the-wool Labour thicko that Ms Abbot would be a laughing stock as she trundles purposefully and ridiculously about the corridors of Westminster, scraping the walls on each side. So it is down to Millipede the Elder or Testicles. The former will never escape the banana picture and his description by one MP as a "pillock on his gap year", so we must turn our attention to the latter. Do I hear a sigh of gratitude from the Tory ranks? Thought so. Mind you, that sigh will follow whichever of these arses become leader.

  8. I think we all agree that Labour will get who their shadowy controllers decide they will. Ergo, Miliband Banana. As said above, Testicles would be every bit as good as his Snotty mentor but my next post will be about my blogging future!!

  9. BS, Diane Flabbot, love it. Flab-Bot!!

  10. "He was utterly forgotten."

    Lovely job.