Fly, My Pretties!

Brace yourselves, ladies and gentleman, for a gruelling six weeks or so of rolled up sleeves, dishevelled ties, hollow promises and unrivalled sycophancy: the 2010 election has reared its filthy head. For the class- conscious and unintelligent, this will of course be a wonderful time to peddle the wheelbarrow of lies known commonly as a ‘Tory Manifesto', which, although devoid of policies, is bound to delight the pants off the fat cats, as they wobble precariously on large piles of cartoon gold.



Alternatively, you could of course vote with your feet and give Father Bear another five years in office, although this too is not without its setbacks. He might be fully qualified to handle the financial crisis, or whatever the fear- mongers are calling it these days, but –good heavens – imagine the mudslinging and libel that would fill the Tory newspapers – as if staring the Daily Mail in the face each time you walk into a shop isn’t bad enough as it is. Oh, the gurgling putrescent horror.


Of course, if one is more partial to sitting on the fence and perhaps even stimulating that elusive G-spot in the process (which scientists, by the way tell us, doesn’t exist) one may find oneself putting a cross in the Lib Dem box – this is a wonderful idea if their promises to legalize drugs, stop taxing the poor and cease violating the lowest earners from behind rings true – but as I’m sure we’re all aware, the Lib Dem party is a little bit like an Indy kid – he’s pleasant to look and, he’s like sooo alternative, but other than that he’s basically nothing more than a fucking ornament.


In fact, just for the lulz, why not vote in the BNP? It doesn’t seem to have occurred to them yet that their policies neither make logical sense nor take into account pesky human rights legislation, who could deny that should they win a majority, excellent comedy will ensue? But of course, you must vote- really you must! Don’t go missing out on your slice of democracy, young lady/old chap, this is an opportunity to sit on.


They might be a bunch of bespectacled, top buttoned lunatics but these old fools are all going to do us a rather large favour – or so we’re told. Oh, and they’re all soooo different from each you know, just completely like, homogeneous and stuff. Oh, bollocks. Freudian Slip.