john bright MP said... Why visit Guido

john bright MP said...

It's the modesty I come for, it's what I like, that and the spelling. And the sixth-form monetarist solutions to every global problem; how, if only you don't tax rich people so much the North Pole will re-freeze overnight, only not on Mars, which is also getting hotter, even though Mars is a tax-free zone.

Maybe all the hard-done-by bankers could take their bonuses and with Lord Branson's help, go and live on Mars, do what they do, create wealth out of thin air, or even no air at all, for the rest of us to enjoy, if not quite as much as them.

Until we make things better for the rich, then, seems to be the thrust, we are failing miserably, even though it was Lord Branson himself who said that if he can't have Northern Rock we must, and did, pay him large amounts in compensation. The beardy cunt. But one swallow, as Mr Mark Oaten, still an MP, will affirm, does not a summer make; much has been done for the rich but much remains to be done and that they pay any tax at all is, as some here point out, nothing short of a national scandal; worse than MRSA, worse than Iraq; sharper than a serpent's tooth is some greedy fucking bastard paying a penny in tax, especially when there's all these fucking immigrants clogging-up the place - only not the Russian gangsters, of course, or non-doms as they are known for non tax-paying purposes.

Maybe if they are too stupid to relocate to Mars they could all bugger off to the Emerald Isle and take their shit, make-believe businesses with them. Paddy's too drunk, too fucking stupid to know the difference, still entranced and disbelieving that Europe is giving his bog-trotting, horse-drawn, gipsy economy so much money in order to con him into joining the Fourth Reich, with that nice Mr Mandelson and his live-in ladyman, Raymundo de los Tory Rent Boys y now NewLabour, buggering one another round the capitals of Europe, in armour-plated Mercs, at my expense. Does Mr Mandelson pay tax; I do hope not, he's rich enough to not pay any, and like all the rich, an idle fucking useless complaining bastard.

But best of all here, beyond the sympathy for the rich, is the lively contribution from those North of the border, as they limp, drunkenly, towards consciousness. That's the best bit.


ps That Melanie Phillips, she's as mad as a fucking hatter and yet... and yet there are hundreds of people who say: Well said, Mel, you should be PM; couldn't have put it better; Spot-on, as usual, Mel. Simon Heffer, probably the same people say the same thing about that vengeful, embittered little turd. Spot on as usual, Simon; Well said Mr Heffer, if only you were PM. World's gone fucking mad, that's what I think; all this blogging. Some fucking nutter in Angola thinks stanislav, the young Polish plumber, should be prime minister. Where will it all end, that's what I want to know.

Looked in Viz magazine for some sanity and found they are advertising a urinal-installed cock-drying machine, like a hand drier but with jets of warm air at 400mph, drying the recently used member and thus avoiding those embarrassing stains in the trouser crotch area and the attendant lame excuses - tap splashed me, no, spilled my drink, before I went for a slash and, worst of all, removing the trousers and holding them in front of the hand-drier to the amused consternation of other drunken urinators, before going back out to the lounge of the Shoplifters Arms and so on - it's all very well, but just suppose Mr Simon Hughes had used the cock-drier before you or Mr Kneepads White. In any event, it isn't just the crotch area that is vulnerable to these damp, post-urination patches, sometimes with the individual bowl arrangement, rather than the wall-length trough, some of the infernal stuff bounces back and soaks the entire region from mid thigh to ankle, thus making one question why one did not simply piss where one was sitting in the first place, at least some of the piss would run out through the seat cushion, onto the carpet, leaving at least a portion of one's trousers looking vaguely respectable; or, if standing, up against the bar, just piss into one's neighbour's pocket, like a Birmingham City fan does, or into their laptop or handbag. Probably the safest thing would be to just live with the urine stains all down the trousers, like Jock does.

It is unquestionably a problem, for waving one's member about to dry it off, as formerly, is often seen these days as an application to join the Liberal Democrat Party or for employment within the BBC, or on the Times, alongside Mr Matthew Dreary, famed for his simpering homilies but Viz magazine's Urinal Team should refocus, brilliant as it may sound the facility of sticking one's dick in a communal hot air tunnel, aside from the hygiene and health and safety concerns, might, by compulsive masturbators, like the prime minister of the United Kingdom, be put to Devilish purpose, innocent toilet-goers might go in the little boys' room only to encounter the first lord of the treasury almost welded to the apparatus, gulping his infamous dry-wank, jaw-drop gulp as he labours, among the curry-laced odours of excrement from the cubicles, aided, he hopes, by the four hundred mile an hour warm air blasting around his shrivelled member, thumping his life-of-it's-own claw on the top of the machine, to ejaculate even a nano-litre of rancid Scotch semen, after his last, routine, ghastly spluttering, spasming humiliation before the nation and the world has removed from him, entirely, the will to live. The pubs are bad enough; suicide by masturbation is a spectacle too far, even for Witherspoons.

Viz magazine so often trails these ill-thought-out products that one wonders if it's product development section is staffed by Irishmen.

June 2, 2008 4:50 PM