What’s your favourite type of monger?
Picture him:
Swooping down from the sky astride a yellowing American Eagle, the political shitehawk persuades his steed to loosen one of its talons. Spat. Spat. Spat. The dead children land outside the door of the Labour HQ in a conveniently forgettable pile of collateral damage statistics.
“Middle Eastern Peace Envoyyyyy,” the shameless smug jug-eared deceitful bad penny of inexplicable triple electoral success and utter disappointment spews into the air.
The Eagle rounds the corner, wings beating frantically like the heart of the NHS trying desperately to survive, to pump it’s funds round its veins whilst PFI contracts stick to it like a medieval leech cure.
“Work to the contract, the lifts will be fixed next weeeeek,” he shrieks, as he descends on a school playing field, sorry, no that’s too implausible because there fucking well aren’t any anymore, no; he descends on a school astroturf and, guess what, that fucking thing is PFI as well and is being rented out to corporate 5-aside football wankers with grog for afters, that Tony picked up from Waitrose, whilst people in the community have no spaces for their sports clubs any more.
“Corbyn is unelectable, not like me, mee, meeeee,” he caws, before arcing back into the sky. “I will return! I’m not the Prime Minster you wanted, but I’m the one you deserved.”
“Higher, higher, Dubya my favourite Eagle. Rupert, be the wind under our wings, get me and my Bush into the Sun.”
Herald Legal Team advise: this article is not about Tony Blair, who is not riding an eagle and has his feet firmly on the ground. In Venezuela.
Chilcot recommends that Blair sit on ‘naughty step’ for Iraq war mistakes…
