It can’t of been missed that here in the UK recently we had a General Election. For those not familiar with the what one is the basic description of one is as follows: A General Election is when politicians pretend to listen to the public (also at this time known as the voter or gullible) in exchange for the public pretending to give a dam about the lies told to them by the said politician. But it doesn’t stop there because it also requires the public to also suspend their disbelief and start to believe that their vote actually counts, and that we have a democratic process. When in fact it doesn’t matter who you voted for, the politicians are all the same and just out to claw and clamour their way to power at anyone's expense while lining their own pockets at our expense.
It was interesting to hear the results come in during the night. Especially when it was obvious that the UK public had finally seen sense and rejected Gordon Brown (my arch enemy).
But Gordon and Labour being so thick skinned and evil, and using some reality distortion field, seemed to be under the impression that the voter hadn’t just delivered a great big kick in the bollux to them.
Well as Brown tried every last trick to cling to the power he so much craved and needed (he is a power sucking incubus you know), it was obvious to us all he was not just a wounded animal that needed putting out of his misery (it needed doing with extreme prejudice and as messily and violent as possible, nothing humane about it), I started to celebrate the downfall of my deadliest arch foe ever.
As documented elsewhere on this blog, Brown and I had been embraced in a deadly battle. A battle he had been winning. Well he would, he had the whole of the British Government behind him. If this had been a boxing match, I think we would of said that before the election I was on the mat, struggling to get up after repeatedly receiving knock out blows, my face covered in cuts and blood, eyes barely open from the constant barrage of punches to the face. Then when the ref wasn’t looking Brown would put the boot in to while I was on the floor.
It was close, real close, Brown had nearly defeated me for good.
Then as I watched the British (so called) Democratic Process finally manage to loosen Brown’s vice like grip on the door frame at Number 10, so that he could be dragged kicking and screaming out in to the street, my celebrations went up several levels.
My own reality field started to distort, suddenly the tv images of Brown leaving Number 10 melted in to the Wizard of Oz. Number 10 was now on top of Brown, with only his feet showing. The Press where singing Ding Dong! Brown is Dead. But we still had the problem of getting the red size 10’s off Browns dead feet. Bud my three legged dog was Toto.
And that is basically all I remember until about last Thursday. I’ve been on one hell of a celebratory bender. Imagine like The Hangover (it’s a funny movie go rent it) but going on for a lot longer and not in Las Vegas.
I’m still trying to patch things together. But I think I’ve been married and divorced three times, done every depraved sexual act possible with several women of questionable virtues, consumed enough alcohol and drugs to keep Keith Richards going for an afternoon (yep that’s a hell of a lot), somehow get the number one spot on Interpol and the FBI’s most wanted list, and I think I’m not sure of, lived my fantasy of Heather Graham and Angelina Jolie together with me. But I can’t definitely be sure of that last one, they claimed that was their real names.
So as I try and piece to together the last few days and make sense of this brave new world, I will have to see how the Witch of the East aka Cameron and his side kick the Wizard aka Clegg handle the rebuild of Oz and all the damage that the Wicked Brown has done. I just pray they don’t decide to pick up where Brown left off, the bruises haven’t healed yet.
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