Whacky Jacqui

Most political pundits seem farly sure that the inevitable General Election will happen in May 2010, yet it now seems increasingly unlikely that the nation's top Thought Policewoman Jacqui "Tax-Thief" Smith will still be in her present job at that time. In her time as Home Secretary, Jacqui, who increasingly comes across like an amphetamine-addled version of Grange Hill's Mrs McClusky, has managed not only to engineer an entire host of twat-brained fuck-ups, but also has (so far) managed to avoid the inevitable plunging return to the back benches.

Seemingly spurred on by her looming downfall Ms Smith, who has the dubious honour of having the lowest parliamentary majority of the entire cabinet, has been hurriedly rushing her insipid plans to further drag the country into a nightmare state the likes of which even Orwell would have dismissed as over the top. Her latest frantic bid for attention is the excruciatingly ridiculous idea that we should pay for ID cards, and that we can handily pop into our local post office (so long as we live in an area that still has one) to hand over fingerprints and biometric information to a government that has proved time and time again that is has about as much control over Data Protection as an aged incontinent sheepdog has over its bowels.

It has now become a daily game for me: Every morning I turn on the news, wondering whether today will be the day that "Inactivity" Brown finally decrees that her fuck-wittery has gone on long enough and asks for her resignation, a document that even the turgidly slow Ms Smith must surely have prepared months ago. Every time she is asked for an opinion, on the reclassification of narcotics that she freely admits to having partaken of herself; on the heavy-handed brutalism of the police force; on whether or not she is running a huge scam by billing the taxpayer for everything from her "second" home to her husbands onanistic entertainments, she must be pinching herself to make sure that she isn't dreaming. Can it really be that despite her laundry list of balls-ups, she still hasn't been forced to resign? From the look on her potatoey face, she can barely believe it herself.

Much was made of her husband's idiocy at charging her expense account for a couple of second-rate porn movies, yet nobody asked the vital question: What kind of ridiculous dickwad, who is paid £40,000 a year to act as Smith's own constituency office manager, has not yet realised that in the 21st Century it is no longer necessary to pay for porn? You'd think, seeing as Jacqui so desperately wants to read everybody's emails, she'd have stumbled across the concept of the internet, and maybe mentioned it to her wanker of a husband.

Will she have to resign before her inevitable defeat at the next election? Or are we doomed to another 12 months of childish mistakes and grouch-faced excuse making from the fucktarded Member for Redditch? It reminds me of the old quandary about Humpty-Dumpty, who she increasingly resembles: Did he jump or was he pushed? The answer: Who cares, as long as she fucks off and stops pissing about with our civil liberties. Cunt.

Brownian Motion

Aaah, the death throes of a government. Such blissful music to one's ears. Well, we should enjoy it as much as we can before the inevitable panic sets in. You know the panic I mean: the nauseating, gut-numbing sensation that strikes like a dose of some particularly nasty and virulent form of influenza as you realise the kind of options that we, as a country, have lined up to replace him. Hmm, what a selection: Tory-boy Cameron, he of the corporate-sponsored trips to apartheid South Africa and the inability to properly secure his bicycle, or the Lib Dems latest offering, Nick Clegg, who seems to have slept his way to the top of the shortest of political shitheaps. Whatever happens when Gordon eventually deems the time is right to call a General Election, be sure that we will be just as royally buggered (by a butler probably) as we are now.

But that isn't my real problem. My real problem is that I have a perfectly servicable Journalism degree, yet am languishing in dole-queue hell whilst Our Leader is obviously desperately in need of someone with at least a half-ounce of media savvy to point out that posing for photo-shoots in front of the most instantly recognizable symbol of evil in the world is maybe not an amazing idea. Instead of forking out for Special Advisors to leak rumours and send smear emails, Gordon would be better off splurging on a brain-dead monkey, who despite its awful and debilitating condition, would still be able to drag the PM away from the rather obvious BIG FUCKING SWASTIKA that he decided to pose in front of. And maybe to slap that stupid grin off his face.

Big Gord's obviously been told recently to smile more, presumably to counteract the grim predicament the nation's finances are in, but instead of offering reassurance to the populace in times of trouble, all it does it make him look like a syphilitic tramp who's just managed to pass wind for the first time in twenty years.

We used to complain that we were importing personality politics from the States, but in true Brit fashion, we now seem to have turned that into Lack of Personality politics. Blair may have been a compulsively lying Thatcherite sack of shit, but at least he could smile on cue.