Posh Twat

Admit it – just from the title, you knew this was about David Cameron, didn’t you? Even without knowledge of my deep-seated, absolute hatred of the man, you will have read the title and his would have been the first name to pop into your mind.

How do I know this? Am I psychic?

Well; no, is the honest answer. It’s a simple matter of universal truths really. David Cameron is posh, and he’s a twat; so if somebody puts those two words together, his face is going to pop into your head quicker than a fat aunty running at a wedding buffet.

Even his name – David William Donald Cameron – cries out, “I’m a silver-spooned posh bastard. I’m better than you; and that’s all you plebs need to know. Now lick the shit off my shoes and be off with you before I get the Naughty Paddle.”

He really has got one of those faces just made for punching. It’s perfect; and it’s even the right shape to allow maximum contact between fist and face. That jogger missed a trick when he ran into him and just pushed him out of the way. He should have nutted the smarmy bastard.

The utter nob, even now, still tries to make out he’s just “a normal guy”, and a man of the people. His dad, Ian Donald Cameron, was a stockbroker; mine was an electrician. His mom was the daughter of a baronet; mine spent her days lying on her bed in her nightie, scratching her arse while she watched television and ate Jacobs’ Cream Crackers. So, how dare he compare himself to me?

David went to an independent school whose alumni included Princes Andrew and Edward. I went to a school where the cloakroom always stank of piss, and if you could actually identify that day’s dinner they gave you a certificate and suggested you take up forensic science in later life since even the grumpy old buggers who served it didn’t know what it was.

In many desperate attempts to look normal, he has had himself photographed on public transport; or in a departure lounge with his wife, Samantha. Strangely, both – usually crushed with people – were conspicuously empty. You just knew he had an entire entourage behind the camera who had arranged a thorough clean of the seats and who burned his clothes afterwards. Public transport for us normal folk involves taking your life into your own hands. There are gangs on our buses, who will attack you if they even think you might have glanced in their direction. There are old women who stink of piss on our buses, and they always sit next to you. The same with the shit-smelling drunks who spill their cheap beer on you as they drop onto their seat, then spend the rest of the journey talking loudly and incoherently at you and spraying you with a mixture of saliva and cheap booze.

Anyway; I almost forgot why I started writing this. It’s because I read today that Cameron is saying there will be “chaos” if the country changes economic direction. As if it wasn’t chaos already, with public services stretched beyond reasonable limits and a welfare system in crisis thanks to the bumbling, vengeful, spiteful little bastard that is Iain Duncan Smith and his nasty little war against all those masses who wouldn’t take him seriously as the leader of the Conservative Party and who wouldn’t vote for him.

Cameron has his eyes fixed solidly on the General Election in May. He wants a second term in office, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he resorted to anything to get it. I wouldn’t put it past him to try to change the law, citing that he needs to stay in power until the economic system is fixed, and thus puts back the election while all the time telling us that it’s us who are in control and who have the power.

Just as I did in 2010, I implore the people of Britain to go out and vote. And when you do, then vote for anybody; even the Monster Raving Loonys; but for the love of God, please don’t vote for the Tories or Lib-Dems.