What a week, eh? Stuff happening everywhere. Big stuff. And none more big than the 126th Conservative Party Conference, held Monday through Thursday in, of all places, Manchester. And to a packed house of 12,500 evangelical free-marketeers, i’ll have you know. Wow. The G-Mex hasn’t played host to that many loping dickheads since Madchester’s seminal gathering back in March 1990.
Slightly fewer pills, slightly more pearls this time round, but epoch-defining nonetheless, as the entire United Kingdom bore witness to David Cameron’s absurdly small mouth almost saying something tangible and definitive for once. Almost. Not quite, though.
Unable to form the words himself, he was forced to speak remotely through his George Osborne-shaped 'secondmouth', unveiling plans to free our great nation from some £700 trillion-worth of crippling debt simply by nudging the pensionable age back to 3 days after you die, coupled cunningly with a new lottery-funded game show centred around a nationwide Herod-style baby cull, to be hosted by a revolving hologram of Jan Leeming’s disengorged uterus. These ground-breaking plans fell awkwardly out of Osborne’s face at the party's annual all-singing, all-drowning cavalcade of nu-nazi showboating, inspiring a 14-hour standing ovation from an enthralled audience of incognito war criminals and mad old women.
Punctuating each phrase with a nervous, approval-seeking glance toward Cameron (his Lord Vader), Osborne (real name: Gideon. Yes, Gideon) spoke with the effortless, stage-bound fluidity of a man whose wife and two children were being held hostage by a Tutsi warlord. Mainly because they were. See, that’s how the C-dogg rolls – say exactly what i want you to say or i’ll slay your family. Then, when you do as i asked, i’ll slay them anyway. Admirable dedication to the task in hand: a trait one needs if your intentions are to rise to the very top, no matter what. Even more important if, like him, you were cruelly handicapped from life’s outset...
Poor little rich boy Dave. Born at the age of 32 into sickening privilege but with no discernible mouth parts, he fell under the auspices of a maverick Swiss surgeon who took pity on him and grafted an unusually tight gecko’s arse where any normal human being would have the good sense to grow a gob, thus handing our hero a new lease of lies and finally gifting him the chance to talk forever without actually saying anything. Sadly, the arse was barely fit for purpose, and as David’s face grew fatter, the arse grew more taught, till one day its puckered aperture all but sealed up completely, allowing only a strangulated upper-crust drone to squirt from his ridiculous plumped cushion of a head.
Which is why today, after centuries honing his skills in the netherworld, this ageless voivode of the undead, this fleshly exegesis of purest fucking evil has finally emerged horns-first from the dirt, a master in the art of mind control, and now works his minions like a hook-handed puppet master, standing dead-eyed in front of a giant backdrop with the word "CHANGE" emblazoned across it "because it worked a treat for that black yank", while Osborne and various other identikit fartclouds hiss their way through whatever scripted dishwater that sick son-of-a-succubus telepathically dictates to them.
Running is futile, Britain. It’s already too late.