Elections General Election 2024 Labour Left Politics Neoliberalism Prick Knobinson Satire Tory Party Ungagged Writing Westminster

The Candidate

by Prick Knobinson

Scandals nowadays are boring. I mean, in the good old days, Labour Party scandals were all about receiving brown envelopes. Tories were also using brown envelopes, but pushing them in the other direction in order to cover up some perversion with a Soviet spy or some Lord Fondleboy in a punt. I’ve never had any brown envelope passed to me or leave my hands that may incriminate me, other than unpaid gas bills, for which I am tomorrow making another appearance in court and may well be detained at second cousin Charles pleasure- my first at his. His mother detained me often back in the day after my scandals seemed to engulf me as I found myself unwinding in some gutter, days after I’d entered Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, with no recollection of what had went on in between.

Oh for my younger days when my editor wrote to me in order to help me fill in some detail as to my whereabouts between May 1979 and August 1982. To cut a long story very short, my daily life seemed to be one of working very hard to make the pages of Private Eye and the beds of every other bunny that made the pages of Sporting Life, Taki’s The Spectator column, page three of the Sun and Hansard.

Look, I’m trying to get on to the Tory Leaders (plural) scandals that have taken the imagination of the mildly interested voter. If one needed proof of the stupidity of the Conservative and Unionist party members and voters beyond the election of, well,  a parade of idiots as PM since 2010, then surely Scottish Tory leader Douglas’s Ross is just that.

Little Douglas, only last week, was on the floor of Holyrood opining on what he felt was a more apt punishment for misappropriation of parliamentary expenses other than paying them back and suspension from the prestigious halls of Scottish democracy.

And today, after his gerrymandering of a sick man’s seat, his team touted on HIS misappropriation of travel expenses to accommodate his job as a ballboy, or whatever honorific the sport of Scottish football bestows upon his thirty thousand pounds per annum remuneration. Translated from Arabic, a person of middle Eastern origin might say, “One Minute life is in your hands, the next minute it’s up your arse.” Only the future Sir Douglas of Ross has had both hands and his head up his rear end for most of his political life.

As for Sunak snubbing our DDay heroes, well, I think Old Private Campbell of Bridgeton probably wasn’t that interested in the blighter as he wiped his tears from his eyes as he remembered his fallen heroes. He’s more likely, like most of us, hoping that Sunak fucks off into Californian obscurity  as he worries if his care home will go bust and pap him out with a couple of old jumpers and a stray dog to sleep in a cardboard box.

The above were hastily written notes for a new videogram on the You Tube, but alas I’ve been stricken by a disease of the cock. I’m not sure what it is, but yesterday while holding court in my usual seat at the deep end of the bar in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, beside the toilet door -at a certain age, that is a must-, my Doctor walked in. I asked him to accompany me to the toilets to have a look at my penis as it wasn’t its usual colour. I whipped it out, and he took a long look down through the bottom of his very thick glasses and said, “That’s interesting.” I had to tell him it had in the past been in many interesting places. He replied that the tan – or how ever you could describe its colour- was nothing to do with where it had been in my days of yore, but much more likely the result of the constriction of blood carrying vessels as they gave up the alcohol I so generously share with my surviving extremities (luckily parts of the rest of my body still carry it moderately well). Anyway, I ended up in A&E with a bunch of student doctors prodding my pretty prone old chap and then the inevitable photo for the Unusual Lurgy section of the BMJ.  I lie here in a ward with all sorts of (literally) bloody tubes poking into and out of my cock. I’ve never seen that horror movie with the iconic picture house poster of a man with needles poking out of his face and head, but old Willie here looks pretty much as I imagine that Hellraiser’s old chap must look, though no longer raising hell; rather, feeling like it’s burning in hell.

I see young Sunak has been moaning about his miserably rich childhood sans-Sky TV. My public school days were also miserable.  I had to do with the aid of a small Venus DeMilo, decapitated and quartered by some early ignorant Christian zealot, for my early orgasms. Until grand-mama came up with the goods and after kicking the bucket, left me an allowance I learned to spend in the pulchritudinous Eros, the profligate Soho- that chocolate box of sensuous ardour and mystical, hazy evenings of jazz and voluptuous delights. Not enough to fuck off to Bangkok’s delights- but enough to do some hard work and research in the French bar, the Colony Rooms, the betting shops and some of the most interesting bedsits my cock has hellraised. Sacrifices, scandal, hard work, scandal, and sometimes good geegee money was made, along with scandal. I expect this is the level of hardship -and scandal- Sunak aspires to in order to identify with the Blackpool, Wokingham, austerity struck electorate and interesting Lord Profumo like REAL headline instead of the “you missed the photo op with the other murdering bastards pretending to give a shit about victims of war” thing he’s wrapped up in at present.

What an election! If there is even one Tory and a Faragian elected into the hallowed halls, then what a fucking self-face-punching shower we are.

I’m apparently found on Twitter @prick_knobinson and sitting here at the bar of Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, on Fleet Street.

I’ve asked the nurse to fetch me my good friend Wearherall, who will of course sneak in some medicinal Ryst Dupeyron Armagnac, 1974. Chin chin.

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