Francisco Garcia's Westminster Whispers

Westminster is a mmmmmurky place. Crammed with secrets, witness to centuries of shady deals and unsavoury compromise. Ideals are crushed. Lofty purpose is consumed by cruel necessity. Our fine journalists have been corrupted into a simpering hackocracy. Truth and honour are all too rare. Yet occasionally there emerges from the squalor someone ready to pour the thick bleach of truth down the damp crevices and blocked pipes where the powerful squat. And the results can be as explosive as you might predict.

The baggy trousered, allotment sniffing, marrow quaffing, Venezuela loving, java bean appreciating, falafel stroking, flexi-bike perching, pram thieving, grime jiving, moderate alienating, JK Rowling peeving, jaunty old ba*tard has only gone and done it again.

And by "done it again" you know exactly what I mean, you green fingered oaf. You snow bearded buffoon. What's the matter comrade, truth not computing? No comprende my doddering little friendy? Well allow me to lay it out in terms that even your courgette addled mind can appreciate…

This is silly season, son, respect that or pi*s off back to your yobbo winerys and chic Islington tapas sheds. Get back in your corner and shove your soapbox up your a*se 'cos that shit doesn't fly doon 'ere Comrade… not a chuffing bit.

And if you don't cease and desist… there's a swollen pasty in my pocket just aching for a gob to be stuffed in. Don't make me rise up the Ginsters and do something we're all gonna regret in the morning. Ouch!

When I first saw people calling Mrs May "Maybot", I'll fess up… the roaring you heard from SE15 wasn't that of appreciation at another of Meat Liquors heavenly patty hybrids… it was actually laughter, by me!

But mirth is the cousin of despair… and I've seen more than my fair share of both. After a few minutes of guffawing I fell silent and finally, to tears. You beasts, you animals, you jackals. "This is Mummy 2.0!" I screamed into my duvet… "you swine, you bounders… you rotten, dirty mudbl*ods". My cheeks burned as if stung by the lash of Hagrid's umbrella and I wanted to do something, anything, to avenge this cruel and unusual banter from the press' cruelest wits.

To talk of a PM as a figure of fun, as a common robot, an automaton… what do they teach these grammar school dons, I pondered. A curriculum mastering in disrespect, it seems aha. These hounds could do with a Flitwick remedial session in the charms of common decency and gentle good sense, I reasoned. If deference to Mummy (oh do get over it you absurd little people) be the food of life… Eton I say…. Skiiiiiiiiiirttttt!

But oh where are my manners… Mrs May… meet Madame Tussaud. She's been expecting you. No Theresa, honestly… it's the least I could do.

:)

Yeah broski… we've all had a few blasts of the oregano dream stick. So let's loosen up shall we. Politics is like a game of chess… it's hard but absolutely tremendous fun too. Sure, we bust some b*lls, bang some heads and ride our Firebolts past the speed limit… but that's the life we chose yana.

But sometimes it's nice to just kick back, chill out and let the art do the talking. And no art talks as loudly as the poetry of the soul, that is to say… the poetry I've just written about a very great man talking about a very nasty service, that is to say… the dickw*ds over at the Ministry for Magically Managing to Duff Everything Up.

Tony is great
A Griffindor too.
If any of you obstructionist pricks in the Cabinet Office don't remove the rods from your b*ttys
Then I'll crucio you.

Capiche!

:)