Being Great doesn’t always mean being Good

An amusing anecdote came my way yesterday about the ghastly John Bercow’s ‘election’ last year in Buckinghamshire. Speaking at some village hall 48 hours prior to the Big Day, one of the 458 candidates opposing the man now known as The Speaker brought his comments to a close. Having pressed the flesh vigorously, the wannabe MP was about to take his leave when a charming old lady came up, shook his hand, and told him that – on the basis of his remarks – he was far and away the best candidate for both Bucks and the Country.

“Thank you so much,” said the aspiring legislator, “So I can count on your vote then?” The lady’s face darkened.

“Oh no,” she said, “I shall be voting for John Bercow.”

“Oh,” he replied, “Why’s that”.

“I’m his mother,” said the old dear with a wink, and turned on her heel.

Official: Bercow’s mother remains loyal to him.

———————————————–

Such a sadness to see my old friend and Tooting travelling companion Lord Tim-Bell of Twonoses caught representing the Bad and the Ugly once again. While I know as well as the next corrupted man how much better they pay than the Good, it still pains me to see another great Thatcher favourite being dragged through the poo. There is, after all, no greater shame for a man schooled in the black arts of publicity avoidance than to be dumped in the brown arse substance in so avoidably public a manner.

Let he who has trended on Twitter find a corner darker yet, from which to plot his revenge. And in the meantime, let us all wonder what on earth ever happened to that distant police report from the 1980s on the subject of tall men with houses overlooking North London standing proud before upper-storey windows.

———————————————-

In amongst the villains, there are always the heroes. And anyone who has suffered the Devon Thing must, by definition, be a hero. For as the gunk in the conk is equal to twice the bung in the lung, so too must the blows of the nose discomnambulate the gears of the ears.

The truly Satanic nature of the Thing is that, when one lies down to sleep and inhales ready for sleep, a sort of crackly Devils’ chorus comes up from the breathing apparatus. When this becomes tiresome, attempting evacuation of the schnozzle produces an effect like inflating a Montgolfier balloon in the lugholes.

I doubt if there has been a flu virus like this one since 1919, but would you know from MSM articles? You wouldn’t. All we see is the usual space-filling bollocks about how eating more than three portions of broccoli a day can lead to cancer of the timpanic membrane among rats.

It simply won’t do.