No quieres caldo?
My politics are not popular. We knew that. Still, the more they are disliked, the more the p’litical stuff bubbles out. Preverse, I call it… So, have the latest batch. Fishy shenanigans. Decisions, decisions… The story so far. 1. The button. I don’t know what the button does. 2. The Tadpoles. Well…Tadpoles will be Tadpoles, that’s a well-known fact. 3. The helpful small fish. His whole extremely large extended family was wiped out a few years gone in the Gulf of Mexico courtesy of BP’s little accident. His name is Leonardo. And that’s all I can reveal, honest. They never tell me anything… 🙁
The Scrounger. Creep Cameron was in Brussels, prattling away with his forked tongue, boring everyone to distraction. With one tongue he raved against foreign-imposed limitations on our sovereignty. With the other he has just sold the country down the murky river of the power of the Multimafionals to sue the pants of anyone impertinent enough to demand they pay taxes. And the NHS to Simon Stevens. Back at the home Chicken Ranch, the Farrago Fright and sundry large cattle of that ilk (most of Laughbour included), also rant against foreign powers European (but not Transatlantic) in particular and foreigners in general. The small fry bleat away the Daily Mail Mantras or the Guardian’s Party Line, according to preferred diet. Nobody mentions (if they know at all what it is) the secretly conceived, developed, discussed and soon to be passed TTIP. Everybody thinks we should bomb another “middle eastern” country. Possibly flatten it to kingdom come, so we can stop once and for all this horrid stream of ghastly migrants hell bent on swamping our green and pleasant land with the sole aim of assaulting our women and making away with all the council housing, hip operations and orange juice. Shoggoths very seldom weep, just in case anyone was wondering.