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An extremely colourful rant that was commissioned by a London magazine and website

After the spending review, Guy Fawkes had the right idea,
by The Demon Blogger of Fleet Street

In my mind I can see David Cameron and George Osborne reading George Orwell’ s prophetic classic 1984 and laughing maniacally, like petrol-huffing retards, when they come to the line, “ If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face – forever.”

“ Our boots! Our boots! Our boots!” Cameron and Osborne chant, gleefully high-fiving.

When the details of the government’ s Spending Review were divulged to Lady Thatcher, on Tuesday, the former Prime Minister got so excited she managed to pop a hard-on (sans Viagra) for the first time in donkey years. So excited was Thatcher that she decided to celebrate by giving her Cuban pool-boy, Pedro, the kind of Rasputinian ass-thrashing she hasn’ t administered since the glory days of the Falklands War, then scurrying down the pub to knock back a half dozen pints before rushing up to Highgate Cemetery and pissing all over Karl Marx’ s grave.

Alas for Thatcher’ s poor, deprived Pedro, when the old battleship attempted to get out of her wheelchair to begin the hunt, she fell on the floor, face first, and broke her dick. Thatcher is now recovering in a private hospital bed in Belgravia. Although heavily sedated, Thatcher awakens from time to time, points a gnarled finger at all in attendance and cackles, “ You’ re all gonna get it now, you pathetic fuckin’ worms! Do you hear me? Every last fuckin’ one of you!”

What looked to be, during Thatcher’ s reign, the beginnings of a protracted war of attrition between the equestrian class and the filthy tax-paying rabble has fizzled into a let them eat cakewalk for the gentried overlords of Bumblefuck.

While France’ s Lumpenproletariat threaten to march Emperor Sarkozy to Madame La Guillotine for his cheeky attempt to up the retirement age to 62, Britain’ s lower castes seem more concerned about Wayne Rooney’ s comical debauches than they are about the fact that they now stand at the brink of a new age of feudalism and indentured servitude that will be ushered in courtesy of their silent complicity. It seems that the spirit of Maximilien Robespierre lives on in France, while the ghost of Oliver Cromwell wanders this soggy island, completely ignored. For shame, Britannia, for shame.

As Cromwell and the Roundheads vomit in their graves over this betrayal of their people-power revolution by our elected representatives, the Kingdom’ s union leaders huddle and ponder just how this latest and greatest salvo in the perpetual war on the poor can somehow be turned to their own personal benefit, wilfully oblivious to the lessons being taught in the dog shit littered streets across the Channel.

Even the decrepit old Queen and her reptilian Court are guffawing to themselves over the savage attack on the neutered masses by Cameron and Osborne. One day, not long from now, the neutered masses may even demand to once again be ruled by monarchs who, unlike the Prime Minister and Chancellor, understand the sanctity of nobleese oblige.

Should that day come, the cold-blooded Windsors will undoubtedly celebrate by once again digging up Cromwell’ s grave, reattaching his severed head, hanging him in chains and beheading his despised, treasonous corpse, an act that will surely elicit wild cheers and whoops of cacophonous laughter from the Emerald Isle and the highlands of bonny Scotland.

It would, in many respects, make a fitting opening ceremony for the 2012 Olympic Games in no-longer-working class East London.

The audacity of Cameron is unparalleled. To stand before the nation and attempt to win the affection, support and loyalty of the beleaguered and trampled-underfoot poor by claiming that his own baby daughter sleeps in a cardboard box is such a heinous, scurrilous, and transparently absurd fib that he should be chased from 10 Downing and banished to Canada forever more. That incredible whopper could only have been dreamt up by a soulless spin doctor who inhales great blasts of nitrous oxide while communing with Joesf Goebbels.

Cardboard box? Pffftttt. STF up! Why didn’ t you also say that baby Cameron was born in a manger, you Nazi bastards?

As we approach another Guy Fawkes Day, perhaps it’ s time we admit that he had the right idea, although for all the wrong reasons.

The horror. The horror.

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