[invective] entertaining most times

Lord William Gruff on the whole sorry crew:

Given what we know already about documentary sex it is pleasant to consider that the war criminal Blair has no more than ten months to find a safe haven for himself, his duck faced bitch of a wife, the arse licker Campbell and that artful bugger the ignoble paedophile Lord Moldevort.

My lily-livered reply on Mandelson:

The day he, Blair and Brown are led up Tyburn Hill will be a sweet one for the nation.

Lord Gruff’s retort:

Tyburn?

Higham you are far too lenient.

Mandelson deserves nothing less than a red-hot poker (not Kniphofia) in 'that place posterial', in precisely the fashion of Edward II.

Brown is destined to be flogged naked round the kingdom of England entire, blinded in his one good eye, battered bloody and senseless with pick axe handles and then, following hanging, drawing and quartering, to be decapitated so that the London mob may play football with his head, much as they did with the exhumed skull of Oliver Cromwell, another dour religious dictator, albeit an English one and not an Anglophobic foreigner.

Blair? He could serve as a urinal at a motorway service station for the rest of his miserable life.

Now, you have to admit that could almost lead the competition in the Invective Stakes. However, this by the master, Mr. Eugenides, is also hard to go by, on the subject of Jack Straw, Chris Grayling and the whole sorry crew:

Straw is exactly the sort of greasy, careerist dickwad who would get his rocks off from striking bodybuilding poses over the prostrated body of an emaciated pensioner. But wouldn't it be wonderful if, just for once, our lords and masters were subjected to the same quotidian humiliations that they are so keen to visit on their constituents?

And yet almost every MP that has stolen from us intends to remain in situ until the next election, spending my money on vats of asses' milk from John Lewis in which to bathe their wives/diary secretaries, when in any civilised country they'd be breaking rocks in a fucking quarry under the watchful eyes of a horsewhip-wielding Klingon guard.

I've really had enough of these parasitical mouth-breathers. Words can't express my contempt, however hard I try. Time to cut our losses, people. Put out a couple of troughs of baked beans in the Commons canteen and make them sleep in rusting iron beds on a fucking Titan prison ship moored off the Isle of Dogs. I hate these people more than rotting broccoli.

Sigh. Such prose in the hands of the masters – isn’t the blogosphere a wonderful place?
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