You disgust me.

…don’t you sometimes wish they had more imagination than a five-year-old?

For supposedly creative people…, originally uploaded by bitrot.

At the same time, I am delighted to hear that the party I do support has conducted a thorough review of all its dealings with Russian oligarchs on their yachts and has found all allegations of impropriety to be entirely groundless. I trust this will be the end of the matter.

Of course it’s too late now. You just had to go flocking round Peston instead, didn’t you?

Peston my arse.

VOTE OBAMA/BIDEN!

VOTE MCCAIN/PALIN!

That’s how a demented, blue-haired, swivel-eyed, octogenarian maniac might have described David Cameron’s smug, vapid, nauseating, disingenuous, pointless, dessicated husk of an address to the Tory party conference yesterday.

I, on the other hand, might have described it rather differently.

Honestly, you’d think he was Chancellor of the Exchequer or something.

Update:
Sorry, my mistake: it’s short selling they’re talking about. About time too: imagine if they’d dithered until a big bank went pop.

A hedge fund chap popping into the FSA for a pair of shorts earlier today. He thought it said C&A.

You can give a pig a big hairdo and a blue handbag and elect it leader of the Conservative Party: it’s still a pig.

Ever the opportunists, the Tories were quick to seize on the comment as an alleged slur on their leader, Mrs Thatcher. And despite Callaghan’s protestations that he’d used the pig as a metaphor for the opposition’s shameless policy recycling, the accusations stuck and Thatcher romped to victory just two months later.

And the rest, as they say, is history: Thatcher reigned for a thousand years, presiding over a slew of policies that would change the face of Britain forever: the outlawing of milk; the war with Denmark; the unilateral withdrawal from the Eurovision Song Contest; the invasion of Mars.

I trust the moral is clear, America: vote for the pig woman and you’re looking at no end of trouble.

Robson prepares to catch a tiddler “the extreme way”. That son of a gun won’t know what’s hit it! Yee-ha!

I’m also on the toilet. This, my friends, is the future.

Get in there! United, United!

Seasoned commentators including Christopher Hitchens, George Monbiot and all those smart-arses with their blogs have so far been unforthcoming with a counterpoint, so compelling is Southendcockneyboy’s argument.

Nothing cheers me up like a good bit of debate.

I promised them that I would be joining them soon, but I could not look them in the eye. It’s the end, my friends. We’re doomed.

Can you smell it? I can smell it.

Is there a window open somewhere? Smells like it’s coming in from outside. Poo, it’s horrible.

Do you mean to tell me nobody can smell a smell?? What’s wrong with you people??

Update:
Sorry, it looks like there’s a tuna sandwich under my desk.

When officers had turned up to investigate they found Batchelor still partially dressed and with his flimsy thong on the wrong way round.

It’s so easily done, and after a few cans of Special Brew I’m told the chafing just doesn’t reach the brain. There are hospitals in Glasgow that specialise in reattaching testicles after just such incidents.

To the untrained eye, just two ordinary guys. Can you spot which one has his thong on back-to-front?

Well I simply say: Karl Marx, you’re full of shit.

And shortly after that I say: here you go, have another YouTube video.

I’m pretty sure I’m not.

A blogger blogging himself to death, yesterday