ConDem-ed to Failure?

Everybody remembers the day, don’t they? That day in May, 2010? The day two posh men skipped hand-in-hand down Downing Street like two love sick puppies, each enamoured by the others beauty (and by beauty, we mean the size of their wallets: the greatest of all indicators). A new epoch was upon us – our saviours had arrived; like a dual-headed figuration of Christ: the second and third coming, or at least two and a half. There they stood, gazing longingly into each other’s slightly-dilated pupils; smiling…knowingly. In a way reminiscent of how a person looks upon their lover, after having just engaged in a heavy dose of anal-based loving: passionate, but raw.

And now, nearly two years later: where are we?

Still, Clegg clings onto the shit-stained piles, hanging from Cameron’s arse. Desperately clasping with the slim hope that he too can scoff on the meagre scrapings of glory protruding from Dave’s Anus of Policy-Advice. Clegg knows he’ll end up with dirt on his hands; worse still, he risks his face being made filthier (but hopefully less smug). Yet still he clings there, for his dear, dear (political) life. He is clear: if he loosens his weak clutch he will fall into the Toilet of Total Decline.

Of course, that was all a wonderful metaphor; a figuration of our political system; a mere image of reality. I am almost certain that Clegg has never even seen Cameron’s plump piles, let alone touched any of them.

This is of course true, only if we assume Cameron has piles; which we cannot confirm nor deny, much like his brain. The problem is the discomfort he would feel if he had such an ailment may impart heavily upon the running of our dear country. He could not even slap one of his man-slaves (a.k.a. a butler, e.g. Nicholas William Peter “Nick” Clegg) whilst royally singing Rule Britannia. The pain was unbearable.

He would have to have an operation; a minor one, but he still carries them oh so rewarding risks. This has two problems. Firstly it would leave his “deputy” in power: Clegg. Dangerous but no worse. Secondly, it would also involve Dave being hospitalised.

NHS it is, surely? I mean once you push through them very unpopular “reforms”, you’ll be in safe hands. But he wouldn’t go on the NHS, would he? With all his (and his wife’s) money…surely? He’d go private…oh the luxury; but do not fear, we can all go private soon. (N.B. This “joke” refers to the aforementioned “reforms”; “the privatisation of the NHS”.) (N.B. N.B stands for nota bene. Nota bene stands for “note well”; here we can take it as just “note”.) First the Cheeky Coalition must shove such a horrendous “reform” down our poor, dry, starved throats.

Yes, this is all but a metaphor: the Piles of Power, hanging delicately from the Arse of Authority. And what a mighty Arse that is. But as another Nugget of Cameron’s Shit slips gently down Clegg’s throat, like a mature Scotch Whisky (something soon to be foreign to us all…see Scottish Independence Referendum) it represents another dung-covered policy the submissive Nick is only too willing to choke on. He’s just happy to see the steaming faeces first: before anyone else, e.g. the public a.k.a. the electorate.

He’s happy to lovingly accept these parcels of excrement like gifts on Christmas Day…just so he can cling forever more to those piles of power, the spineless toff. (Here, “the spineless toff” being referred to is Clegg; although confusion can be expected; see Cameron (Dave the Chameleon); see Osborne (Hooker Shame); see BJ Boris Johnson (KenForLondon) etc.)

This is one of the largest bullions of shit-covered policy Clegg has had to swallow since the tuition fee hikes…and oh how sore that throat still must be…as if he swallowed a Mach3 blade, covered in knifes, spikes, and the chiseled physique of Jodie Marsh.

But it’s OK! The coalition will last; and of course, things are getting better…surely…please!

Just look at the unemployment figures, huge and still growing. Just like Tony ‘Bronzed’ Blair sang to critical acclaim in 1997: things can only get better!