Like rats, scurrying around the deck of a particularly leaky and rusty HMS Brexit as hundreds of gallons of water come sweeping onboard in huge waves, that fine body of integrity-devoid skid marks that are the Tory Party are in chaos.
Self-serving greed hardwired into their mindsets they are picking sides,again, as the bumbling posh oaf (sacked previously from jobs he’d acquired through the patronage of the old school tie and shared romantic encounters with farm animals in bizarre initiation ceremonies, for being a comfortably habitual liar) lurches towards the wrong side of the front door of 10 Downing Street.
We’ve clearly reached the very far stretched end of any possible guise that what goes on in the chambers of Westminster is in any way honest.
When this dunderheid is allowed to stand before his peers and the watching public, try to avoid any responsibility, seeking to hang on by the thinnest of thin skin of his teeth by convincing us that a party held in his garden, where guests were invited tae bring their ain drink, a party he himself attended, a party that was held during a time that harsh laws designed to counter a deadly virus had been put in place by the very people enjoying themselves at that party, a party which took place at the exact time where up and down the UK many thousands of ordinary citizens respecting these laws found themselves unable to be with dying loved ones during their last moments, was a work meeting.
He’s unsure if it was or it wasn’t a party, it seems. Although I’m pretty sure that in his highly privileged life he’ll have been at enough such events to tell one from the other.
Very probably there weren’t wallpaper pasting tables loaded with trays of oranges spiked with hundreds of cocktail sticks laden with miniature chunks of beetroot, chopped ham and pork and pickled onions in place, or some guy strumming poor versions of Ed Sheerin hits in the corner, but most definitely according to those that were there, those that weren’t Boris Johnson, it was a party.
Thankfully I’m not one, but how would you feel if you were one of the poor folk that had to suffer the thought of leaving a loved one alone, frightened and worried, to die in the presence of strangers, to be mourned in solitude, whilst this creepy bunch of elitists laughed and joked at a party.
Worst of all Johnson will likely survive this because he has no shame.
I give Scottish Tory branch secretary wee Rugless Toss, Ross Douglas of Murray, a great deal of grief in this blog, usually, but today, following the snidey remarks from the member of parliament for the 19th century Jacob Rees-Mogg about him being a lightweight who doesn’t like Johnson for suggesting that the Prime Minister should take responsibility for his actions, I would love to see Douglas Ross grow a backbone and reply thus ‘Yes, and you are a creepy ghoulish bawbag that’s so far up yourself that if you had a colonoscopy you’d ask the surgeon just to leave the camera up there’. I won’t hold my breath waiting for Dougie to sort him out though.
We will inevitably have what the Tory party will become in our renewed independent Scotland. It would be nice if some of them started to think that way. It’s time to leave the cesspit.
itisintruthnotforglory 