Written by Peter Burnett Peter Burnett
How can I forget Tony Blair on his hind legs preaching WAR to his flock?
In a haze of David Icke Mauve that made him look like a retired Turkish whore rebranding herself as the Mufti of Ankara, very spiritual, very soigné.
How many colour therapists and their inevitable Japanese companions were employed dreaming up that putrid set, in which even his tie matched, even his lies matched?
"We campaigned in Doggerel. We govern in Gibberish. Jack Straw is on pills for his nerves, living in his Jag, drinking Bells through a Shitty Clout. Way to go Jackie Baby."
New Labour twisted my mother's mind so that now she cooks HAGGIS and is thinking of buying me a KILT for my birthday, and my father found that, mirabile dictu, her overwhelming urge to vote SNP was not grounds for divorce under Scots Law.
NO WAY TO THE THIRD WAY!
I'm having it tattooed on my chest next Wednesday (in Govan, at Mucky Malky's Tattoos and Neeps Parlour, just behind the municipal gleaming chrome palace of the BBC)...