AAAAAAAARGH! Aaaaaargh! HARDER! THANK YOU JESUS! AAAAAARGH! That’s better.
Women: Look at them, sitting there being all female and thinking they’re better than me.
According to the voices in my head, Tony Blair used to invite foreign women into Downing Street and eat long bits of spaghetti with them, just like those two dogs in Lady and the Tramp. Then he’d push the last meatball across the plate with his nose, as if to say, ‘here foreign woman, have Britain for your tea’.
And the Tories are no better. The voices tell me they go to dirty parties with Belgians and Spaniards where they all get naked and grease each other while jumping up and down to bongo music.
Say what you like about Nigel Farage. He may be foreign, but he has no time for foreigners and their grease and their bongos and their meatballs.
I’VE NOT BEEN WELL
Recently I made the mistake of going to a ‘doctor’. As well as trying to hypnotise me, he had the indecency to ask me if I had ever considered ‘going private’.
‘Are you asking me to cup your testicles?’ I shrieked and ran from the room. After 60 years of blood-soaked failure it seems the NHS has now descended into nothing more than a cabal of millionaire perverts demanding genital massage. But isn’t this what the metropolitan liberal consensus wanted all along?
WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?
Sometimes I like to hang upside down and read a book. A recent upside down literary experience involved a book by the Oxford dog-strangler Richard Dawkins. Mr Dawkins latest ‘theory’ calls for Satan to be made lord of the universe, while the armies of the gay kick down your door and force you to dress in a kaftan made from tiny skulls.
‘Mr’ Dawkins ‘supports’ his ‘theories’ with ‘science’. Well, Mr Dawkins, in case you were too busy squirting acid at monkeys to notice – this is England. So you can take your ‘science’ and your ‘reason’ and your ‘thoughts’ and just fuck right off.
You will not be surprised to hear that the metropolitan liberal consensus intends to make Mr Dawkins the next Archbishop of Canterbury. It’s enough to make you want thrash yourself so very, very hard across the thighs and buttocks.
Peter Hitchens is away