Today, Patsy is encouraging The Gobblin' King to slap more tax on us poor citizens (god almighty, Patsy, he doesn't need any encouragement!). Now, Patsy, I think you know what I think of the kind of cunt who tries to curtail my drinking; regular readers will also know what we at The Kitchen think of Patsy at the best of times: combine the two and you might get a flavour of the depths of my rage.
So, if swearing offends you, do feel free to look away now.
A swingeing increase in tax on alcopops and other alcoholic drinks favoured by teenagers is being demanded by the health secretary, Patricia Hewitt, in an attempt to stop young people damaging their health by binge drinking.
Go fuck youself, you stinking apology for a cunt of a human being; did I say human being? I meant hideous chicken-brained whore of a monkey's arse dipped in aubergine surprise—the surprise being that it is made of aubergines and shit, shit, shitty-shit-shit-shit—and mashed up with the pus-filled discharge of a diseased, eighty-year-old whore's raddled, smelly and very badly-packed kebab. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you cunting cunt cuntitty cunt cunt. Tit.
She has written to the chancellor asking him to ratchet up the cost of alcohol in his next budget, to price it beyond the reach of youngsters' earnings or pocket money.
Ms Hewitt was responding to disturbing evidence that drinking is blighting young people's lives and causing them long-term medical damage.
Look, you silly bitch, if you rachet up the tax on alcopops, then the kiddies will simply switch to cheap lager or the traditional 2 litre bottle of White Lightning Hitting Your Head In The Morning. And then I suppose you'd bung up the taxes on those too, eh, you fucking cow?
Look, Pat, it's not only the kiddies that drink alcopops; when was the last time that you waddled down from your ivory tower and went to a pub on a Friday night to pick up a young man and get his hard cock fucked up your tight minge in a cubicle in the Ladies' Toilets, eh? Or maybe in the back passage, geographically and anatomologically? Not since you've been married, I'll warrant, but I bet you like a bit of filth, eh? I've known people like you, Patsy; all tight and buttoned up on the outside, but actually you like it hard and fast, just beyond the circle of lights, up against the bonnet of a car from a horny-handed son of toil: yes, I can imagine you on your GAP year disappearing, leaving your friends talking in the bar, to get it quick and dirty—"yes, yes, like that, like the dogs do it!"—from one of the natives (so you can patronise him afterwards: "now you've cum in me, get down there and clean me up. Juldi juldi, boy!").
Anyway, I digress; the point is, Patsy, that other people like to drink alcopops too. Even I, real ale snob that I am, have been known to indulge from time to time. Your intervention would, as usual, make life a little more miserable for everyone—apart from you, because you only indulge in "the occasional glass of wine", eh?—whilst utterly failing to achieve your stated objective. Of course, the real objective is power, isn't it, you awful piece of maloderous dogshit. If I got you on my shoe, I'd have to throw both of them away. FUCK YOU!
She said: "I am asking Gordon Brown, when he comes forward with the budget next year, to really increase taxes on alcohol. And particularly things like alcopops and some of the stuff that quite a lot of teenage boys and girls are drinking, because we've got a real problem with binge drinking among young people."
Yeah, and I can almost imagine our Cyclopean Chancellor getting the note, laughing his fucking head off and throwing it straight into the bin. Because—quite apart from the contempt in which he cannot fail to hold you, Patsy—one of the few taxes that he is not going to raise, just as he puts in his bid to be leader proper, is the one of booze: he might as well just give up his leadership ambitions entirely.
I've had it with you and, impotent as I am to describe adequately what I would like to do with you, I shall pass you over to my impecunious, Athenian colleague.
I'd suggest locking her up, but there aren't any prison cells spare. I'd tie her to the train tracks, but the trains don't fucking run on time. I'd blindfold her and set her loose in an Army firing range, but the guns they've been issued are notoriously prone to jamming. I'd stuff her in a crate, block all the airholes, and ship her to Timbuktu, but our borders are far too porous to keep the hectoring harpy out. Putting her in one of her hospitals and waiting for her to get MRSA appeals to my sense of cosmic justice, but that would be too clumsy and random.
Perhaps Dr Crippen could advise what would happen if I injected her eyeballs with a syringe full of Ebola virus? And would stamping on her face afterwards with a pair of metal-studded rugby boots speed up, or retard, the onset of the gruesome, organ-mulchig death she so richly deserves?
May I suggest something a little more... aposite? I suggest that we strap her to a chair, with her eylids held open (just so the whole experience hurts more), and with her head clamped so that her face is turned upwards; we would then gaffa-tape a large funnel into her mouth and pour alcopops into it. The first bottle would go in and she'd start to choke and retch but it'd have to go down eventually; and then more and more bottles of the most hideous Bacardi Breezers—watch her legs open after the second one—and other sweet, icky things would be poured down her funnel—with only enough respite to stop her drowning—until she's violently sick (the force of the spasms ripping her eyelids off) and one by one her organs start to collapse or explode (depending upon their make-up and function) and she dies a lingering, alcopop-fuelled death.
To make it educational, we could give classrooms full of children the chance to pour the bottles of sticky liquid into her body (she's only used to a teaspoonful normally, and usually in a completely different orifice. Although, of course, perhaps she did like to clean the natives up after they'd cleaned her, if you know what I mean). Then they could see the harmful effects of alcopops. In fact, we could televise it and sell the video to schools: a subtle blend of education and comedy, I think.
Popular, Patsy, you ain't. You hideous, butcher's shop window of a cunt.
UPDATE: The Guttersnipe would like to add to Patsy's fate.
Once we’ve drained every bit of blue fucking WKD into the quivering remains of her once proud shell we get all those redundant doctors and nurses to resuscitate her then force feed her every bit of broken glass from those empty bottles.
That should give the NHS its “best year ever”.
Then with as much Adrenalin as it takes to keep the bitch alive and in agony we drag her sorry stuporous frame round the route of every pub crawl in England leaving her to spend the last of her days pissing herself in a bus station while the tramps share their Special Brew with her.
As I said, really, really, Patsy, you witless idiot, you are not going to win any popularity contests...