Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Pure poetry from Mr Eugenides!
In an ideal world, I would like to take Patricia Hewitt, tie her up, and slowly feed her into the propeller of a DC-3 - feet-first, naturally, so I could see that condescending fucking face contort in agony. I'd let the blades shear off her legs, and then hand her a mobile and dial NHS 24, see how much fucking use that would be to her with some cretin in a call centre in Clydebank asking her where it hurts, the patronising, incompetent, self-obsessed bitch. Later, after she'd expired from blood loss while waiting, in vain, for an ambulance that never came, I'd beat the corpse to a bloody pulp with a bound copy of one of her stupid fucking White Papers, until the only sign that this had been Her Majesty's Secretary of State for Health was the cheering crowd willing me onwards to commit ever greater acts of depravity against the lifeless body.

God, that really turns me on; it's like some kind of NuLabour porn flick...

2 comments:

michael the tubthumper said...

he doesn't hold back does he?

Anonymous said...

I think old Doc Crippen would happily sell tickets for that gig!

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