David Cameron has thus far had an extremely lucky stint as the country’s premier laminated bellend. Somewhat inexplicably, he’s been afforded a financial crises that discredited Labour economically, a coalition he didn’t deserve, a majority even he thought was impossible and a growing (of sorts) economy.
Then there is the scandal that he has so doggedly ignored; his close chum escaping jail for arranging the phone hackings of murder victims; his spin doctor resigning in disgrace; his political mentor being convicted on sexcase charges; the failed bskyb merger; the omnishambles budget; George Osbourne’s recreational activities; Grant Shapps’ every waking moment; grassroots youth suicides; Boris Johnson’s spectre looming with undeserved and incomprehensible entitlement. Throughout all the bullying, all the bluster, all the cringingly transparent ‘I can’t be arsed with this but I’m going to persevere anyway’ rebuttals and denials, he has somehow lasted nearly six years as Prime Minister.
Part of this survival strategy has centred around arranging a suit of armour of hideous bastards. His cabinet is a deflection force, populated by ideological nutters so thick and obsequieous that Cameron’s own failings of judgement have often petered off into the night. Whenever he dropped a bollock, somebody would drop a bigger bollock, and all would be forgotten. So long as he had the backing of most of the media, he rode it out. He bent over backwards to avoid sacking anybody, engineering a grumbling loyalty of sorts that could stretch against the weight of most things. But not Europe.
Of course, with all Tory nonsense, there is no bigger mindfuck than Europe. Europe represents nearly everything that the most squirrel shit paper-shouter-atter hates the most. Europe is nice. Its increasing federalism is a stick in the urethra for those who spent their early teens in braces and wistful dreams of by-gone Imperialism. The idea that Britain, with all of it’s stuff and things, should play second fiddle to an entire continent is not only outrageous- it is contemptible. They froth. Spittle actually collects at the corners of their mouths as they ponder things like paid holidays and maternity leave being forced upon us (read: Them). Nobody gets to tell the bully what to do!
Then of course you have the other Conservatives, the ones who have gay friends and like drugs, and worship money above and beyond. Money is the highest good to the children of Thatcher, and not merely the means to Imperialistic domination. They’re looking on at their colleagues in horror, the prospect of somebody actually setting light to a universe of cash becoming frightfully, tantalisingly real. They’re looking at pink Dave and wondering how the living fuck it has come to this, how he managed to let the nutters out of their box, how he failed to schmooze and charm the tabloid editors that goad the chimps.
Many were surprised when Dave declared that he couldn’t really be arsed being Prime Minister anymore, and that at some vague point after the election he would fuck off to do something that will probably involve lots of money. It was the huff of a man who could no longer be fucked with any of it, who saw nothing but conflict and nonsense on the horizon and was planning a get away before the shit hit the fan. Unfortunately for Dave, he won an election, and in doing so had to follow through on all the insane compromises he made to the battalions of elderly nutters and young adult sociopaths who froth and seethe the Conservatives to power.
And this of course is where it all truly begins to unravel. The warning shots were fired when it became apparent that Dave once fucked a dead pig. Somebody, perhaps many, had decided he had outlived his usefulness- and when a Tory outlives their usefulness, they must commit seppuku lest they be thrown to the sharks.
Dave’s renegotiation, like much of his foreign policy during his tenure, has been hopeless. When a blind man on a galloping horse could see that he didn’t want to burn the cash, what else was going to happen? There was never any conviction in anything, because Dave, unlike the bastards that constitute his armour, does not believe in anything. At all. He just wants to be Prime Minister, because he thinks he’s ‘quite good at it’.
Now that the Tories have a majority, now that they have a referendum, now that they’re tearing themselves apart, they all have taken up the attitude of Dave himself, and can no longer be fucked in anyway shape or form to defend him, stand up for him, preserve him or otherwise. The clown car is picking up the next round of contenders, idiots and lunatics galvanised by the possibilities shown in the US for hateful dickheads with unsubstantiated world views. They look at the records he broke- highest immigration in British history, the largest increase of debt in peace time- and they areapopleptic.
But what’s that on the horizon? Financial doom? A civil war in sand-land that’s spilling out into a regional conflict? The implosion of the eurozone? The real depression that has been stalled since 2008?
Here lies David, Pig Fucker, Husband, Father.