Politics

Poltics


Mad Dave – the best bits of David Cameron’s biography: Call Me Dave

Mad Dave Cameron

Just the other day I took delivery of Mad Dave Cameron’s unauthorised biography, Call Me Dave, by Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott.

For anyone who’s been living in a cave for the last few months, the book is widely acknowledged to be Lord Ashcroft’s revenge for being dumped by Cameron after bankrolling the Tory party for a number of years to the tune of £8 million.

Ashcroft expected to be rewarded with a cushty post in Mad Dave’s cabinet. But as the world now knows, Dave reneged on him. He did the dirty. Scared off by Ashcroft’s allegedly dodgy non-dom tax status (which Dave had apparently known about for donkeys, but kept schtum, in a kind of, semi-legal kind of way).

Anyhow, when Mad Dave needed Ashcroft’s money to get elected, he practically car-washed Ashcroft’s bell-end with his tongue, metaphorically speaking, for years. Then when he became Prime Minister and didn’t need Ashcroft’s dough any more, he dumped him like an old boyfriend he’d grown out of.

Hey, who needs enemies with friends like Mad Dave.

Well, here’s a thing. Apparently it seems Mad Dave thought that that would be the end of it. Ashcroft would be done and dusted. And that basically he would shut up, crawl under a rock and die. But Ashcroft didn’t read that script. He wrote his own instead. Payback time.

At 600 pages I’m sure it’s going to be a ripping yarn that keeps me entertained right up to Christmas. I thought it would also be a service to mankind, especially to those too poor to afford their own copy (whose number has grown to millions under Mad Dave’s government) to serialise my own unauthorised excerpts from the book over the coming months. To pass on the real juicy bits that show Mad Dave at his maddest, without all the air-brushed spin and PR. Without the lies. Without the deceit, the media bias. Just Dave. Mad Dave. Mad Dave Cameron.

In one of those little gifts from the Gods that you sometimes get, the arrival of Mad Dave’s biography has coincided with the week of the Tory Conference in Manchester. During which, as it happens, Dave has made a number of statements aimed at convincing the British Public what a stand-up guy he really is. Stuff like, Mad Dave the anti-poverty campaigner. Mad Dave the champion of multi-culturalism. Mad Dave the bouncer looking after our national security. And above all, Mad Dave the trembling, emotional, bulgy-eyed raving hypocrite.

For the alert reader there’s a bit of a clue in that last sentence, as to how Mad Dave’s new nickname – ‘Mad’ – came about.

I coined it after listening to Dave’s barking speech at the Tory Conference this week. I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t in some kind of surreal alternative universe, in which ‘up’ was ‘down’, ‘black’ was ‘white’, ‘left’ was ‘right’, and the Tories were the party of fairness, social justice and equality. The only conclusion anyone with even half a brain could reach was, he’s gone totally mad. Dave’s gone mad.

For instance, during his keynote speech, Mad Dave pledged to fight poverty. Nothing wrong with that in the abstract, if it weren’t for the fact that his own savage tax and benefit changes were about to make 3 million workers worse off, plunge 200,000 more children into poverty in 2016, and raise the total number of working households in poverty to over 2 million by 2020. Completely mad.

Mad Dave also vowed to fight racism, only 24 hours after his own Home Secretary, Theresa ‘Enoch’ May, stood at the same podium declaiming in her own ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech, an apocalyptic vision of the effects of immigration on our country, equivalent to the great plague of London in the 17th Century. If we let them all in, we’re doomed! Barking.

And of course, the man whose term in office has completely decimated our armed forces, leaving us with basically an under-sized squadron of Sopwith Camels, a couple of leaky canoes firing pop-guns, barely enough soldiers to quell an outbreak of disorder at the annual Gloucestershire Cheese-Rolling Contest, and a BIG FUCK OFF NUCLEAR MISSILE, talked much about our national security. Mad Dave foamed at the mouth as he warned us about the woes that would befall us if mild-mannered, humanitarian Jeremy Corbyn ever got into power. “We cannot let that man inflict his security-threatening, terrorist-sympathising, Britain-hating ideology on the country we love.”

As Seumas Milne said in his excellent article, Mad Dave’s Tories aren’t so much colonising the centre ground of reasonable politics, as colonising its ‘rhetoric’. They’re basically lying, to their back teeth.

“When Cameron and Osborne wax lyrical about protecting working people, it’s strictly for the cameras,” says Milne. Adding, ”A Conservative party funded by bankers and hedge funds that now claims to represent working people is preparing to drive down the incomes of supermarket workers and cleaners, deepening inequality in the process, while its multimillionaire health secretary, Jeremy Hunt, insists that losing the cash from the public purse will give them ‘dignity and self-respect’. Add to that the trade union bill now going through parliament, which will not only effectively outlaw most strikes but will strip Labour of the majority of its trade union funding, and the authoritarian, anti-worker inspiration of the Cameron-Osborne administration can’t be seriously doubted.”

But I digress. To get to the truth, why not let the facts speak for themselves, by diving straight in with the first excerpt from Mad Dave’s thrillingly unofficial biography. The excerpt, in fact, which every foreign spy on the planet will already have tucked away in their secret dossiers of Mad Dave, as the blackmail opportunity without equal. Let’s go straight in at the deep end for my unauthorised serialisation of Call Me Dave, excerpt No1, from pp73.

“In any case, the Bullingdon was not necessarily the forum for Cameron’s worst excesses. It has emerged that he was also involved in another notorious Oxford dining society, the Piers Gaveston, whose gatherings were the scene of more shocking behaviour. During the course of our research, a distinguished contemporary of Cameron’s at Oxford claimed the future Prime Minister once took part in an outrageous initiation ceremony at a Piers Gaveston event involving a dead pig. His extraordinary suggestion is that Cameron put his penis in the animal’s mouth… a little more detail. He claimed the hog’s head was resting on the lap of a Piers Gaveston society member while Cameron performed the bizarre act.”

Nice work, Dave. Loving the homo-erotic overtones. Makes me feel a whole lot safer knowing the country, and our nuclear button, is in the hands of a man who likes to hump the living daylights out of a pig’s mouth being cradled in the lap of a fellow debauchee.

And later on p74:

“Furthermore, there are a number of accounts of pigs’ heads at debauched parties in Cameron’s day. The late Count Gottfried von Bismark, an Oxford contemporary of Cameron who became notorious after Olivia Channon, the daughter of a Tory government minister, died of a heroin overdose in his Christ Church bedroom, was an enthusiastic member of the Piers Gaveston society and reportedly threw various dinner parties featuring pigs’ heads. The Piers Gaveston, named after the lover of Edward II, specialises in bizarre rituals and sexual excess. Its gatherings, typically held amid great secrecy in country houses, were described in a 2014 article in society magazine Tatler as ‘basically a very well-organised orgy’.”

So now we know. Mad Dave’s a player. He likes to play dirty.

And the secret to gaining the keys to the highest office in the land? Be a sexual pervert. A rich sexual pervert. Now tell me something I didn’t know.

 

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BBC condemns UKIP for not dusting behind the radiators 1

Feather duster

The £35 feather duster at the centre of the scandal

BBC revelation exposes a tale of cobwebs, economic mismanagement and racist cleaners at the heart of UKIP central office

The BBC, that bastion of fair and impartial reporting the world over, today published a devastating article revealing the depth of corruption, sexism, racism and economic mis-management at the heart of the UK Independence Party.

After going through the rubbish bins at the party’s Newton Abbot headquarters in Devon an undercover BBC journalist, who can’t be named without breaching their own impartiality guidelines, turned up an invoice for some feather dusters which had been purchased for an exorbitant £35 from John Lewis. Apparently, UKIP could have gotten the same posh dusters for a steal from Barry’s Barmy Bargains market stall in Camden Town, for 49p a pop.

“It’s a scandal,” said reporter Jazmin Lawro. “And just another example of the disgusting profligacy that runs from top to bottom of this neo-fascist party. It’s nothing less than a disgraceful abuse of public funding, that’s what it is. It shows they’re not fit to hold office.”

When a UKIP spokesman confirmed that the money used to pay for the feather dusters wasn’t in fact public funds, but had been paid for by donations from UKIP supporters, Lawro was unrepentant. “You would say that wouldn’t you, you evil right-wing trash.”

The BBC investigation also revealed that a cat burglar (who also can’t be named due to BBC ‘impartiality’ guidelines) had broken into UKIP headquarters on Sunday night and after running his finger over several window sills and book shelves, discovered a cobweb behind a radiator in the women’s toilets.

“Absolutely disgusting,” screamed Lawro. “I mean, he didn’t find any cobwebs in the MEN’S toilets, did he? How sexist can you get! And another thing, we tapped Farage’s mobile and discovered the cleaner was an English lady from Finsbury. Can you believe that? English? What’s wrong with Polish cleaners, or Libyans? Aren’t they good enough to clean UKIP’s toilets? If ever you needed evidence of what a deeply sexist, racist party they are, here it is,” she said, holding up the feather duster invoice.

“UKIP need to come clean on this. People need to know what kind of fascist scum they’re voting for. Wait till I get home tonight, I’m going to tweet the shit out of that white, male, middle-aged little Englander’s ass. What? I’m not allowed to do that as a BBC reporter? Who says? Oh. All right. Scrub that then, I never said it. I’ll get on the blower to Evan Davis or Andy Marr, get them to invite Farage onto their show to talk about politics or some bollocks, then they can drop bombs on him about the feather duster scandal and racist cleaner, and kick the shit out of him. I mean, what the fuck are UKIP still doing around anyway? We thought Farage was supposed to disappear into the wilderness after the unrelenting campaign we waged to undermine him during the general election. Can’t he just bugger off and let the BBC get on with indoctrinating the thick UK public on the benefits of political correctness and a socialist European super-state? For fuck’s sake.”

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Bad day at the office 11

General Election 2015: UK Bank CEO Cleopatra LeGrande wants a strong leader who will back bullying

Cleopatra LeGrande General Election

Cleopatra LeGrande is chief executive of UK Cash Cowboys

 Every day until the final week of the election campaign Jeremy Trough, Political Editor at The Daily Profit, asks a business leader to say what politics would entice them to vote for a particular party.

 

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE, CEO UK CASH COWBOYS: “I will vote for the party who has the most ruthless leader. A psycho, basically. Callous, cold-hearted despotism is essential for success – whether in business, crime or politics. I want to be represented by a total bastard who couldn’t give a toss what people think about them, both at home and on the world stage. And I desperately want a leader who will represent the few – not the many – in a greedy, cut-throat, pitiless United Kingdom.”

JEREMY TROUGH: “So more tax breaks for millionaires then?”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “Quite. It is also important to have a government which will champion sadistic, iron-fisted business leaders like myself, and encourage bullying and intimidation in all sectors. I want a government brave enough to repeal the slavery act and the minimum working wage, tackle all this nonsense about equal opportunities and paternity leave. Oh, and treble tuition fees for working class students, so we take a broom to the low-life plebs clogging up our universities. Education should be for rich, arrogant people like me who are in a position to use it to maximum advantage. And so end once and for all, the anti-competitive, altruistic cancer eating away at Banks’ profits. I mean, a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay? What creepy little PC turd came up with that bunch of crap? Gandhi? Get a life, for Christ’s sake. The truth is we cannot afford not to introduce despotism if we really want world class bullying that works for bank bosses like me, my cronies and filthy rich people in general, like our Chairman Sir Rich Pickle.”

JEREMY TROUGH: “I’m guessing that rules out the Lib Dems then.”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke? You only have to look at their logo, it’s like someone’s chucked up on the pavement, and nobody’s going anywhere near it. When they talk about fairness to me, they’re radioactive. I will vote for you only if you put terrifying, remorseless greed at the heart of all you do. With policies that ensure a strong and growing salary and bonus package for bank CEOs, with a tax regime and immigration policy that lets me absolutely treat my staff like concentration camp trash. I think we can destroy health, education and the other deeply wasteful public services that are a drain on my personal wealth, absolutely, yes. Next question.”

JEREMY TROUGH: “What do you think about the Conservatives manifesto pledge to reward more cut-throat, sadistic leaders like yourself with awards in the New Years’ Honours List?”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “Well, it’s progress obviously. Next level thinking. I think those kinds of forward-thinking policies are essential for a thriving economy. Feel my face, that’s stubble, that is. I didn’t get my CBE by tickling employees under the chin, big boy. I got it by destroying their lives. Squashing them flat. Humiliating them. Working them til they dropped and rubbing their faces in the dirt. Government policies should incentivise a bullying culture across all disciplines from senior bank management to internet trolls. That means encouraging vindictive, callous management practices by people from a wide range of backgrounds. It also means investing in staff demoralisation, indoctrination, disengagement and alienation, to address slackers and get the engine room of my massive salary firing.”

JEREMY TROUGH: “You are notorious for imposing impossible performance targets on your staff, for suppressing their pay and bonuses, and generally treating them like low-paid vermin while giving the impression that you’re actually a caring employer. Would you vote for a party which endorsed those kind of two-faced, double-standards?”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “Absolutely. But Christ, which party? I mean, you can’t put a cigarette paper between them when it comes to double-speak. I say, let’s find a way to tackle fair pay across the UK. A generation of young people have grown up thinking work should be fun and they should be paid a fair whack if they work hard. Complete bollocks. Clearly changes are needed to the bullying system and more can be done to exploit first time employees. I feel privileged to work in a banking sector and a country where bullying can be practiced openly and where we can vote against issues such as human rights and personal dignity. And in the end I want a government which lives by the knuckleduster and the jackboot. Only by cleansing ourselves of the weak and the poor in positions of power or responsibility can we make this country great again. This seems to me where true leadership and true integrity lie.”

JEREMY TROUGH: “So you’ll be voting Conservative then?”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “At least the Tories know how to keep the scum in their place and look after rich billionaires like me. Scrapping inheritance tax, for instance, brilliant idea. I own property all over the shop and have billions stuffed in offshore bank accounts. When I pop my clogs I want my kids to be like pigs in shit, not for all the riches I’ve spent my lifetime bleeding people dry to acquire, wasted on garbage like social services and education for the poor. For fuck’s sake.”

JEREMY TROUGH: “So Ed needn’t hold his breath on your vote then?”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “Is he really a person? Or a waxwork dummy wired up to a cliché generator? Higher tax rates for the rich? Mansion taxes? Show some imagination, Ed. Same old classic mean-spirited commy dirty tricks to rob the rich and feed the scum. What sort of cunt does he take us for? How am I supposed to keep my private jet and fleet of limousines for my personal use on the road? Those things don’t run themselves you know. I tell you, if red Ed the teenage mutant gets in and starts wading into bankers’ bonuses and obscene profits and shit like that, if he’s not careful I’ll have to pass all his extra taxes on to customers, through higher charges, fees and commissions. You start eating into my massive personal wealth, buddy, we are going to war mate, make no mistake. You will not believe how nuclear I can go. Don’t worry though, I’ll get my accountant Dave to fix it. He’ll sort it. We headhunted him from the EU.”

JEREMY TROUGH: “Okay, so we’ve established you’re voting Conservative. Any advice you’d give David Cameron about areas the Tories can do better on?”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “I’m not happy about this raising the minimum wage nonsense. Every penny extra I have to pay my employees is a penny off my multi-million pound bonus at the end of the year. What kind of incentive is that for talented despots like me to run businesses in UK plc, if we can’t screw our own employees? Brain drain? You ain’t seen nothing pal. They might change their tune when we’ve all left, switched off the lights and all they’ve got left is the scum running the country. See what that does for your GDP.”

JEREMY TROUGH: “Scum?”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “Plebs, working class, ordinary people. Scum.

JEREMY TROUGH: “You mean, like your employees?”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “Your words, not mine. But since you mention it, yeah. I’m the big cheese around this bank. I’m the brains behind all the important decisions, got that? Nobody dies without my say so. It’s me who has to bang heads together when aggressive sales targets aren’t met, and heads need to roll. When profits fall and my end of year bonus is under threat, someone’s got to sack family breadwinners, break up homes and encourage feelings of hopelessness and despair. It’s a tough world out there. I’m not running a bloody charity here. You fuck with my money and I’ll turn your bloody lights out.”

JEREMY TROUGH: “Since you mention charity, what about your charitable arm, UK Cash Cowboys Giving? And your new company strapline, Everyone’s Getting On. Isn’t that supposed to include employees, customers, society, good causes, the environment…?”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “Sweetheart, watch my lips. Two words. Public relations. You think I really give a mouse’s fart about good causes? Ask any of my employees, they’ll tell you what I’m really like. A complete and utter ruthless bastard. You know who’s picture I have hanging on the wall of my office?”

JEREMY TROUGH: “Churchill? JFK?”

CLEOPATRA LEGRAND: “Heinrich Himmler. Let ‘em bloody work for their soup, I say, like every other pleb. When I see someone begging on the street I think, bring back flogging and National Service. Corporal punishment would be too good for some of these parasites. I’d sort the buggers out, never mind all this free hand outs crap. Still, I suppose it’s good for the brand so I shouldn’t knock it. If it wins us a few extra customers and keeps the cash register ringing, every cloud as they say.”

JEREMY TROUGH: “I should have thought with all the PR your bank has been putting out about environmental responsibility, you’d at least be supporting a greener agenda.”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “Ha ha ha. The Greens? What’s that all about, windmills? Ha ha. Lol, as they say. Don’t, you’ll give me the giggles. C’mon love, get real. Wake up and smell the Frappuccino. Twenty-first Century, hello? What am I supposed to fly my private jet on, fresh air? Sod that. Green means higher taxes sweetheart. Higher taxes are bad for business, and bad for my personal fortune. Who needs the rainforests anyway? You can have ‘em. Waste of good car-parking revenue. Do you know where I can pick one up cheap?”

JEREMY TROUGH: “Politicians have been talking a lot about ‘red lines’ in this election campaign. Do you have any personal red lines?”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “Tax havens and tax loopholes for the rich are an absolute deal-breaker for me. That’s a purple line that is, with flashing lights and a klaxon. I’ll say it again. Fuck with my banker’s bonus and I’ll kill you and eat your children.”

JEREMY TROUGH: “Which brings us neatly to UKIP. Breath of fresh air or a bunch of right-wing bigots?”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “They have some good ideas, like closing down the NHS and sending all those scrounging foreigners back.”

JEREMY TROUGH: “You’d support closing down the NHS, really? Isn’t that a sacred cow in the eyes of the public?”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “No good to me, is it? I’m the CEO of a bank, love. I’ve got more health insurance than I know what to do with. I always go private. Biggest drain of all on the public purse, is the NHS. It pisses literally billions up the wall every year, for what? Giving poor people cancer treatment and heart transplants? They cost an arm and a leg those things. Let ‘em die, I say, and cut the pension burden at the same time. The fewer old people you have, the faster you can shrink the welfare state, scrap the higher tax bands and raise net take home pay for senior bank executives like me. It’s a no-brainer.”

JEREMY TROUGH: “Can I pick up on your reference to sending all the scrounging foreigners back home…”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “Well, first off I believe, like UKIP, in an Australian-style points system of immigration. We shouldn’t be letting all these talented bankers, nurses and business entrepreneurs into the country. There’s only so many fat million-pound bonuses to go round. No, we should only be letting in cheap and nasty foreign mercenaries from Eastern Europe who’ll basically work 23 hours a day on half a slice of bread for ten pee a week. I personally exploit thousands of the fuckers in our call centres in Newcastle, Edinburgh and Chelmsford. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, what. They can’t speak a word of English mind, but Christ do they know how to extort money out of our customers. Brutal, they are. I’ve already promoted Stanislaw to my Board as Director of Money Laundering and Internet Fraud. Big guy with a crew cut, scar across his left cheek. Lives on raw potatoes and cardboard. These are the kind of talented thugs we need to get this country back on its knees.”

JEREMY TROUGH: “Wow, radical.”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “But UKIP are right, we definitely need to address all the benefit and health tourism as an absolute priority. Did you know that for every African who comes over here with HIV, it takes twenty-five grand a pop to treat them? That’s coming out of my pay packet that is. Foreign scum. Every grand I pay extra in tax is a person I have to lay off, and double the hours of the remaining staff. As for your foreign aid budget, you know where you can shove that. Until we can properly reward high-powered bank executives in our own country we shouldn’t be squandering money keeping foreign trash alive abroad. Let them eat worms, I say. It’s good for their immunity. Ebola? Do I look like I have Ebola? Fucking foreigners.”

JEREMY TROUGH: “But isn’t your husband foreign?”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “What did you just say?”

JEREMY TROUGH: “I, I just said, isn’t your husband Indian?”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “Did you just use the ‘N’ word about my husband?”

JEREMY TROUGH: “No I…”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “Right, that’s it, I’m having you. Where’s my solicitor’s number?”

JEREMY TROUGH: “Mrs LeGrande, I only said…”

CLEOPATRA LEGRANDE: “Okay, listen up. I’ll say this once and I won’t repeat it. I want five hundred grand in used notes, stuffed inside a duffle bag, left on top of the litter bin at the junction of Eagle Place and Jermyn Street at nine o’clock in the morning. Do I make myself clear? This conversation never happened.”

 

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