TB to Jean-Claude Juncker: Feel my second coming, bitch!
Are you lookin' at me?
Howdy Euro-philes (in the word of my good mate George W)! What's cooking?
I'll tell you what's smokin' on the hog-burner (also in the words of my best buddy Dubya): me. Yup, I am truly bringing the shizzle (in the words of my also good brother, Snoop The Dog). If you can't stand the heat, you should remember that the European Parliament formally requires manufacturers in all member states to advertise the maximum temperatures of all domestic heat-exuding appliances. Dang bitch! (In the words of beloved late former Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, Mo Molam.)
And why am I in such a chipper mood, I hear regular readers of How Inappropriate asking? Well, it's quite simple. It's because I am about to be enthronised (as I believe is the correct term) as the first President of Europe. Get outta here (in your words)! No, it's a cast-iron FACT that I will be the ruler of the free Europe by Christmas. (Even my heroine Maggie never managed that!) The reason for my confidence is three-fold: 1. the useless Gordon has finally started campaigning for me (rather than against!) And, given the massive amounts of respect that miserable myopic misanthrope commands on the world stage, that counts heaps; 2. I haven't publicly shown any interest in the position at all. In fact I have let the spineless Jean-Claude Junker think that he is the only bunny in the race, despite the fact that he is a) the prime minister of Luxembourg (where were you when we needed a coalition, you half-country?) and b) slightly more spineless than a sack of tofu; 3. (and here's the really cunning part) the job doesn't even exist!
Sometimes I have to send myself an awe-struck congratulations card when I realise how brilliant a strategist I am. Not to declare my hand for a non-existent job and in the process make everyone else think how desperate I am for it that only Gordon Brown will publicly stick up for me - that's the blackest of political magic! The job's as good as mine and why not, pop-pickers? Why give it to some banana-straightening no-mark Euro-bore, with his 15 languages and dubious heritage? Can anyone say that I am an undeserving candidate? Have I done anything that rules me out of the running? Is failing embarrassingly to get Britain into the Euro, despite imposing draconian public spending rules that crippled its health and education services wrong? Is sending hundreds of Brits to their death in seven meaningless colonial wars wrong? Is trying to pick up several of the most attractive women of the night in Finsbury Park on a Saturday night wrong? Frankly my dear, who knows!
Because, as I asked JM whilst we were leering at the Titian nudes in the main gallery of the Tate Britain last week, what makes a man? Is it the cut of his cloth, or the measure of his deeds? I mean, obviously I am a pretty sartorial fellow, and not for nothing do I wear Lacoste nudy-lady underpants whilst I'm snacking on brushetta in the exquistely decorated drawing room at Connaught Square, but I also get the job done. Especially the job of being a President of a whole bunch of countries, none of whom agree on anything; not even if they actually like each other. Eat that Obama (who thinks he's so cool he doesn't even have to return my eight urgent calls for support on Tuesday). Who's going to be eyeing up the First Lady of Europe when Cherie and I dance the foxtrot on the world stage? Who's the daddy now eh? In the words of my old pop hero, Michael "Whacko" Jackson, who's bad??
Have a blessed Halloween, my children.
John and Tony at the seaside
Where have all the great men gone? As conference season is upon us, it is with moist regret that we bring you the last in a very odd series about a couple of very dirty old men - John and Tony - who this week go on a day out to Brighton pier to reminisce about the classic party conferences of yesteryear. Altogether now...
John and Tony, in retirement they're a bit lonely!
Dirty Old Man: Tony Blair exposes himself for How Inappropriate
Greetings, faith-followers!
Hey everybody! Tony here, and I wanted to say how grateful I am to be able to let the regular readers of How Inappropriate know about all the exciting things that have been going on in my life since I stopped ruling the world - I mean the UK world of course. Y'know, it really has been literally non-stop! For example, on Monday, I had to tend to a nasty spot of green-fly on the tomato plants in Connaught Square; then on Tuesday I had to give a world-exclusive address to the Catholic Mothers of the Great Climate Clean-up Challenge at Winslow Hall, our modest seventh home 20 miles from Chequers, explaining how my conversion has succoured me in times of spiritual need.
Wednesday saw me wanking furiously to the images of some hardcore carpet-munchers going at it hammer and tongs in Stoke Newington Cemmentary, while on Thursday I was speaking for £1, 000, 000 an hour at the Neo-Catholic Heretic-burning Matriarchs' Initiative, and on Friday tending to the spirited - and fleshy - needs of one of my voluptuous former consituents in the 20 acre garden of the Myrobella in County Durham. Naturally I spent most of Saturday morning working on a two-state solution for the middle east in my favourite pub, whilst dreaming about the landlady's fulsome lips plied around my tumescent member, before launching my brand new Tony Blair Peace, Love and Understanding Foundation. On Sunday, I had a bit of a rest. Phew, tough gigs, eh?!
TB's 3-step plan to heath and happiness - Step 1: Neutralise pests
But, y'know, as I said to my best mate John, when you're making a bridge roll, why stop spreading the love-paste? After all, I am - as I frequently remind the regulars over a mug of tea at my working-middle class men's club - the most successful, and good-looking Labour prime minister in British history, bar none. Our government sorted out all the wicked problems of the modern world: worklessness (it's a bad thing), childcare (it's a good thing, if completely unaffordable, because it reduces worklessness), free speech (a good thing if we control it), the Lords (a bad thing because we can't control them, unless we appoint them), fox-hunting (really easy thing to ban but an impossible thing to control), drinking (good, except outdoors), smoking (bad, except indoors), smoking cannabis (bad, then good, then bad again), terrorism (very bad unless you are a Lockerbie bomber, in which case it's not that bad at all), and the BBC (worse than terrorism).
Step 2: Assemble allies
So as I enter my golden years I find myself, in the words of Fukuyama, standing at the end of history, dressed in Paul Smith bathers and Oakleys wrap-a-rounds, heading for the beach in St Tropez. Indeed, if it wasn't for my successor, the useless Gordon, we would still be in pretty good shape, but of course the Presbyterian ne'er-do-well has made a right old fanny-dingo of our green and pleasant land since I left the scene. It really isn't that hard. All you have to do is suck up to the City boys, put the fourth estate on a tight leash, construct vacuous populist policies that seem to please everyone while changing nothing and costing less, and sit on the GMTV sofa quite a lot, giving Penny Smith the glad-eye. I keep expecting the droopy-faced curmudgeon to call me up and admit he needs me to come back and sort it all out, but ... nada. Zip. Zilch.
Step 3: Who knows?
Well, I said to JM whilst we were watching two young women riding their bicycles through Hyde Park; their short skirts riding sensuously up their tight posteriors, their impressive bosoms straining against their tight tops as they rode their well-oiled steeds hard: good luck to the charmless sod. I passed him the best hand at the table, and the house won. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes when the Camerons start measuring up those cornflour blue curtains in No 10 next May - hah! Because, as our Lord Jesus Christ once said: who knows? Who knows if history will be kind to us, like a pleasant, comely matron, gently bathing away the sticky extrusions of our political miss-fires? Or who knows if instead she will take the form of a filthy leather-bound dominatrix, strandling our prostrate, gagged form whilst threatening the semi-permanent whelts of ignomious political exile? Who knows? Who knoooowwws??
God bless you all.
Drinks with John and Tony
Continuing the theme of drinking your days away this week, we present the second in a strange series of episodes starring two members of that elitest of clubs: the living ex-PMs. We rejoin new best friends John and Tony in their local boozer as they reminisce about ruling Britain with an iron fist, and fantasize about massive norks.
So, what's on the cocktail menu today?
Introducing John and Tony – Dirty Old Men
Where do ex-Prime Ministers go when they're put out to pasture? Do they spend their days playing the lotto and watching cash in the attic, lost in whimsical reflection on their moment in the sun, those heady days where it was just you and your mate in the White House that ran Great Britain? And in that moment of realisation that all glory is fleeting, does the aching loneliness of retirement draw them closer to the other members of that exclusive club? (Well, to the ones who aren't pissing themsleves involuntarily, obviously.)
In short, are John and Tony 'bessies'? It's an intriguing thought.