much about which to be ridiculed
If the Tub O’Lard hopes to garner loads of sympathy – and thus boost the sales of his book – by ‘revealing’ that he was once wont to stuff his face with food before chundering it all back up again, he should not hold his breath. Nor will it dispel the natural revulsion right-thinking people have for him.
John Prescott’s alleged bulimia must rank as one of the more curious political stories in years. This appalling and embarrassing clown was allowed to rise to dizzy heights by the Ovine & Bovine of the Labour Party who knew full well what a nasty piece of work he was. But, much as Thabo Mbeki is unwilling to condemn Comrade ‘Bob’ Mugabe because he secretly admires everything he does and says, the Labour Party of the late twentieth century and early twenty-first century could never bring itself to say a bad word about him because they secretly loved what he did and said until he was found porking the hired help. The circumstances of this ageing class warrior tupping his secretary were too repellent even for the politically correct lemon-suckers that so abound this dreary bunch of Socialists who were at last forced to disavow him, albeit under their breath.
The MSM, of course, have swallowed this hokum hook, line and sinker. They always use the phrase ‘X revealed that……’ in such stories, thinking that the word ‘reveal’ somehow invests the story with veracity. But if this swine was ingesting so many tons of pies and mushy peas and then barfing them all up again with such regularity over a period of many years, is it not surprising that no one seems to have witnessed any such episode or come to learn of his affliction? Did no one really notice him woofing down his sixtieth sausage roll at the Hull Dockers’ Jamboree and wonder how he was going to digest it all?
Thus far the only ‘evidence’ we have of this glutton’s alleged illness is the set of self-serving statements he has allowed to appear in advance of the publication of his book. That is a pretty poor basis for assuming it all to be true when there just happens to be a set of ‘memoirs’ to promote, the income from which is destined for the next hundred plates of tripe.
Save for the undoubted shame he brought upon us by being appointed and anointed our Deputy Prime Minister, he was, to the vast mass of decent and respectable people, destined for oblivion. Who, after the next election, would care to remember him for more than a nanosecond? Instead he has ensured his immortality by claiming to have been much of the time when he was supposed to be ruining the country face down staring at the bottom of a toilet pan.
It was, we now see, quite by chance that nothing serious ever happened whilst Smuggo was out of the country. One wonders if the latter had any inkling of his deputy’s fondness for filling his face? If so, was he the best person to leave in charge of the pie shop? After all, deciding whether to nuke China is a bit tricky if you are barfing up the last lot of jellied eels.
One hopes that this will be pretty well the last we hear of this odious pig, especially as his hopes for the Prescott dynasty following on in his Hull seat at the next election have been dashed. Sadly he will doubtless want to sample the pies in the House of Lords restaurants and thus will swallow (if that is the right word) a lifetime’s disdain for the peerage by getting the Chumocracy to put him up for a Life Barony just as soon as he can. Still, when Labour finally implodes, it will be a pleasure to see his face. Provided always that he has wiped it quite clean first.