Tories in Trouble

I’ve been having a good think about the state of the Conservative Party in Britain. Two minutes it took me. Shower of flamin’ losers.

Lady Thatcher would be turning in her grave if she could see the mess this lot was in. If she was dead. To think that the party she led to three General Election wins can’t even organise a day’s outing to a distillery. Disgraceful.

There’s Iain Duncan-Thingy, the biggest loser since the last one. I can’t even bring myself to call him leader of the party because he wouldn’t make a lead for a dog. What was the point of getting rid of the baldy wee Yorkshire boy and replacing him with a double-barrelled baldy wet blanket? If they had just changed him over and kept the same name no-one would have noticed.

If anything, this one is even more boring than the last. Mrs Campbell in Harding Street had the telly on last week when I was backing up her waste pipe and Duncan-Thingy was droaning on and on about something or other. Next thing I knew I’d fallen asleep on the job and Mrs Campbell was far from happy. The man’s a bloody menace.

I see the Spaniard is causing trouble again. Why this Portillo bloke can’t just go back to Magaluf and be a waiter is beyond me. I’m sure he’d make a perfectly good waiter, if a little light on his feet. But oh no, first chance he gets he has to stir up the effluence. Any apprentice worth his solvent weld will tell you that if you continually stir the excrement then sooner or later you will get covered in the stuff. The sooner the better in the Spaniard’s case.

Then there’s this Theresa May who I used to think was one of those bits of tottie that the lads like looking at on page three of the Sun. Turns out this one’s a different sort altogether and we’d happily have a whip round for her to keep her gear on. Mind you, she is usually seen with some right tits. There’s that little Liam Fox chap. Five foot nothing and dandruff like a blizzard. There’s Michael Ancram. Six foot tall and dandruff like a blizzard. Then there’s… Well there’s bound to be others but I just can’t think of them. They need to bring back some of the old guard and give Blair and his cronies a kick in the Commons.

Bring back Maggie and Stormin Norman, Howard and Parkinson. Bring back Selwyn-Gummer and … okay let’s not go too far. But if something works once it will work again. If I had a pound for every time I’d sorted a leaking tap with a dod of chewing gum then I’d be plumbing in the Bahamas. And if it’s true in plumbing then it’s true in life.

Bring back Maggie. You know it makes sense. Even if she doesn’t.

Plumb on.

Major Major

Old John Major, eh? Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more, say no more.

Who would have believed that the old grey man and the egg lady had been going through the yes lobby together all these years? Mrs Thatcher must be turning in her grave.

And yet Mr Major’s episode of shame could so easily have been avoided if he had remembered the plumber’s code.

If I have one golden rule it’s never lend someone your tool unless you are sure they will look after it. And as I always say, if it’s true in plumbing, it’s true in life.

Mr Major clearly forgot this rule and gave Ms Edwina his tool without a thought to the consequences.

Now his reputation’s gone down the plughole. Or has it?

I reckon if he decided to run again as Tory leader then he’d be a skoosh to get back into Number 10. Phoney Tony’s cap would be on a shoogly cistern if there was any half decent opposition. That clearly doesn’t apply to Ian Duncan Thingy but the new dynamic Johnny Major would be right in there. Okay, the Downing Street caterers would have to run for cover but that’s a small price to pay.

As for Ms Edwina, well she’s a womanly wench isn’t she? Or should that be a womanly wrench? The kind that once it gets a good grip on your nuts it never lets go.

We all know her type. Gold taps and no washers as my old gaffer would say. She’s the kind who you would give a good deal on fitting a new bidet as long as she kept it quiet and then before you know it she’s told the whole street.

How Johnny must regret all those nights he told Norma not to bother with dinner because he’d be getting stuck into a curry at the office.

Plumb on.