the smell of reason 2: two breasts for
britain!
1998
(original uncut previously unseen Sleaze Nation column)
PRIME MINISTER IN RAPE HELL
CAREER OVER AFTER ATTACK
A terrified Tony Blair has given up his political career after being brutally
raped by a scar-faced junkie. Friends of the PM feared he would be recognised on
television by his attacker after the horrific ordeal at Number 10 Downing
Street. Mr. Blair (45) was tied up,
gagged and raped twice by a schizophrenic with Hepatitis C.
”This has devastated his life, career and family,” revealed Gordon Brown the
Treasury Secretary and the current frontrunner for the PM’s job.
“He is quite simply terrified. Tony had a wonderful career in politics
ahead of him and that is now at an end.”
An all too familiar insurance ad scenario; but in the real world things are
never quite that simple.
Welcome to Cool Britannia, baby:
(CUE CREDITS/TITLES)
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme? Try
using those classic 60s fruit flavours to salve over the ugly cracks in the
pox-chomped face of UK 1998 and you won’t get too far.
There’s that wonderful bit in the Bible, isn’t there?
Which brings me to the Breasts of Tony Blair and The Iron Lady’s Cock.
Sometimes things just creep up and there they are and so it was with me when I
looked at the trees and the buildings and the faces around me and saw, for the
first time, the one, big face that is Blair’s Britain; like those framed
posters from the card shop in
town, where a million stills from ‘Star Wars’ are computer-teased to make up
one giant photofit of Yoda, if you squint your eyes or stand back far enough
(the wise old extraterrestrial face now somehow rubbery and unconvincing but
hard to let go of all the
same).
As a native, I recalled Thatcher’s Britain quite distinctly – Classix
Nouveau, Dirty Dennis Potter, Magenta DeVine, passports with ‘PRAGUE’
stamps, a world run by hairdressers, Ben Elton, Morrissey - but here, in just a
year, was Blair’s Britain. The sweat of it on everything.
So I started to think about Margaret Thatcher and her enduring architectural
monument: the Canary Wharf development, thrusting its Promethean spike into the
flightpaths of planes on hold above the capital. That great symbol of patriarchal, rational progress, the
yuppie Babel, the wanking pyramid of success.
Excalibur aroused, spitting solar radiance and Arthurian promise all over
the lips, face and hair of the Commonwealth. Ultimate dad-energy towering over
every wrecked and ruined New Romantic genderbuster; triumphant tower of the hard
body, of Schwarzenegger and Stallone, of sales columns pumping up and up like
Viagra-juiced OAP erections, champagne bottles ejaculating, the Dark Tower of
Thatcher.
From yesterday’s stern father to the nurturing mother of today, from
Thatcher’s Britain to Blair’s, from computer silence to the nattering gossip
of the internet. Hardcore XXX in
every living room. Satellite.
Fetish. Shiny.
Blair. Like a comicbook
sound effect in virtual reality, like being sick on the waltzers or a baby
gagging up some partial solid but getting the best of it: a womanly PM, at last,
who knows how to breast feed the gawping beaks of a nation orphaned by the death
of its Princess - the 80s
repackaged without Thatcher, punk without the pins, smiley without ‘e’. The
Beatles without John Lennon , all the good bits of the 60s, the 70s, the
80s...and remember the first time you heard the Stone Roses?
Or what about ‘Shakermaker’? It’
s all here. It’s all now! And
fuck me, here comes good old Captain Mainwaring and Rigsby and that poof who
died, all back again like it says in The Bible.
Time has ended, comrade.
Sweets for breakfast! Sweets for
dinner! Sweets for tea!
The Luncheon of the Damned is served and it's all menu, no meal.
A
neverending childhood dawns, just as the Tarot Trump ‘The Aeon’ predicts in
its negative aspect. Remember those devil eyes? Some top occultists say the
photographs of Mr. Blair used in the Tory party poster campaign were genuine
etheric-sensitive images. One magickal militia group calling itself Kombat 666
has already announced plans to kidnap and ritually crucify the Prime Minister,
whom they refer to as ‘The Serpent 138, Prince of Hallucinations’.
Everything here is real.
BLAIR’S ‘DEVIL EYES’ MADE ME SCHIZOPHRENIC
GAZZA’S AMAZING CLAIM
”I became schizophrenic. I was a
serial killer, a footballer, an angel by day, a hooker by night. I didn¹t know
whether I was coming or going for most of the run-up to the World Cup.
I was, quite literally, a human battleground for what I later discovered
were malignant entities under the control of the Prime Minister, Tony Blair.”
“At
one point there were actually five demons fighting to take over me soul like.
If I hadn’t got sorted out in the hospital, like, one of them would be
talking to you now.”
Paul Gascoine, the England striker, revealed today how he underwent intensive
treatment at a top psychiatric unit and made astonishing accusations that he had
become a ‘human battleground’ for five warring demons ‘sent by the Prime
Minister. By Tony Blair.’
Gazza
claims the Prime Minister gave him drugs and hypnotised him to be rubbish at
football during satanic orgies at Number 10.
”I ending up selling my soul five or six times but I was pretty p***ed ,like,
by that time,” Gazza went on.
“Too
much beer. On top of what I’d already had. I didn’t really know what to
expect, like; I thought it was just the usual knees up with Tony and Liam and
Pats and me old mate, Chris Evans. I had no idea that demon worship would be
involved. I now realise that the notorious ‘Devil Eyes’ were fact not
fiction. I don’t know what kind of world we’ll be living once monsters like
that are in charge.”
Gazza claimed the Prime Minister shocked his guests with disturbing displays of
supernatural power which included :
- "peeling off the front of his face as though ‘skinning a rabbit’.”
- "making himself look like evil Moors Murderer Myra Hindley at will.”
- “conjuring demons into existence to act as his helpers.”
”He was determined to spoil my cup chances,” Gazza said.
“And in the end, I have to say, he succeeded.”
Oasis star Noel Gallagher dismissed the allegations that he and brother Liam
took part in satan rituals at Whitehall parties.
”Hope you get better Gazza. I
haven¹t been to any satanic orgies at at No.10 or anywhere else for that
matter. I’m too busy on the new
album. You’ll have to ask Our Kid
but I can’t picture him prancing around on a broomstick or getting into black
magic, can you? I wouldn’t get mixed up in anything like that.
The occult’s taboo ground round our way.”
No surprise then, that where Thatcher’s cock once stood as the ultimate
expression of her will, our liquid maelstrom of sickly nostalgic hyper-reality
already has its dominant architectural motif in the shape of Tony Blair’s
wondrous Millennium Tit. Straining against both the skyline and cruel ridicule,
it seems an unlikely answer to the nation’s ills but you’d be wrong to think
so and here’s why:
SUDDENLY, AS THOUGH TRIPPING ON SOME NEW KIND OF DRUG, UNDERSTANDING DAWNS: THE
DOME IS NOTHING LESS THAN AN EPIC ATTEMPT TO CONDUCT THE ALCHEMICAL MARRIAGE OF
OPPOSITES ON THE LANDSCAPE OF ENGLAND ITSELF!
La London’s proud Orwellian erection has now been joined by single pert and
budding breast but there’s still a hole in the soul of Britain and it
doesn’t take a genius to see that what we need is not less dome but more. The
malignant energies of Canary Wharf, can only realigned and recontextualised by
making London more like one of those weird travesti Boys from Brazil who live to
populate Channel 4 exposes and ‘Dispatches’ specials.
With this in mind, I’d like to take this opportunity to issue an immediate
call to arms for the nation.
What will it take to convince the Prime Minister of the urgent need for a
second, complementary millennium tit project to complete the transformation of
London into a sexy post-OP TS with a glamorous future as a singer or fashion
designer? What more fitting symbol of the millennial dream than a giant she-male
Britannia International at the heart of the capital!
A modern, hermaphroditic version of the towering, obscene chalk giants
that are so much a part of our rich British heritage.
Post-2000, imagine London,
seen from the air - all of a woman’s curves but with a hard, satisfying
surprise between her stockinged thighs. The best of both worlds, you might say!
So, come. Let us cry ‘More! More! More!’ and happily drown in the
everflowing milk of paradise that sprays from Tony’s strap-on bosom. Let the
clarion call ring forth across the clouded hills of a New Jerusalem! Let
building commence!
TWO BREASTS FOR BRITAIN!
After dinner, the Prime Minister and the leader of the political wing of the IRA
made love for the first time.
”He started kissing my shoulders and gently slipped down the straps of my
dress” said Mr. Adams. “It was admittedly one of the most exciting moments
of my life. He knew exactly how to
turn a man on. He made love to me
for an hour and a half - in every position.
I had countless orgasms. And
then we did it again and again...and again - five hours in all.”
The following morning the PM went for a five mile run - then took Adams out on a
shopping spree...
”It was like that scene from the film Pretty Woman,” said the Sinn Fein
spokesman.
