It’s been some time now since whoever it was squealed about you boinking me, so I thought I’d just check in. The paparazzi have been sniffing around my pen so much that I’ve barely had a moment to wallow. A pig hasn’t had this much media attention since the snap of that ex Labour leader slobbering over my cousin made the front page of The Sun. Don’t you worry Steve, Mr Miliband can’t hurt you anymore.
I wasn’t too happy about the denial, but you never could admit to anything. Even when we were lovers and you’d twirl my tale between your porky fingers, you always said that I just didn’t fit in with your long term economic plan. I see that the posh girl is hogging you now. I always knew you’d cast pearls before swine — bloody pigheaded in every way.
Tax credits have been slashed faster than my negligee on that fateful night at Piers Gaveston
The reason I’m writing Dave is to ask you to not take this out on the public. I noticed how tax credits have been slashed faster than my negligee on that fateful night at Piers Gaveston and it’s snout to be proud of. Of course, Georgie boy is too busy suckling at the teats of the Chinese energy industry to care, but Amber Rudd’s face was ruddy pink with embarrassment when she was confronted by that angry mother on Question Time the other night. She sweating like a… well, you know. Although there has been talk of a ‘national living wage’ aiming to compensate for these cuts, it’s not much going to help my dead porcine brethren who are being ritualistically spit roasted by you overprivileged.
You boys have all changed so much since I last saw you. I heard about you were taking free school dinners away from the children. What, so because you can’t have me no one can? It’s fine if you feel like that, but can you please tell your oaf of a London mayor to stop hurling himself at tiny Japanese children like it’s their fault. Everyone knows you only hired that pot bellied swine because he looks like me.
Around the time of the general election I saw a snap of you eating a hotdog with a knife and fork and I felt a pain in my loins. You used to eat me like that, I thought, the tears falling into my troth. So guess what, I voted Corbyn. At least he’s a veggie and has some concern for my welfare, although to be fair you always did prefer to give than receive. Anyway, must trot now. I see the Scots are still keen to draw a line through the farmyard, but you’re insisting on staying in touch. Maybe we could do the same?