Poor little rich boy Dave. Born at the age of 32 into sickening privilege but with no discernible mouth parts, he fell under the auspices of a maverick Swiss surgeon who took pity on him and grafted an unusually tight gecko’s arse where any normal human being would have the good sense to grow a gob, thus handing our hero a new lease of lies and finally gifting him the chance to talk forever without actually saying anything. Sadly, the arse was barely fit for purpose, and as David’s face grew fatter, the arse grew more taught, till one day its puckered aperture all but sealed up completely, allowing only a strangulated upper-crust drone to squirt from his ridiculous plumped cushion of a head.
Which is why today, after centuries honing his skills in the netherworld, this ageless voivode of the undead, this fleshly exegesis of purest fucking evil has finally emerged horns-first from the dirt, a master in the art of mind control, and now works his minions like a hook-handed puppet master, standing dead-eyed in front of a giant backdrop with the word "CHANGE" emblazoned across it "because it worked a treat for that black yank", while Osborne and various other identikit fartclouds hiss their way through whatever scripted dishwater that sick son-of-a-succubus telepathically dictates to them.
Running is futile, Britain. It’s already too late.