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Regular updates of sarcastic and irreverent nonsense.
Hi there! My name is Ed Miliband and I have something that I want to tell each and every one of you. Yes, that’s right… everyone.
But before we get onto that let me tell you a bit about myself so we can get all cosy: my name is Ed Miliband and I’m a YouTuber. Some of my fans will know me from my videos David Cameron: a man who probably doesn’t even have a willy and David Cameron: a man who probably wears velcro trainers because he doesn’t know how to tie his shoelaces properly. I bet he asks his mum to do it for him.
That second one is well cuss and has had at least 58 views since I uploaded it last year.
The other day I was on the bus when someone looked at me. I didn’t have my glasses on but I could tell from the bumps on her chest that this person was a woman, so I held her gaze for as long as I could. I wanted to smile at her, at this woman who was still looking at me, but she turned her head before I got the chance. This was a shame because it was going to be one of my nice smiles, and the experience left me crestfallen. Yes, crestfallen.
I got out of my seat and decided to approach this woman, to ask her why she felt that way, to roll my sleeves up and ask her why why why. It turned out that she was Italian and didn’t speak much English, something that struck a cord with me. If this simple woman is able to thrust a lance through my heart with such ease, what is stopping me from doing the same thing to my nemesis?
When I got home I put the kettle on and psyched myself up to create a brand new Facebook page… and I’m so very glad that I did. Within minutes, my David Cameron: does this man even have a bottom? post was generating comments and interest from all over the globe. The atmosphere was electric.
Later that evening I asked my brother to make me a cup of tea, and he did. I then told him that it was a rubbish cup of tea, an accusation that left him looking utterly crestfallen. Yes, crestfallen.
I then asked him if he knew about the Italian woman on the bus and he told me he didn’t… and that right there was the problem. I put my arm around him and reassured him that I was willing to be ‘his’ Italian woman on the bus, that he should look up to me as if I really was an Italian woman on the bus who didn’t speak any English.
And that is my message to you all… do not see me as a wonky man in a suit who forgets to put on his glasses… instead, see me as ‘your’ Italian woman on the bus who doesn’t speak any English.
For that is who I am.
Dear Mr Simpson, Conservative MP for London South West
The other morning I was woken up by the heavy footsteps of the postman as he trudged his way towards my front door. He must have been very excited as he shoved something through my letterbox really hard; well it was either that or he tripped up on the cat that usually lies across the driveway. Actually, I think that is the more likely scenario because I heard him swear at something and nobody has seen the cat for two days now.
When I first picked the leaflet up off the mat I was struck with just how fresh it felt, especially when some of the red ink rubbed off on my hand. To me this is a good sign because if I go into the bakers to buy a knotted roll, I want those yummy glazed sesame seeds to flake off as I pick it up. The loose ink on your leaflet is an endearing feature that gives me the impression that you like bread, just as I do. This is both reassuring and educational, as I have always wondered what politicians feed themselves during their time at Westminster; up until now I had always thought it was a combination of coffee and bullshit.
When I opened the leaflet I was drawn to the faux-professionalism of its contents. Dearest constituent it said, reminding me of just how serious politics is. It also reminded me of that time when the bank sent me a birthday card addressed To the account holder. Although it was only four words I felt as if my bank manager had personally popped round to say “We’ve got your personal details and your money, so fuck you.” Likewise, your leaflet referring to me as a constituent is a firm reminder that if I’m unhappy with what you’re doing, no matter how much you may have licked my arse to get me to vote for you in the first place, you won’t put up with any kind of rebellious nonsense from me. I confess to preferring my overlords to be firm, powerful and jealously paranoid, and you seem to fit the bill perfectly.
I especially liked the photo that was on page two of the leaflet of you standing there in someone’s front garden. The lawn was long enough to avoid alienating any crop-growing farmers, yet also short enough to show off the tasteful tartan slippers that the middle aged woman standing next to you was wearing. I obviously don’t know whether she was a constituent or your mother but she looked suitably terrified of your limp and clammy hands and of the sycophantic grin that was plastered across your chubby face. I must say, I was impressed with how lush and healthy the grass looked. If I was a dog I definitely wouldn’t want to ruin it by squatting down and taking a shit on it. Instead, I would do my business in the middle of the pavement and then go onto the grass to do that funny thing that some dogs do when they clean their arse by dragging themselves across the floor.
Unfortunately I’m not a dog so would it be okay if I came to your house and shit all over your doorstep instead?