Tories and Lib Dems and Fear, Oh My

Well, it's happened now, hasn't it? The blowfish Blofeld is now PM (which doesn't stand for Posh Moron, apparently), and Nick Clegg is Official Milk Monitor. The Tories last week entered into a coalition with the Liberal Democrats (though the Tories agreeing to anything with 'coal' in its name must have gone against the grain), ensuring that we very much have that Broken Britain that Cameron has been bleating on about since I first heard his stupid whining mantra. A week of waiting for anything to happen, with "Breaking News" being burned onto my screen (which does detract from "TVX" in the corner), the inevitable happened. And I don't mean Lembit Opik having the time to star as Screech again in the Saved By The Bell reunion, and Charles Clarke going back to being a full-time Toby jug.

Yes, we're now under a (sort of) Conservative (with a large C) government, with a Cabinet comprising entirely of cunts (small c). Theresa May, who has voted against every single piece of legislation relating to freedom and civil liberty ever has been appointed Home Secretary and Minister For Women and Equality. George Osborne is the new Chancellor, looking like some pudgy Edwardian imbecile, and Lib Dem Vince Cable, not to be confused with Cyclops's son in X-Men, is in some honorary shut-the-Lib-Dems-up-with-token-powerless-government-positions position. Essentially, it's all a big mess, and normal, average, low-to-middle-income families are going to get royally fucked. The Cabinet, mainly comprised of self-interest-motivated public school toffs, is awash with cries of "rah!", so much so that they might as well be worshipping a fucking sun god.

A fixed term of five years. Let's see how long it lasts.

There is an uncanny resemblance between PM Blofeld and Odo from Deep Space 9. It might just be me.

Anyway, watching Clegg on his way to Number 10 last week in a horribly orchestrated piece of media-friendly devastation, he had that new-job-honeymoon-period strut. As soon as he shook Cameron's hand as he emerged like pus from the door of Number 10, you just knew that he would later be leaving with a John Wayne swagger.

A day before this, we had Gordon Brown's admittedly moving resignation speech, just after I'd finished making him a "well done on still being Prime Minister" card out of glitter, glue and macaroni, the selfish cunt. Unfortunately, the dignity is removed somewhat when you realise that he's left Harriet Harman (anagram: Man Hair? Rather!) in charge. You could barely keep the smugness out of the now Shadow Cabinet as they left their final meeting, sure as each and every one of them were that they were destined for the top job. Ed Balls, neither a smug boast or a nickname but an anagram of Sad Bell (it's only a shame his middle name isn't Den), who looks like he's going to explode after suffering a whiteout, David Miliband (anagram: Bad, Dim Invalid), who looks like a toy monkey called Gus, and the oozing venom of The Lord Mandelson (anagram: The Mean Old Serpent), whose behind-the-scenes shenanigans must be so shockingly eerie that CCTV lenses shatter at his very mention. At least he'll have more time to spend trying to outwill the fucking Ant Hill Mob now. The look of relief on Brown's face as he resigned said it all; here was a competent politician, with atrocious people skills, who got the shitty end of the Blair stick. Whereas his post-election speeches were honest, frank and dignified, Cameron's were full of anti-Labour rhetoric. What he was trying to cover up is that no party won an overall majority, so he can stick that up his talcumned arse. Either way, we're stuck with him, until it all falls apart. In the meantime, we've got the Labour leadership election to deal with, which will come across as a cross between It's A Knockout and Stars In Their Eyes, loads of disproportioned cartoon characters scrambling over each other in a farcical attempt to appeal to the imaginary hearts of Labour MPs, whilst doing patchwork impressions of other people in an attempt to pretend they've got a personality. As soon as Brown resigned, I bet the Milibands (even the third, hidden Miliband they don't talk about, Alan) high-fived each other, making a wet, slapping sound, like someone punching a seal. Anyway, that's all to come.

Thanks, voters of Broken Britain.

Nick Clegg. Nicky Nicky Cleggy Clegg. The kingmaker, which is also coincidentally the nickname for Prince Phillip's left testicle. Forget his own "I went from Churchill to Hitler in a week" nonsense. He actually went from kingmaker to surrender monkey in a smaller time frame, dooming most of us in the process. Before I barricade my house for when Herr Cameron decides to fuck my family, let's have a look at what's in store after the biggest sell-out since Peter Kay abandoned writing new material in favour of rehashing stuff about garlic bread once a year.

• One of Cameron's 'moderate' policies is to raise the age of gay consent to 126.
• Foxes are said to be 'gutted'. Or they will be soon.
• Cameron has codenamed his Cabinet: Retained Enemies In Conservative Hierarchy. He's just trying to work out a suitable acronym.
• The morning after he became Fuhrer, Cameron just walked into my kitchen, bold as brass, and took the milk from my fridge. As he swigged greedily, streams of white rolling over his puffy jowls, he said it was "his sacred duty" or some bollocks.
• The goosestep is going to become mandatory.
• If Nick Clegg doesn't keep his new fuck buddy suitably fluffed, he's promised to invade Poland.
• It took a while to sort out the power-sharing deal because Clegg and Cameron were trying to sort out which side of the bed they were going to get. They've only just sorted out the cleaning rota; it's going to be an equal share of responsibility, Clegg doing Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays, and Cameron's butler the rest.

One thing that came out of the election fiasco was that news reporters are cunts. Especially Nick Robinson. And Adam Boulton. And Kay Burley. Robinson clearly had a major stiffy when it looked like Cameron was going to get the job, and couldn't look more self-satisfied if he'd managed to fellate himself. He is so far up David Cameron's arse, he can see Mrs Thatcher's shoes, though he does look like Theo Paphitis having a stroke.

Anyway, this past couple of weeks has been awful, if not for the new Fatherland we find ourselves in, then for my grandmother Joan passing away. She will be sorely missed.

In the meantime, I'm well entrenched in my new job, dealing with every passive-aggressive ne'er-do-wash, whose only worries extend to their phones. Judging by some of them and their inability to speak outside of grunts and whistles, I wonder why they bother owning phones anyway. Most of them are lovely, I must stress, but after a decade of customer service, people never change. Some people just don't know how to conduct themselves. It's these same people who were scaremongered by the tabloid press into getting Cameron into power.

As we find ourselves in a dark new era, which is a lot darker and uncertain than the one we've just left, we can at least be sure of one thing: TV satire is better under a Conservative government. Bring back Spitting Image.

Finally, thanks to Michael Legge for the mention on the latest Precious Little Podcast (around the 1hr mark), which, due to the use of the word "cunt", I can never tell my mum about.

Oh, and thanks to Peter Serafinowicz for answering my question on his latest #PSQA on Twitter. He previously answered my question "Who is the strongest Bee Gee?" (answer: Hercules Gibb), and has just answered "How do you remove stains from duvets?" (answer: Anticlimax). He is a genius.

Right, I'm off. I've rambled on a bit. I promise a non-political blog next time. I'm sick of it as much as you are, but I needed to get it off my chest. Now if only I can remove this knife from my back, monogrammed "NC".