Protagonist Complex


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Tuesday, September 29, 2015

A Loony Leftist Corbynista Conference Speech Tick List

It’s the Labour Party conference this week, led by Britain’s most DANGEROUS demagogue Jeremy Corbyn. Just look at this picture of the man hell bent on destroying Britain:


It turns the stomach. Notice the stash of illicit drugs and gratuitous legume. Now read on for a taste of some of the MARROWINGLY unworkable left wing policies he'll be putting forward in his conference speech today.

  • Raise top rate of tax to loony leftist 50 percent, nearly as much as crumbling commie enclaves Sweden (56%), Denmark (60%) and Belgium (52%). Nuts!
  • Build affordable housing with doors, windows, taps and electricity – JUST LIKE the ones in Soviet RUSSIA! Commie Crazy!
  • Introduce rent controls in unaffordable areas – just like in miserable big government hell hole Berlin! Das ist LOONY LINKE, nein?
  • Nationalise the railways – just like in failed PARIAH states Germany, France, Spain and Japan! Barmy!
  • End the need for food banks by raising the living wage. Communist much?
  • Introduce a Robin Hood tax on City profits. Robin Hood? Yes, the MEDIEVAL anarchist who terrorised our brave servicemen in Sherwood Forest and refused to kneel before the monarch. Traitors do as a traitors see.

Plus loads of other Lefty Policies that will INVADE your savings, RAPE your house and STEAL your family. 60,000 more idiots have joined the Labour Party since his election. Don’t be one of them.

Monday, September 21, 2015

Pig Gate, A Radio Dramatisation



PRIME MINISTER OF GREAT BRITAIN AND NORTHERN IRELAND DAVID CAMERON enters in dressing gown. His wife, SAMANTHA CAMERON, is already up, her phone in one hand, a copy of that morning’s Daily Mail in the other. She looks pretty bloody angry. DAVID CAMERON is oblivious.

DAVID CAMERON (Yawning smugly)
I say has Winston fetched the milk from the gatehouse yet? I ordered two pails last night.


Ham and blast what a kertruffle, I suppose I’ll have to trot down myself like some lowly variety of farm animal. I'm the Prime Minister for God's sake!

Possibly not for much longer.

DAVID CAMERON (laughing smugly)
Whatever could you mean Samantha? You can’t possibly be suggesting, Samantha, that Corbyn has got anything on me, I’ll stick him before he does, slaughter him, gut him, butcher him, (shouting) honey glaze him at the next election!

I’m not sure he needs to do much of anything anymore.

What has got into you this morning Samantha? Whatever it is it’s becoming quite a boar.

Well David, it says here that some years back you inserted your penis into the mouth cavity of a deceased pig.

A very long silence as DAVID CAMERON attempts to recall inserting his penis into the mouth cavity of a deceased pig.

Now don’t lie to me David; is there any truth to this story.

Not a sausage.

SAMANTHA CAMERON throws her coffee mug against the original stone interior wall of the country house.

Don’t throw your mug against the original stone interior wall of this country house Samantha. I’ll find out who squealed to the press and they’ll be for the chop. How could anyone be so braizen!

From the pocket of his dressing gown DAVID CAMERON’S phone beeps.

Who’s that?

Just some texts from George and Theresa. Giving me a bit of a ribbing over this pig fucking thing I myself have literally just now found about. Oh and there’s a couple of spam emails.

SAMANTHA CAMERON throws another mug against the original stone interior wall of the country house.

Samantha please. I'd had a lard week...I was loinly...can we at least pork about this?

SAMANTHA CAMERON begins to cry, her tears sizzling like, um, tofu as they land on the hot aga.

Spam down dear, if we could just have a rashernal conversation...Oh dear, you're bacon yourself fry again.


Hello George Osbourne, Chancellor of the Exchequer for Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

So you can’t get it up for Sam but you can get a perfectly good lardon for a dead pig’s head.

Not now please George. Sam, if you’d just salami to explain…

Don’t worry. We’ll set up some kind of inquiry, chew the fat, get you a fair searing. Oh, Iain’s here, he says you’ll really need to ham it up of you’re going to get through this one.

For Christ’s sake George.

Nah you’re right. This is a dark day. A black day. A black pudding day.

George, please.

Don’t blame me, you fucked a pig.

Pig Fucker!


Saturday, September 12, 2015

59.5 Good Things About Jeremy Corbyn

1.    Largest electoral mandate of any political leader in UK history
2.   Won 85 per cent of registered supporters’ vote
3.    Won 50 per cent of membership vote
4.    Won 43 per cent  of affiliated supporters’ vote
5.    Endorsed by 41 economists, including former Bank of England adviser
6.    Endorsed by four unions
7.    Exposed gulf in sentiment between citizenship and elitist mainstream media
8.    Exposed gulf in sentiment between Labour rank n’ file  and elitist Westminster Bubble Blairite careerists
9.    Exposed gulf in sentiment between what The Guardian thinks it is and what The Guardian actually is
10.  Engaged an alienated and dormant youth vote
11.  Defied Labour sell-outs cowards whips and voted against Tory Welfare Bill
12.  Pro-Palestine
13.  Pro-refugee
14.  Pro Co-Op
15.  Pro-unionist
16.  Pro-NHS
17.  Pro-Welfare
18.  Pro-affordable housing/rent controls
19.  Pro-living wage (£10/hour)
20.  Pro market regulation
21.  Pro-feminist
22.  Pro-Podemos
23.  Anti-austerity
24.  Anti-apartheid
25.  Anti-war
26.  Has an imperfect, normal old man’s face i.e. not a “brushed aluminium cyber prick
27.  Has a nice collection of jumpers
28.  Experienced – very, very, very experienced
29.  Authentic, sincere, principled/complete opposite of Jeremy Hunt in every way possible
32.  Reviles mainstream media
33.  Reviled by mainstream media
34.  Reviled by Blair
35.  Reviled by Alistair Campbell
36.  Reviled by Tristram Hunt 
37.  Reviled by Murdoch
38.  Reviled by Tories
39.  “A threat to our future national security and to our economic security”, George Osbourne
40.  Reviled by the BBC
41.  Reviled by Polly Toynbee
42.  Reviled by my mum
43.  Speaks like an actual human person
44.  Gets irked like an actual human person (see 57)
45.  Wants to renationalise the railways
46.  Wants to renationalise energy companies
47.  This picture

48.  This picture

49.  He gives speeches from the top of fire engines

50.  Environmentalist
51.  Cyclist
52.  Vegetarian
53.  Public transport user
54.  Rallying point for an atomised British left (SNP, Greens etc.)
55.  Champion of Ralph Miliband
56.  Has an effective and instantly deployable “get out of my face” face
57.  Barely repressed air of contempt for asinine lines of questioning/everything Kay Burley stands for (see 44)
58.  Bennite
59.  Bearded
59.5 This video

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

"Pour Overs Make The Best Coffee, Dude" - A North Berkeley Police Story Minus Green Day

Digs. North Berkeley, 19/5/2015
There'd already been some degree of commotion earlier in the night, but how severe or out of the ordinary this might have been I had no idea. This was only my second night in the Bay Area and for all I knew wailing sirens, low flying helicopters, search lights, and police cruisers rolling down the street were as common in this part of the world as a tanked up cider strider on Stokes Croft back in Bristol. North Berkeley may be leafy and affluent these days but Oakland, notorious the world over for it's gang violence (although let the record state I'd had a great time cycling around it with my new friend and fellow Razorcake affiliate Jennifer that very afternoon) is only a Berkeley downtown's width away from it. It seemed perfectly feasible that some of its neighbour's issues might spill over into the quiet suburb in which I currently reside. I checked the clock - 2 am or thereabouts - rolled over and attempted sleep.

But then torchlights; more than a couple, dancing across the walls of the quaint little converted garage I've hired for the week, situated in the backyard of the nice family that owns it. It could only be cops, scurrying around the backyard looking for someone. 

An encounter of some kind seemed imminent. I wasn't scared as such - in that discombobulated state of heightened credulity between sleep and wakefulness the most surreal of events can seem both plausible and manageable - but merely irked, embarrassed in a particular way only British people can truly relate to; that feeling of meeting a stranger outside of your comfort zone in a state of obvious under-dress. It wasn't fair. It wasn't cricket. I was only in my boxer shorts. Did I have time to pull on some trousers? Apparently not: a tapping on the glass window pane of the outhouse door. A voice; urgent and forthright but not brash: "Anybody in there make yourself known."

I made my way through the darkness to the cottage's tiny foyer, squinting into the beam of the officer's torchlight, refracted into two perfectly circular, overlapping yellow disks by the double glazed window pane. As my eyes adjusted I could see the torch was mounted on the muzzle of an automatic rifle, levelled at roughly my chest height. The cop, fair haired and short if my memory serves me right, tapped the muzzle of his weapon on the pane again.
"What's your name?"
"Anyone else in there with you?"
"Mind if we take a look?"
Like I had a fucking choice.
I opened the door and fair haired cop and a stout, portly companion clomped through the space. I have no recollection of how long they were in here, a matter of seconds presumably, there're only three rooms, and I was confident I wasn't harbouring any fugitives, just some zines and 45s I'd bought that day in Oakland, plus the usual trappings of a well kept holiday home - a kettle, teas, a cafetiere, mug, Jack Kerouac and Audrey Niffenegger. It was enough time though for me to briefly consider my rights. Should some kind of warrant have been presented? Exactly how many punk points had I lost by letting two armed cops over the threshold of what is at this moment my legal abode? In Berkeley of all places, mere miles from several punk institutions. Before I could make any solid calculations they were leaving, heavy black boots passing inches from my bare toes, as I stood there feeling decidedly white, British, inadequate and boxer-shorted.

And then one final parting shot, a genius bit of humour, wit, and cheeky fucking guile rolled into one everyman statement of perceived fact; "pour overs make the best coffee dude," said the portly stout one, disappearing into the night with his rifle and unguarded opinions on coffee preparation.

I only wish I'd had the wherewithal to parry the quip, something more than the simple, "uh-huh", or "yeah?", or "maybe" I eventually managed. Still, even as I made my way back to bed, leaving the bedside light on to discourage any fugitive felons in the area who might have mistaken my current residence as a handy hideout, I couldn't help appreciating the little bit of humour and humanity the guy had, deliberately or not, injected into the otherwise grim reality of his job and the wider political and social context in which it exists. I'd been violated, the constitution lay in tatters like a poorly printed freesheet. America is not what it's faithful perceive it to be. Shit is fucked. But where there's coffee and quipping there is, surely, some possibility of reconciliation.

Eventually, despite the continued sound of police rummaging through backyards, banging on back doors and general law enforcement hubbub, and after checking news reports for an explanation, I got some sleep. 

Monday morning I awoke to the news that former Berkeley locals turned multi millionaire stadium fillers Green Day had, that same night, played a secret benefit show at the famous 924 Gilman Street Project, a mere half mile up the road from where I currently write, their first at the venue that spawned them since 2001. Advance tickets only, they'd sold out in 10-15 seconds. Without the required local scene knowledge I had, of course, no chance at all of attending the show. Literally so near, and yet so very fucking far. I put it out of my mind and headed downtown for a vegan breakfast at Saturn Café.   

The two events described above are unrelated outside of personal and subjective philosophical interpretation. 

Read the Berkeleyside report on Sunday night's commotion here: //

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

What Variety of #BringBackClarkson Asshole Is Your Dad/Boss/Colleague/Associate?

The big existential problem that every right-winger must eventually face is that they are, almost by definition, on the wrong side of history. It might not always feel like it, but — gradually, painstakingly, imperceptibly — the collective consciousness of the citizenship of the world is developing in a “progressive” i.e. “left wing” i.e. “not conservative” direction. As the great troubadour Mark Owen once sang “the times they are a’ changing”.

It’s not always consistent; it has a tendency to lurch backwards like a shoddily edited film reel from-time-to-time, especially after some kind of national trauma or harrowing event when the odd few thousand of us get all bug-eyed and twitchy for ID cards or 48 days detention like a gaggle of dicks swinging in the fart breeze of misinformation and fear, but generally humanity is learning. Jeremy Clarkson’s sacking is testament to this; an encouraging and inevitable by-product of a creakingly slow enlightenment: Mandela wasn’t a terrorist. Universal sufferage is correct, even for women. Homosexuality is a good thing. Racism sucks. A minimum wage is a good idea. The NHS is an even better one. Jeremy Clarkson is a dinosaur whose attitude is irreconcilable with the natural tides of time. 

In twenty years it won’t be up for debate. School kids watching archive footage of Top Speed or Fast Revs or Gear Stick Wank Grappling or whatever that show’s called won’t believe that such a gapingly dilated asshole such as Clarkson was ever allowed on TV.

Still though, this is 2015, and we’re still a fair few years away from a time when contemporary right wingers/Clarkson fans will insist to their children that “it was just a different time back then” or “that’s all ancient history now, why dredge it up” or whatever else they might say to excuse the fact that — yet again — they’ve found themselves to be on the losing side of the national discourse. Until that time we’re going to have to endure their fuckwitterings so it’s worth knowing exactly what type of Clarkson apologist you might run into over the next few days/months/years. Bear in mind of course that there’s bound to be a bit of an overlap. Some Clarksonites might embody traits from two different species. (I think there’s probably the potential for a venn diagram here but I don’t exactly know what one of those is.)

  1.    Needy Right Wing Twitterer/Water Cooler Goader

This is your standard Louise Mensch/Katie Hopkins style shit-stirring provocatwat looking for a few indignant re-tweets and maybe if they’re lucky an interview on This Morning where they can repeat their noxious sentiments into a camera, coupled this time with a well-practised look that combines just enough world-weary condescension and sneering smugness to incite a few more thousand Facebook comments. Maybe they’ll even be able to squeeze another back-of-a-fag-packet mono-syllabic column onto the pages of a tabloid newspaper for you to read on the bus, pricking your indignation in such a way as to plant itself in your subconscious for the rest of the day like a tape-worm wriggling away in that membrane between your skull and brain. For these types any kind of attention is better than none at all; it is their raison d’etre. They don’t just exist on TV and the internet either. In offices all over the UK tomorrow these twerps will emerge, their trouser tents rising in synchronicity with the eye-brows of those co-workers still naive enough to still be shocked by their “you can’t say that about Argentines Graham!” obnoxious exultations. Despite the bravado these people don’t actually care about anything. They have no real opinions. Their whole character is a construct designed purely for the sole purpose of attention seeking exhibitionism, thus distracting them from the fact that they are, in fact, without character, without purpose and without soul.

  2.    Sexually Inadequate Insecure Males

These people are not unlike the Water Cooler Goaders except the motivation for their assholedom comes from a very different place. For them Top Car Trumps (what the fuck is that show called?) is an engine-revving, exhaust-pipe throbbing, skid-pan sliding like sheathed penises into a lubed-up pussy-chicane at Silverstone piece of very useful conspicuous consumption (something something soapy tit-wank banter pints). They’re men, but just don’t feel quite masculine enough to be considered fully man-ist according to society’s traditional, conventional, completely illogical and historically quite damaging standards of what mandomness is supposed to be. Their worst fear is that someone else, worst of all another maler male, might find out they’re not as male-ist, and make fun of them about it or call them a poof or something. So they over-compensate by vocally pouring scorn on anything that doesn’t match their perceptions of what true manliness is; things like: considering others; considering the environment; considering anything that doesn’t directly gratify themselves or their own ego; having thoughts; having half pints; subtlety; tactful understatement; women as people; left wing politics. High Gear has none of those things. In fact a lot of the time the presenters openly mock them and have people giggling in the background when they did so as a kind of positive ego-reinforcement feed-back loop. And you could watch it and talk about it and even buy merch for it to show how manlyly you really were. Clarkson was the embodiment of this ethic and thus an attack on him is an attack on those values and must be challenged, or else you’re gay. #BringBackClarksonYouPoofMiliband!

  3.    Right Wing Columnists Writing Right Wing Things For Money

These poor souls are currently panicking and devouring their young like rats trapped in a burning box because their mortgages depend on spewing right wing bile on a weekly basis whether they believe it or not — they’re right wing, but professionally. Clarkson was actually one of these people himself; penning diatribes just credible enough to provide another squirt of confirmation bias for Sun readers seeking a shoring up of their already held convictions (which all editorial pieces are of course, including this one you fucking lemming). The problem he’s given his fellow “journalists” is that his case is a pretty open and shut one. He assaulted a guy because his dinner wasn’t ready when he got off work like some confused drunken wife beater from the 1980s. Then he threw an epic tantrum, stomping about and bellowing like a mid-twentieth century dictator (but not Hitler) completely in love with his own myth. Also he’s already done and said a whole bunch of racist shit. He overstepped the mark repeatedly and by some distance. But he’s also a right wing darling. Expect some pretty confused editorial pieces along the lines of “Of course Clarkson had to be sacked but to fire him is preposterous. Did he really have to go go, and if he has gone then to where? Where do we all go for that matter? The union controlled hand-wringing zealots at the BBC must answer these questions or else face the mercy of the private market.” You should really pity these people rather than hate them. Although if they had any integrity and actually wrote what they thought instead of what their editors and owners told them to then they wouldn’t have these dilemmas in the first place. I’ll leave it up to you.

4.    Fearers of Changeness

Change is scary and uncomfortable. Human beings are naturally disinclined towards the unfamiliar. But, like swimming lessons and maths, one must consider the long term gains over the short term discomfort, suck it up and get on. Easier said than done of course but acknowledging this fact is half the battle, and yet it’s one many people never grasp. Jeremy Clarkson has been a familiar face on TV for decades. And now he’s gone and so to, possibly, has Gear Stick, a long time BBC institution. If you meet a Clarksonite incapable of articulating why they disagree with Clarkson’s sacking, or why they liked him in the first place, or why they signed that petition to keep The Antiques Roadshow on air, and then just end up blaming the whole thing on West Indian migrants and men with long hair, they’re probably one of these. There’re more of them than you think. They make up half the Tory membership and 98% of UKIP.

  5.    The Liberal Elite Conspiracy Theorists

The public sector has been cut to ribbons. The NHS is G4S. Prisons are bookless. The poor are “shirkers”. The disabled are “fraudsters”. Immigrants are “health tourists”. Ed is “Red”. The queues for food banks are so long they’ve cut straight across the queue for the zero hour contract employment agency, which has already coalesced with the queue snaking out of the brand new bookies. No one can afford to live in a house. Nigel Farage is on The BBC again doing the hokey-cokey with the Israeli ambassador on the Daily Politics while Andrew Neil catches up on editing The Spectator. Corporation tax has been cut to whatever the average price of a packet of Skittles is in Dundee. Executives of corrupt multi-national banks/criminal money launderers chair the BBC Trust. Forget what I said in the intro. Britain's shitted up for good. And yet still they insist that the BBC is controlled by a left wing liberal elite of black lesbian single mums, Russell Brand and Owen Jones hell bent on destroying the fabric of Britain as a nation (whatever that fabric might actually consist of; they never can decide.) The slander and de-throning of Jeremy Clarkson, noble crusader against the Stalinist hordes of burnt out nurses and bankrupt graduates, is merely the latest manifestation of a much wider Trotskyist plot. These are the most deluded, demented unhinged of all the Clarksonites and should not be approached by anyone ever. You can't escape them though because they have a weekly newspaper column in three different publications in which they write about being marginalised and ignored. Their brother's an MP, their mother owns Coventry and their dad's on the board of BSkyB. It’s the “political correctness gone mad” “you couldn’t make it up” brigade under a newer guise and they’re angrier than ever. “I mean, you really can’t say anything anymore, can you? You can't punch anyone these days. I don’t know, it’s this whole BBC liberal elite thing isn’t it?” No. It isn’t. It really fucking isn’t.

  6.    Everyone in UKIP.

  7.    That other, smaller Hubcap Race presenter (Clarkson’s son? Research).

  8.    That other Dashboard Trackster presenter that’s a little older.

  9.    People who “just like the format. I mean you have to admit it’s a pretty entertaining show.”

Okay that’s your lot.

Top Gear! It’s called Top Gear!  

Thursday, February 12, 2015

Who Are These Tory Party Fundraising Fanboys?

With a 500 bird limit, because We're All In This Together
Supporter. Sympathiser. Ally. Zealot – all words. All in regular use. All implying some degree of approval and all applicable in a political context.  But is there one more word you could add to the list? How about ‘fan’, for instance? Has anyone ever described themselves as a ‘fan’ of a political party or figure? Surely not – after all they’re not football clubs or pop stars or wrestlers or something exciting and emotionally stirring like those things. When it comes to politics in the UK the spectrum of opinion stretches from ‘wary, cynical approval’ to ‘outright loathing’ – the only emotional extreme we feel towards politicians is almost always negative. We'll never throw flowers or bras at politicians, but we might throw eggs or manure or custard pies in their stupid faces.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learnt about Tory voters it’s that I will never truly understand the way they think.

For those that don’t know the Conservative Party’s Black and White fundraising gala is basically a kind of party political retreat, an armistice evening whereby Tories of all shapes, sizes and degrees of extreme privilege can, for a few hours, cease pretending that the party is anything other than an agent of, by and for the financial elite and really be their disgusting, sociopathic selves. Money and vulgar opulence abound.

Ostensibly it’s all about raising funds for the upcoming election. Tables price cost as much as £15,000 quid. That might seem high but get a seat next to a more malleable cabinet minister and those few hours could translate into many millions of pounds. That’s what most attendees are really paying for: access; the face time necessary to persuade a politician to ditch those Marxist regulatory by-laws or stupid taxes or economy-suffocating environmental restrictions and just let business do its business —usually all over the face and in the eyes of the average Joe.

Such is the want of moneyed dickheads the majority of the evening is spent spending cash, in an auction for all sorts of eye-wateringly expensive things both tangible and abstract. Most of the rewards are your standard lavish but ultimately unfulfilling luxury excursions to somewhere soulless where you might meet a Saudi Prince or business tycoon or Peter Stringfellow or some other breed of asshole. Others are more traditional Ye Old Tory type jaunts; stalking, falconry, shooting sentient animals and various other varieties of elitist and morally dubious countryside activities (a lot of Tory stuff goes on in the countryside, hidden away from the ridiculing laughs and withering glares of the judgemental masses. They’re a bit like doggers in that respect).

Other items can only be described as ideological masturbatory aids. I mean, one could argue a collection of George Osborne’s budget speeches signed by the dead-eyed psychopath himself might generate some kind of future historical value, but we all know what it’s really being used for; “Okay dear, read that bit about ring-fencing pensioners’ bus passes again, now the bit about freezing public sector pay below inflation, yep, now benefit caps, now show me that signature again! God it’s so graceful…I…*gasp*…and – yep - I’m spent. Clean that up will you Winston, it’s what I pay you the minimum wage for isn't it?”

There was one particular type of item up for auction though that wasn't just an experience or physical thing — it was the politicians themselves. People willingly spent what we can probably assume were large amounts of cash not merely to access politicians — how much politicking could you really do while running a 10km Iron Man race with Iain Duncan Smith? —  but just to hang out and spend time with their favourite Tory figureheads;  to bask in their presence while they do stuff they like.

Taking us back to that semantic point I was making earlier; this is more than approval, or respect, or even admiration; it’s worship, the type of fandom usually directed at Justin Bieber by young adolescent girls who will eventually learn that simpering, servile idolatry of individual people is unhealthy and demeaning, and that the very act of venerating and monetising their time and air-space is both a measure and validation of said individual’s own ego-mania.

A couple of items down the auction list from that signed budget collection, right under dinner for four with Michael and Sarah Gove (“a hearty weeknight roast chicken dinner at a mutually convenient date” stuffing included, ‘ey readers?) is one labelled “tea and book review with Boris Johnson”. But it’s not Hitchhikers Guide to The Galaxy the lucky punter will be reviewing; it’s Boris’ own sodding book.  

“During tea Boris will enlighten and delight you on the topic of his latest literary masterpiece The Churchill Factor: How One Man Made History.” Literary masterpiece? That doesn’t sound like it’s going to be a very objective "review", more like a spluttering clown gloating and boasting his way through however many pages of a topic as spent and wrung out as said clown’s political credibility.

Right below that, lot number 80 to be precise, is “shoe shopping with Theresa May”. One for the wives and mistresses there, sisterz doin’ it for themselves. They don’t need no men to stick it to progressive gender politics. Off their husbands’ leashes like it’s 1983 etc. etc.

How could anyone possibly have a good time — how could the experience feel anything close to genuine —  when the whole sorry charade is predicated on self-debasement and simpering bum-lickery? These are adult humans we’re talking about, prostrating themselves at the feet of other adult humans; “I just want to watch you live Mr Gove, I just want to be a tile on the wall above your walk in bath. Please Mr Gove, please….I…I think I love you Mr Gove. Can I…can I kiss you Mr Gove.”

Tories are weird.

Source material and photos from this Buzzfeed article. Thanks to Bea Harbour for hipping me the weblink.