The World Cup On Telly, Cuts And Other Such Nonsense.

As I'm sure you're well aware the current political situation represents a bit of a lull for us Labour gentleman who've made our name at the business end of Labour politics. The Leadership Election must be a full and frank discussion about the direction of the party where the job is like a cross between being a boxing referee and care in the fucking community, let them fight it out, may the best man/Mrs Portillo win without letting any of the fuckers run naked into the streets screaming anything about tin foil hats, repitillians or David sodding Icke. With the likes of Michael Gove doing an impression of a demented gecko with an irrational grudge against the poor's digestive systems and David Willets resembling the type of Doctor Who villain who attempts to suck the soul out of everything from cartons of milk to Her Maj, it can be testing.

The cuts are just about on there way, and the coalition have made the devillish move of putting them forward during the World Cup it takes idioting pronouncements like Willets' 'burden/students' statement to remind people that this bunch of cunts have never needed state help in their lives having spent most of their shittrousered their student lives at blackface parties and smashing up badly decorated posho dens before paying for it with a bankers draft from T. S. Fuckstein and Nazigold's of Mayfair.

Anyway, that World Cup, Scotland not being there I shall just briefly focus on the TV coverage. The BBC's has a bland, worthy feel to it, with the occasional work of genius like the excellent 'Bus of Doom', consisting of Rob Walker, a man who gets excited about making up snooker players fucking nicknames, driving around SA. This provided the most unintentionally comic moment so far when after 3 hours of fairly fucking patronising 'Can an African team win please?' cheerleading, cut to Rob after Ghana had won, only for a bloody class A fucking mentalist to start shouting in his ear about European Colonialism and how he must hate it that Africans won. The BBC coverage also has an end of an era feel about it, knowing that the next World Cup will be presented from a disused flat in Peckham, as Cameron and co. appease the great Rupe.

To say ITV don't do football well is to say James Corden is mildly irritating and could with popping down the bloody gym once every while. Not only is their England coverage jingoistic to the point of being fucking ridiculous, a bit like Braveheart for Scots, but the general inability to say or do anything right is bloody astounding, in fact Andy Townsend should be given over to medical science and experimented on to see how exactly you end up being that fucking thick, and being able to talk, every time he speaks I worry the space-time continuum is up shit creek. Then there is James Corden's World Cup, this is more fucking car crash than 'Ayrton Senna: The Movie'. Corden wobbles about French kissing England players sphinctres on golf courses between looking like a cross between Russell Grant and gene therapy gone wrong, then we see a large breasted daft women, before Simon Cowell gets his obligatory one up the arse from ITV. Christ, it's times like this I thank fuck I'm Scotish, and I haven't even mentioned Clyve 'Clive' Tildeslei.

Oppo-cunting-sition

Many people will be assuming that Malc and I hate being out of power, they would also be right. The thought of some pipsqueak southern bastard using my deskspace (got Malc to burn the desk) for evil does make my sphinctre tighten. Mrs McDonald and Ms Harman do wish that they hadn't bought me a crystal glass set as a going away present. Losing power is a terrible thing, but not for the reasons that detractors would expect. Power was a lovely thing, it meant that it was my fucking job if there was a by-election in Liverpool to make sure that ITV3 didn't show the wrong fucking episode of Goodnight Sweetheart two nights before (one night before doesn't tend to change voting intentions.) I was proud to do that, not only as a Labour Party member but as a MacDonald and a believer in what was right.

It is now Cal 'the fucker' Richards, Steve Hilton and Andy Coulson's jobs to do what Malc and I did for Labour for a Conservative government. I don't wish them well, they are utter ringpieces of the highest order, not worth their mothers' placenta let alone the oxygen they breathe. I do however hope one thing, that they care as much about what they are doing as I did. Some of Malc and my work has already been pissed away like an incontinent fucking fairy. It took us bloody ages to sell the change in education, pissed away like a gall pebble. It is to be fucking expected. Shit away, I do not expect a legacy, let alone a baldy bastard singing praises.

We were the shitty pitch that lets Motherwell beat Aberdeen, we were the bastards that makes sure there's a Rabbie Burns night but not a Keats one (I always prefered Byron as far as English cunts go) and the dreadful cunts that willl always work for the lowest workers of the low, fight as best we can for what is right in a plausible way in a right wing shit there's an immigrant under my unborn child's duvet climate world. As I said I hope the Tory fuckers gain as much pleasure from fighting for their beliefs as I did.

One is entitled to ask however 'What Now?' What the fuck now for Jamie Mcdonald? 'He is a partisan cunt after all' 'What does he do when out of power?' Let alone without his Malcolm to tell him when to call a minister an empty Wire boxset (intelligent and popular on the fucking outside but ludicrously empty.) All I can say is that opposition is shitloads of fun, Malc and I are going on a fishing break, we haven't got to babysit tools, and good Labour Party men that we are, we shall be sitting round, working hard sorting out a social democratic response. Despite working for our prefered candidates we can take a step backand allow a contest minus the fools idiots and chancers, all I can say is be afraid be very a fucking fraid.



Congratulations to the Tory Party, you're dreadful people doing a dreadful job. I only hope Chris Huhne's head fits up his arse, otherwise see you in 8 months.

Thank You and Goodnight

So that's it, 13 years of achievements over, thanks for saving the banking system and oh we've bought you a fucking clock to say goodbye. I've rescued the spider plants from the likely singeing there'll receive from Clegg, refrained from pissing in the desk draw but did draw a moustache on the picture of Thatcher on the way out. So where now for the Govan gang?

Well for one thing it's nice not to be the hated warmongering, demonstration blocking, baby eating cunts for an evening. No we've re fucking branded, it's now 'the only force in progressive politics (tm)', scourge of the Murdochracy, freedom fighters against the evil Franco and his (half) Spanish Allies. I might even spend a week in Catalunya. For one thing that sack of shit Toynbee might shut up. Don't say we didn't warn you. Clegg's posher than a boater full of pheasant shit, Laws was practically a member of the Tories and as for St Vince. Well see how that goes pal. It's not too late for I told you so's but I think watching Osborne give a budget should be a healthy reminder to all of those who said the Liberals were the real voice of progressive/left wing politics.

Where now? Well the reins of government may have gone but the fight, spirit, and desire to see a better Britain most certainly have fucking not. Our first job is twofold, organise a proper leadership contest. i.e. one in which the nutters shut the fuck up and let the ones of us with functioning medulla oblongata do the talking (Hoey I'm talking to you.), one based on substance, style and serious curry nights. Secondly Malc and I are going fishing. No we're not going away to some Scottish Loch with water as frozen as John Redwood's soul and pike the size of a Charlie Kennedy treble, but Lib Dem fishing. Lads we know you were a bit fucking thick but it happens, we forgive you, let us buy you a drink. Al Campbell's been fighting them off, along with the odd Boulton haymaker, in Westminster bars all evening. You didn't vote for this government (even though technically you did, so take our advice.), neither did we. Together you're stronger, for we are the only force in progressive politics, the future, your only hope against the dark forces of the Buggerall Murdochcrats. If you still doubt us, I ask you one thing, watch George Osborne give a budget. I'll have your Labour Membership ready.

To the future and our lovely new bearded and sandalled members. JM

Everything's Shit On Channel Dave

No I'm not laying into repeats of Topgear and QI, Jeremy Clarkson may be turning from someone you'd kick in the queue at the Newsagent to someone who is fully deserving of ritual disembowelment, James May seems to be taking over television like some sort of Labrador shaped cancer and Richard Hammond may be the single worst example of humanity ever to write a really fucking awful memoir but Alan Davies' hair and support for our campaign mitigates this dreadfulness. The other Channel Dave however is broadcast from the home of a shitty wanker. Cameron's response to Cleggmania in tonight's emergency PEB is like watching a low budget Richard Curtis film while being hit in the head with a hammer made of his own sense of self satisfaction. The message? 'Only I can turn the nation into a land of dilligent little cub scouts who feed the elderly, teach geography to arsonists and drink tea in open necked shirts in well kept gardens whilst growing their own ochra.' that and the word 'change' repeatedly. Bashed into the unwitting masses' skulls with a runcible spoon. David Bowie or Tupac should sue. Dave even makes a face. 'See how it'll change if I scrunch my bulbous features earnestly enough' is no doubt now a cornerstone of the conservative campaign. It's not a match for Nick 'Theroux's fag' Clegg and I think he should apologise for putting the nation it's TV dinner.

Cameron Cleggs it up

I told those bastards, well I would have told those bastards if I didn't have so much contempt for them that I wouldn't piss on their duck house if it was on fire, which it was by the way because I set fire to the fucker. What I didn't tell those bastards was common knowledge to most Labour and neutrals 45 minutes into the debate on Thursday. I say Labour and neutral because Lib Dem supporters were blinded by the solar wind coming out of St Nick's colon and Tories were still trying to claim that their man didn't look like a sweaty divorcee at a speed dating session where he's realised that no one really likes him. What did we realise? That this was fucking brilliant. We've been fighting a defensive strategy for months. People fucking hate Gordon, we know that Mandy knows that, even Gordon I think knows that. It's been all we can do over the past two years to get people to treat him as a politician rather than a child murderer. We've been fighting a defensive strategy. We're a shit boyfriend, who's worked out that if we spend one more night down the pub then it's good night fucking Innverness, but we're back baby, and it'll be different this time. That flash git Dave had a chance at turning your eyes but not any more, he's proved he's worse than us and with some horrible mates and without the good times. The rise of Clegg changes nothing, we've got our record to defend and we'd rather defend it against Nick, who we would quite like if he wasn't trying to buy you a drink, and because we love you baby, we're glad that if you were to do the unimaginable and leave us for someone who doesn't like Al Jolson, it would be Nick.
Dave on the other hand has to convince a lot of people who think he's a twat that he isn't quite such a vacuous area of filth, and as for his mates. The day Michael Howard, John Redwood and Ann widdecombe become votewinners I'll shag Diane Abbot! Little Nicky exemplifies this, even if people dislike us, they hate you more and this is the point, you've got a lot of convincing to do boyos, we haven't, people know our record and we'll defend it. People hate us for our mistakes, they fucking hate you full stop.