I see you, Mark Menzies
I see you, Mark Menzies.
I see… actually, just give me a minute. I’ve just read up on the allegations and now I feel like a python that’s swallowed a bollard; it’s going to take me a minute or two to digest all this. This whole thing reads like Alan Partridge has decided to branch out into erotic spy fiction. Can I just shock you? I like wine, particularly when it’s being offered to me by a male escort luring me to a mystery flat at 3am in the morning.
I genuinely have no idea how to even satirise this. We’re well and truly through the looking glass, led by sex-addled and hopelessly indiscriminate idiots who are utterly beyond parody. It’s 2024, for Christ’s sake. AI is about to take everyone’s jobs and pretty soon you’re going to be able to program your toaster with any personality you like before having sex with it. The information age has gifted us with a million ways to be a relentless pervert with the utmost discretion and yet you useless twonks still can’t even work Grindr properly.
How the hell are our politicians still so spectacularly horny and incompetent that they can’t even get their ends away without causing a potential national security crisis? Does nobody get even the most basic training on avoiding extortion and potential intelligence-orchestrated honey traps? What the fuck happens? Do you all just march out of the House of Commons after a late night vote with throb-ons pulsing, your right honourable members dragging you around the neon streets of London like sentient divining rods?
The sheer fucking gall of the Tories honking their accusations at Angela Rayner and thumping their armrests this week, knowing full well their own party has been sitting on this absurd scandal for months. I’m no prude and everyone’s entitled to a private life but when you’re an elected representative and a public servant, the absolute least you could do is avoid embarrassing the entire country by refusing entry to the occasional Black Rod of your own.
Never mind knocking three times; just set up two-factor authentication and double check that you aren’t accidentally on your way to get your cock trapped in a Russian asset in the darkest hours of the morning. Just take the most basic of precautions and none of us would give a toss that you spend your evenings floating above the pavement, following the scent of poppers like a Tom and Jerry character who’s caught a whiff of pie cooling on a windowsill.
But you can’t, can you? There are dozens of you, a host of chronically over-represented horn-addicts and sex pests in a workplace of mere hundreds, all of whom have been drawn to power and influence like moths to a flaming orifice. It’s a psychological case study waiting to happen. Just how much of a deviant loser do you have to be that at 3am, when the ketamine’s worn off and the gangsters are demanding money for the key to the chastity belt, the only person you have left to ring is a 78-year old woman from your campaign office?
There’s not a shred of dignity of self-respect to be found in any of it, from the act itself to the pitiful response of the party HQ who left that poor woman twisting in the wind. Good on her for not stumping up the money in the first place. Doesn’t it say a lot, that she respected the MP she worked for so very little that in an apparent matter of life or death, she chose death and rolled over to go back to sleep.
Who can blame her, when you had so little respect for her that you’d dare to put her in such an absurd and humiliating position in the first place? Even the defence is utterly shameless. No rebuttal of the insane core allegations - just an insistence that the financial rules were followed, and that you were advised that it was perfectly appropriate to repay a literal sex ransom out of your campaign funds.
Perfectly appropriate for a Tory, at least. But then you lot live to different standards, don’t you?
I see you, Mark Menzies. I fucking see you.