I stand before you in steel-grey flannel slacks.
As you do I, you I, I, you and all of you, with I!
No more shall a list of four main bullet points happen to you, if you prefer to eat a Custard Cream.
Look at me: I'm wearing a silver knight's helmet nicked from a museum.
Listen to the voices of those who share our commitment to a country where the power brokers in SlagsBourg cannot prevent us wearing competent helmetage.
"I'm just an ordinary man in an ordinary field: but one of my friend's a middle class yoga tosser who has all the answers and a wife with one of those saccharine smiles that threatens to cut you in half with an instrument the width of a bank note.
Quite frankly I'm tired of listening to his lectures on enlightened runner bean dualities and I'm quite prepared, if it were legal under the next government of this country, to shoot the pompous f**ker in the mouth without so much as a leave or thank you. I pay my taxes, mouth foam, mouth foam, for Queen and the Sixpence."
"To be honest I haven't the brains I was born with and any offer of a sense of superiority even at the expense of somebody worse off is absolutely fine by me. Even if that person is in a wheelchair."
Man in a Burberry raincoat leaning against a Range Rover: "What the fuck is wrong with melting toffee onto pheasants!!"?!?£*&!"
Only our party fights for grey flannel knight helmets and no bullet points.
This was a pushing polity prat fest by the UK Bash the Buddhist Poultry.