Not the actual running of the thing because that’s always well run, Iraq this ain’t. But the result was as predictable as the pool comp we sometimes run here at work which Almo will always win, unless he monumentally fucks it up. Which he did last time actually, so go figure.
Turn out on Saturday was its lowest ever and say what you will about the disenfranchised youth of today it doesn’t take four years of completing a political major to work out some folk just couldn’t be arsed voting in a one horse race.
You should see what it’s like round here trying to get a lady godiver out of the masses when they know full well that A-Fed is going to win it all anyway…
They had a couple of the young Mensa members on the news the other night actually, explaining just why it was they didn’t vote. They came up with some truly inspiring gems of spiritual enlightenment too, like “I don’t really care eh” and ‘I had better things to do” which some might argue that it’s the kind of answer only the gifted could come up with. Maybe. I would argue that from the Occupational Overuse Syndrome that had set in on both their right hands, that they were complete wankers.
Now I skipped my Seventh Form Formal because ‘I had better things to do”. But then that was several hours of trying to suppress an erection in a hired suit at a tacky-but-wishes-it-was-swanky location, the ticket to which cost far too much to not include any alcohol whatsoever.
I didn’t actually have better things to do. My mother wouldn’t let me go. But that’s irrelevant.
Mrs ClubDes and I called into the local polling booth – not to be confused with the local pulling booth because that’s a whole separate blog – on our way to my sisters wedding. Thus we were right glammed up in our number ones which solicited the very humorous, but not entirely unpredictable “Glad to see you got dressed up to vote” joke from the guy who had probably sat there checking out women's chests all day.
“Please put a tit - I mean tick - on each form…”
Attending weddings are great. Except that bit before hand where you have to think about what you’re going to buy the happy couple because even if they have a gift registrar here and there, who really knows what they want. We went with towels because you can never have enough towels. Or pillows.
I briefly contemplated gifting my blister something that would spark a memory of our childhood which inevitably got me thinking about a salt and pepper shaker that her mother used to have. It can best be described as a monster porcelain penis with a separate ball sack, because that’s what it was.
It was a white gloss finish with green cartoon love hearts on both twig and berries. It stood about eight inches tall with a girth wide enough to bring a tear the eye of anyone who looked at it which was everyone, because it sat on our MANTLEPIECE for all to see, all of the time.
Needless to say I didn’t subject her new husband and future nephews to the emasculation that is a foot long cock with bovine testes in the living room.
Speaking of giant phallus, how chuffed are you that the million or so who didn’t vote on Saturday helped get these cocks back in power:
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