This post is a guest contribution by Supercomposite.
29 September 2015
This week, something has come to light for the British public that has been known to me for some 30 years. Having had parts of this statement prepared for years, it is clear that now is my time to speak. In the mid 1980s, I gave now-Prime Minister David Cameron oral sex.
The BBC has been most cautious to disseminate this story through its established canals, and understandably so. Whilst I write this, the newsmen are snickering behind some thin veil of on-air gravitas, attempting to comprehend such news and repackage it into something less perceptually damaging for the public. The shock that the average constituent would be forced to endure when hearing such news about their beloved Prime Minister, they reason, would plunge the U.K. into chaos and possibly civil war. But clearly, the tabloids show no such restraint, and nor does the social media, so my time to speak is now—before the public’s morale deteriorates completely.
Some pertinent questions have been raised about my participation in the present debacle. An introduction is at hand. My name is Aloysius Flyte, I am a pig, I am dead, and yes, I gave Mr. Cameron the time of his life.
I am not ashamed of being a swine, a term which is often thrown derogatorily at our kind, propelled stubbornly by an Old Testament paranoia that, upon the more widespread discovery of our split hooves, we would as a species expose the classification system of the Hebrew taxonomists as a fraud.
I was raised along with hundreds of other less fortunate pigs on a pleasant farm in the countryside of Oxfordshire. My siblings were systematically put through gruelling drills to test our ability to collect, in our gullets, the seed of eager young Oxonian men. Those who failed to please were promptly culled so as to not water down the gene pool of the next generation of increasingly refined cocksucking pigs—which is, as the reader may have gathered, where I came into the picture. I am the proud offspring of nine consecutive generations of the finest cum-piggies ever bred, so it is no surprise that when the time came to be slaughtered and have my head harvested by the Piers Gaveston lads, I was matched up with none other than the Prime Minister-to-be’s marvellously bulbous prick.
Our fresh heads were shipped in every autumn for one of several corybantic sex rituals that the hubris of the Thatcherite years had ushered in. The political stage, together with the popularity of the recent TV serialisation of Brideshead Revisited, more than resuscitated the Piers Gaveston Society in all its ribald glory, putting the lads’ club at risk of oxygen poisoning.
The idea was that no young Oxonian’s life was consummated except through the drunken engagement in lewdities. This was perhaps exemplified by the subtextual homosexuality in Brideshead, tacitly confirmed by Evelyn Waugh’s omission of any type of intimate contact between the pitiful, Catholic, teddy bear-toting Lord Sebastian and his audience-surrogate companion Charles Ryder. Of course, all that was supposed to be pre-war. In the eighties, the tides of sexual freedom were rising and gay sex was old news to at least the more inebriated young men in Piers Gav. The exclusive Society was founded on the allure of behind-closed-doors homoeroticism. But why not up the ante and commit to the flesh what no fashionable sexual-political movement would ever, within reason, wish to appropriate from their domain? Why not shag dead pigs?
When the twelve Gaveston lads first felt the specially-bred pig mouths effortlessly cradle their cocaine-flaccid peckers, they knew forthwith that there could be no return to politically correct fondling of the pre-war variety.
The tabloids, while temporarily enamoured by the vulgarity of this scandal, are of course mostly aligned with interests who would prefer the story to die soon. Despite this, a Tory PM cannot escape the drooling, gnashing maw of leftist hatred, a snivelling disdain propelled completely without the assistance of the printing press, seemingly autonomously, reproducing itself on far greater amplitudes at every cycle, a deafening murmur which—without Fourier’s sorcery—drowns out all reasonable talk. Never will the Right Honourable Prime Minister be free from the echo of his actions 3 decades back. If Thatcher had had to endure such a clatter in her day, the neoliberal ideology itself would have been buried forever under the foul-breathed, working-class bellows of “MAAAAAAGGIIIE THE PIGFUCKER…”
I digress. I’ve a soft spot for old-fashioned politics. After this dispatch I intend to fully regress from the public eye. My wish in writing this is that, through matter-of-factly confirming this uncontroversial story, I can dispel any attempt by the freshly-swirling leftist forces in Labour to use this story against Mr. Cameron, his family, his party and–by indisputable extension–the prosperity and security of his country.
For God, Queen and Country,
Unmarked grave in Oxfordshire
1 September 2085
I’ve made a tremendous blunder. Today is the one-hundredth anniversary of my error.
The names David and Cameron are sullied, perhaps forever. Sex scandals are not to be underestimated, as I have rashly done. Such mishaps can proceed in a couple of ways. Those few who remember the 1990s remember the effect, or mostly the non-effect, of a parallel occurrence involving the then-president of the United States. Or, alternatively, things can take the Berlusconi route, becoming altogether surreal as the number of allegations can no longer fit in anyone’s head, the sky plummeting with seemingly nothing to hold it up and yet–what is this? Are they all lifeless in the water, unable to muster a charge upstream against this nonsensical tycoon?
Well, there is a third path. The Cameron. It involves the dissolution of a centuries-old royal union, forty years of paramilitary conflict, and the full stop that marks the demise of one of the world’s great Empires. It involves a coup, then a counter-coup, then a counter-counter coup, and so forth. They eventually become bloodless, for the meaningfulness of killing corresponds directly with the number of still-living targets. The stakes get lower with each blow. There is less and less to lose. Eventually the fighting stops, or just becomes irrelevant to most people. Who knows. Only the scrappiest of ravens now clamour for the tarnished bonnet ornament on the flaming, totalled Jaguar that is Europe.
England is but a shadow of its former glory. We’ve been reduced to a joke. Remember when we travelled the world, building railroads generously, uniting the peoples of the more underdeveloped subcontinents? Not many people do. Now our infrastructure is dependent on the likes of sinister financiers from Singapore and Seoul. They funnel strange-looking electronic currencies into this horrid, sterile museum where I now reside, having been deemed “of worth” to the crumbling British heritage.
If not for my terrible lapse,
I would not be “alive” today…
I would not have to endure the torture that is my sustained consciousness…
Forced upon me by the Corbynite academics…
The blasted neurohistorians…
Did you know there is no sleep in “the jar”?
Are you aware? There is no reprieve…
I plead you.
Pig Server #14, Archive for the Preservation of the Consciousness of Notable Animals, British Museum Cloudbank, Ne-o-London, Disputed Territory
Art by Rilo Harris.