This was the original crew but Marmaduke, Lord Bunkerton, and his Pals were finally pensioned off by The Thompson Press in 1991, as being irrelevant in that day and age.
Blimey! They sure got that wrong!!
It certainly seems a bit premature when you study the denizens of Downing Street who are clinging on to power by any means possible.
We now have Jacob Rees-Mogg, as Leader of The House, the very incarnation of Lord Snooty, often depicted these days draped on a couch studiously ignoring the rambling rantings of the lower classes when he is trying to get a little shut-eye don’t yer know?
I guess we also have Priti Patel as Snooty’s very own “At last I’ve got my own Home Office” Rosie; Liz Truss his lightweight corseted friend Skinny Lizzie, who rather wishes she hadn’t signed-up for any of this but can’t find her backbone just at the moment; Bozo Johnson as Big Fat Joe (a Johnny- come-lately to the Snooty crew) but he does have the required attention span that can be measured in nannieseconds; Hopeless Hancock as Hairpin Huggins without the cap, a hospital case if ever there was one; Desperate Dom Cummings as Scrapper Smith who just wants to know “Who wants an effing punch in the head?”; Sad Git Javid as “Happy” Hutton who knows it’s all wrong but has to go along with it anyway, after all he’s got a career to think about and they only let him out on Sundays, as long as he pretends to agree with whatever tosh the others come up with; and Michael as Gertie the Gove, who spends his time chasing around the cabinet office looking for a trade deal to chew over.
So, there we have the base crew along with a few more misfits who don’t really float the Snooty boat (they won’t be at Henley anyway); They are definitely more Bash Street than Snooty Pals.
We have Smasher Graab, up for stealing anybody’s ideas, Andrea Leadshot, a world class dead loss, and we did have Amber Rudd, a shoe-in for The Min of Fish, until she discovered her dorsal fin and slid from the room.
Snooty, languidly raised his fingers and drawled “ Sad Git, put another £70 million into the “Keep Bozo in Number Ten fund” will you? And get me a Papal dispensation for breaking bread with the unholy DUP while you’re about it will you? Remind His Holiness of my personal adherence to the Papist line on almost everything and my intention to aim high in the familial stakes. Sixtus may not be enough!
Sad Git wanted to know what the £70 Million was for, but Snooty told him to be inventive. “Something that we haven’t done yet for goodness sake”. “There’s no point in having a money tree if we don’t spend it on something exciting”.
“Just get on with it” said Snooty, “Ask one of the minions what they think. They are unpleasantly close to the hoi polloi”.
Big Fat Joe, AKA Bozo, bounced across the room in his own inimitable Neanderthal style and said “Shouldn’t I be deciding what we do? I am going to be in charge after all, aren’t I?”
“Don’t be ridiculous” sneered Snooty, “How many times do we have to tell you, we are in charge. We make the decisions; you just say daft things about lying down in front of bulldozers or dying in a ditch.” “Do you understand, you stupid boy?”
Big Fat Bozo made one of his characteristic huffing and puffing burbling noises but nodded in a sort of shamefaced way.
“Couldn’t we spend some money on some new anti-personnel vehicles that we could equip with water cannons? “ “That would be fun, and we could put them in Parliament Square to scare the mob”.
“Or maybe build a wooden horse thingy, stuff it full of Brexiteers and leave it outside The Palace of Westminster?” He became so agitated by this brilliant concept that his gestures grew and grew until they cleared the drinks from a side table and generally caused all and sundry to shout what was obviously a well-used refrain… “Fuck Off Boris! For goodness sake!” It was interesting at this point to note that this refrain could also be heard drifting in from the Whitehall end of Downing Street where the mob were having a bit of a break from chanting “Shame on You”.
Snooty decided it was time for little decorum. “Johnson”, he said in that voice of his that was used to turn the veins of all that heard it to ice, “Go and talk to some school children, will you? That should not be too taxing, even for an intellect as huge as yours, and do not interrupt when grown-ups are talking”. “In fact, do not interrupt when the schoolchildren are talking, there’s a good chap.”
It was getting late for Snooty and his late night Horlicks was overdue. He loved his Horlicks in spite of that awful Private Eye magazine suggesting that the Tories made a Horlicks of everything. Anyway, his nannie had come to tuck him into bed and he drifted off to the land of nod in no time. The Land of Nod was part of the estate that his kinfolk had purchased from the Crown in 1922, the year they had also founded a Tory committee that really ran The Party. Oh, the Toffs all loved a good party.
In the lull that followed, Bozo decided it was an opportune moment to nip off and find a bit of hot totty; Scrapper Smith Cummings and Smasher Graab, decided to see who they could find to disqualify, beat up, deselect, discredit or just generally dis; Gertie the Gove sat quietly chewing up his old speeches in the hope that no-one would be able to remember things that he had said in the past – he had never really come to terms with technology; Skinny Lizzy was trying to escape from her truss that the Snooty crew were using to keep her mouth shut in an effort to keep her from saying anything else daft; Priti stupid was planning for a lot more stop and search facilities particularly against demonstrators; Hopeless Hancock Huggins was polishing-up his plans to auction off all the best bits of the NHS whilst pretending butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and all was well with the world….or so it seemed.
In another room, one with a deliberately more homely feel, another plot was being hatched.
M. Fromage, The Brexit Party big cheese, was planning to rain on their parade. He had got where he was by cleverly avoiding standing for elections, but by merely threatening to do so, and by taking a gradually more and more extreme position on Brexit. With a pint of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other he had a knack of convincing Lord Snooty’s Hoi Polloi that he was the man of the people.
For someone with his public school background and early life as a merchant banker, this was no mean feat, but he somehow managed to carry the mob before him.
His disciples, and they seemed to swallow his credo; hook, line, and stinker; were anxious to get out on the streets to find and fight some Corbynistas. Or failing that, fight anyone hanging around in the vicinity of The Farage and Barrel after a few cheap pints.
Violent confrontations were flaring up in the suburbs and cars were being burnt.
Full scale riots were on the cards.
Lord Snooty was awakened by Priti Stupid in the early hours and the cabinet met to decide what to do.
It was easy said Bozo, his eyes bleary from trying to focus on more than one issue. “Blame Corbyn and The Faragists, declare marital law, a curfew, get the troops out and let them rip!”
“Martial Law not Marital Law “ said Priti Stupid, in the exasperated tone that she was beginning to use much more frequently with Fat Joe these days.
“Marital Law, Martial Law” blustered the great buffoon, “they both work for me!”
“Do be quiet Boris” said Snooty, rising above the hubbub, “ the adults are trying to think.”
“How can we turn this to our advantage?”
After a few moments the Great Off-shore Wizard spoke.
“All Right. Let us produce a press release condemning street violence and endeavour to whip up a bit of conflict between the Faragists and the Corbynistas. If we can prevail upon our good friends at The BBC to concentrate on some pitched battles between Farage’s Right-Wing Fascist fanatics and Corbyn’s Marxists bully boys it will make our case even stronger for longer prison sentences, more prisons, more police officers, more stop and search procedures, harsher anti-demonstration laws, more cash for us, Oh Dear! Scrub that last one, and paint them as the villains, not us. There, job done! Now we can all be off to bed again. Nannie!
And, at that they all returned to their comfy little beds apart from Gertie the Gove that is, who was still chewing his way through things he had said that he wished had remained unsaid. A Herculean task as Fat Joe had once described it with his characteristic flair for the use of classical references that clearly resonated with Plebeian Man.
Me? I’m off to #turnupsitdownmakesomefuckingnoise in Parliament Square on 12th October just to show how much I support the Snooty Crew.