It was the election in which all the key players aimed at and shot each other, just like at the end of Reservoir Dogs. But what was breathtakingly beautiful about the final outcome (and by “beautiful” I mean the ability to completely roger the self-satisfied look off everyone’s faces) was the exquisitely excruciating mathematics of just how hung the parliament was. Labour stuffed, but just given enough hope to think they might cling on, but stuffed enough to know they can’t cling on with just the Lib Dems; the Lib Dems, in turn, rather slapped about a bit after all that Cleggmania that gave them a rude strut, offered the chance to govern, but with a more natural enemy in Cameron than the more obvious friend in Brown; the Tories, that natural party of government, born to lead, having gone through four years of living hell trying to be nice to people and the gays, to the point of even spending a whole night talking to fishermen, suddenly given a loud fish-slap on their baby-faced cheeks. Fermat’s Last Theorem was as nothing to the complicated game of maths the public played on Thursday to get just the right formula for absolute and total searing pain across the political landscape. If it weren’t that the fate of the country was at stake, it would be pretty damn funny.
They are a conspiracy of the rich, who, on pretence of managing the public, only pursue their private ends, and devise all the ways and arts they find out, first, that they may, without danger, preserve all that they have so aquired, and then that they may engage the poor to toil and labour for them, at as low rates as possible and oppress them as they please.