Jeremy Corbyn, a potential leader of the Labour Party, came to Liverpool the other day. He stood on top of a Fire Engine. Luckily there were no deaths in any fires that were neglected in favour of the far more important task of having politicians standing on top of it.
It took him ages to get to the top and to hold the microphone. The support acts wouldn’t shut the feck up. For almost an hour they were barking out their anti-establishment, anti-Israel, anti-anybody who dares challenge them rhetoric.
When Corbyn arrived at the mic, huge numbers of the sheep in awe embarrassed themselves. There were 15 instant orgasms, and 35 wetting themselves. 6 fainted. But nobody cared because they were transfixed by the Corbyn Messiah. He was there speaking words in sentences. It wasn’t important that the sentences made any sense, but the words included in those sentences were all the pre-programmed trigger words designed to excite and make the onlookers go ‘baaaaaaaaaa’.
That’s Liverpool for ya.