Our in house misanthropes of  opposing political persuasions will be going head to head in bloody political duels. In the first of his columns, Cornelius Harrington-Smythe III offers his views on Ed Miliband.

You should’ve seen it: me and the lads, laughing as we lowered a screaming socialist into a pulsating pit, frothing with feral, starving members of the Taxpayers’ Alliance. The blessed brute was caught skulking around by the stables, trying to pin up those sweet leaflets that implore the government to ‘keep our NHS public.’ We made him think that if he renounced his ways, we would let him go: bawling hysterically, he spat ‘I HATE BOB CROW, TOUGH REGULATION ON FINANCIAL SERVICES AND HIGH TARIFFS’.

All the while, I couldn’t help but feel that Ed Miliband would’ve been a more succulent prize. By Macmillan’s whiskers how that Dead Milibot irks me. He’s just a garish patchwork of Guardian headlines, Wikipedia biographies and jaundiced slogans and his effortlessly dismal and unequivocally abysmal display at the dispatch box at last week’s PMQ’s confirmed that. In the stream of now entirely predictable Stalinist flavoured vitriol that flew from that yawning socialist cave, he endorsed every lefty stereotype available by sneering at Our Dave for having the audacity to lower the top rate of tax on our hardworking boys and girls in the city, on whom our recovery is so dependent. We all know Ed yearns to inflict a horrifying and brutal retribution on all those hardworking hedge and vulture funds whose taxes are paying for that KFC bucket you’re using as a bedroom. He’s always stood up for the wrong kind of people. ­­­Which brings me onto that dreadful party’s attempts at structural reforms nicely.

‘One person, one vote’ he spluttered with the eloquence of an inner city cadaver. ‘We want to hear from ordinary people’ he leered with all the appeal of a romantic weekend away with Ed Balls. Nice try Ed! The only reason you’re leader of the Communist Party is because those fattened union parasites put you there. Those treacherous dissemblers will still mould policy from the shadows: they will persist with their semi-incomprehensible and venomous
campaign against our incredible banking industry, holding it responsible for that insignificant period of economic indigestion a few years back.

I can hear the deafening screeches of those faux-liberal bourgeois tree fondlers as I write this. The delightful sound of left wing veins snapping with indignation has actually been my ringtone for a good while. Now, if you excuse me, I’m off to accost a copy of Road to Serfdom, mate with it furiously, before relieving myself over a photo of Norman Tebbit.

Illustration: Lily Dessau