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Tuesday 29th April 2008.

On Thursday,for the first time since i was eighteen i am going to the polling station to return a spoilt paper..i am not sure whether to simply scribble tossers,wankers or something along the lines through a link from a blog i lingered in this evening surrounding a story in the Western Australian.
I will feel guilty,as i scribble for i will dwell on all those souls, ghosties,Trade Unionists,Suffragettes who fought,died, for the right for the mass of great unwashed to mark their cross,looking over my shoulder,i hope they will feel such as i that the ballot box has become a toy,a whim,to be wheeled out for show,an ancient right now reduced to a Brian Rix farce.Enabling politicians to shimmy in some dark room come 10pm the contents of those who indeed even bother to venture inside a polling booth.
How can Tony Blair slip onto the Gatwick Express without taking any money in his pocket..and be let off his £13 pound fare,if a working man did the same fuck me does not even bare thinking about. Sadly the only difference between British politicians and Robert Mugabe is the killings.
It all becomes so weary,all the constant shite,remember your carbon footprint,one could dribble on forever,everyone you talk to when out and about has the same thoughts no wonder we drink loads of beer..ha..bollocks i think i need a cave.Or stop thinking.

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bichoose
bichoose

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