Look Ma, no policies! Davey exercises his one policy of fucking about over substance.

May 7th, 2007
Post-election fever
The media continue to crowbar in the reports and analysis they wrote before last week's elections, laden with portents of doom for Labour, having assumed an utterly humiliating series of defeats, which didn't quite materialise. There is need for balanced and well-thought out debate on the future of politics in this country. This is not, however, the place for that kind of nonsense gentle reader; the Wasp Box deals in whole other level of nonsense.
So why did the electorate not bloody Labour's nose quite as much as expected? Could it be an understanding that Blair is soon to go (having named the date when he'll name the date that he'll...) and Brown will then pick up the baton, and that everyone realises that Brown has grown to despise Blair over the last few years almost as much as everyone else, so he can't be that bad ?

Or is it, when it came to something approximating the crunch, that the public realised that the only "realistic" alternative is that jumped-up little over- privileged substance-abuser Cameron?
They looked at his oily hair poking out of his cycle helmet as he touted his complete lack of green policies, they watched him fiddling with a nugget of nazi gold as he explained his dirth of economic policies, they witnessed his gut-churning striptease as he cleverly covered his complete lack of ideas on Iraq, and they vomited cold, hard tears of fear as they witnessed him

[click for supersize] Cameron shits out another "policy".

smash up restaurants with a gang of frock-coated public school herberts by way of explaining the chasming void in his manifesto where what passes for public services ought to be.
Perhaps that's why the Tories gained only one seat in the Welsh assembly and actually lost a seat in the Scottish parliament? Maybe now, having gained next to nothing from Labours losses, Cameron will have to sit down and think about what he would actually do if the populus was stupid enough to vote for him. Expect such hard-edged policies as abolition of ice cream, compulsory Latin on the curriculum andmandatory disembowelment of kittens at the age of 13. Or perhaps he'll just threaten to kill himself if we don't vote for him. The Wasp Box lives in hope.

Click here for a new gallery of Cameron images, the "CamCam".

[clicky enormoscale]

February 14th, 2007
Love is in the air
And not just in our living rooms and workplaces, but quite literaly all around, except anywhere near Marti Pellow; love cannot compete with the overwhelming stench of vomit.
Dr Reid got in with the early love a couple of weeks ago, with a variety of kindly acts such as personally freeing paedophiles and single-handedly hiding millions of illegal immigrants inside his balloon head (see below). This magnanimous show of good-heartedness may have dampened the ardour between him and Blair though, so it's unlikely that they'll be exchanging cards again this year.
This week, those nutty nuke-lovers. Angry Ahmadinejad and L'il Kim have picked up that Valentine vibe. Mahmoud reckons Iran is just trying to find ways to love everyone and if we can just sit down and talk about it, our relationship can be saved and some of that old passion rekindled. Perhaps we can even get to the point where we leave little presents of
weapons caches in places where Iran can find them, like we used to with Iraq, but don't worry that's in the past now, we don't see them any more, they've changed.

Meanwhile in North Korea , the very epitome of small man syndrome has agreed that he'll stop enriching uranium if the West will only do the dishes once in a while, I mean not every day, just once in a while, and maybe put the toilet seat back down, would it kill you? So maybe Tone'll get a card from one of this cheeky pair, but he won't be holding his breath.
Bush is of course oblivious to all of this, ensconced in the Oval Office anally raping his monkeys of war using crude oil for lube and an anthrax spermicide. Even he doesn't send a valentine card to Tony anymore; his piscine brain no longer able to comprehend the concept of friends or lovers, he just pounds away at his monkeys, baying for blood as a naked Condi sloshes barrel after barrel of 4 star over him and Dick Cheney replaces each spent and broken monkey of war with another, crying tears of joy at the sight of his hero in his natural environment and gently touching his wizened scrote.

[clicky scarey big] For you Tony, my love. Cherie and Gordon club together to get Tone an extra special Valentine present.

So back home Tony waits by the letterbox in vain. He might get a card from David if the jumped up little oik isn't too stoned to remember what day it is, which is debatable given that he's clearly too stoned to think up any policies. The public no longer love him, Mandi was despatched some time ago and everyone knows there's no love lost between him and Gordon.
But perhaps there is love between numbers 10 and 11 still, and when Tony finally slinks off into the shrapnel-spattered sunset, Gordon's true dream will be realised and he'll move straight in with his beautiful Cherie. Well, beautiful if he only looks at her with his glass eye anyway.
As Cupid smiles myopically and fires off arrows willy nilly like an institutionalised maniac ejaculating through the bars of his cell, Wasp Box hopes some of that stray seed strikes you gentle reader, each and every one of you.