Today I begin my vision for London and the build up to me running and winning a mayoral election, and sorting the fucking heaving mess out that is our crapital city (straight after I have finished approving my Canary Wharf sized statue of me that will look over every single Londoner 24 hours a day, a protecting effigy keeping an eye on everyone, on the streets, in the bedrooms, and the changing rooms.
London, its pretty fucked isn’t it. Every days tasks and challenges are met with abject tedium, the tedium of the pathetic obstacles, from the daily morning greasing up, just to be able to get on board a packed out of date stinking third world mode of public transport, being satisfied with a tiny corner having to adopt advanced Yoga positions just to have a semblance of space to yourself trying to read a tiny section of paper with one of your legs wrapped round the back of your head. The daily tolerance needed just to leave the neck unsnapped of the various annoying people that make up the locust swarm of the daily rush hour, where cunts will literally stab a nanna just to get a better position on the train or push past you like ice hockey to get into work a few seconds earlier to get their tongue jammed up their bosses arsehole like a lolly stick, the joke on which is you.
Then, on to lunch where horrible soulless little shops with smug names peddle £4 sandwiches, vine ripened tomatoes, ethically sourced cheese on artisan bread, to the ludicrous salad wrap, which is exactly what it says, salad leaves wrapped in a rizla of bread, oh, don’t forget your £3 coffee put together with abattoir care and attention by some chatty European gap year gap toothed gap wearing cunt (prêt). 
You pay for this because it briefly elevates you above the feeling of utter futility of what probably amounts to shitting out pointless work for someone else’s benefit, your years of toil literally forgotten about just hours after you bugger off with a fake hand shake and retirement whip round of about £87 quid, rushing home to sit on your parker knoll chair and curl up into an arthritic cancerous pain ball. (Don’t worry, it gets cheerier!) Dying to the tuts of your rough handed NHS carer and inconvenienced family.
Right, now, you’ve finished the daily dry chipped nail fingering that is work, what now? Rush home to lethally inject your intellect by sifting through the SHIT that is telly, or to the gym to have some roids riddled prick “personally train” you, which amounts to him putting you in impossible positions, and trying to fuck, or humiliate you if you are not up to his standards, or to the pub to marinade yourself into a babbling fuckless bollock with limbs, eyeing up every girl, mentally going through what you would say if you could cough up the courage to actually talk to her, shuffling onto a late night shame train back home, open jawed red eyed and heavy breathing, bouncing into a cheap KFC rip off place for 3 bits of chicken and chips even though you ate in the pub earlier, the feel of hot chicken fat, soggy greasy coating and dry old meat giving you brief feeling of happiness before going home to jerk off over the thigh master infomercial? Or if you are really lucky, you have a hobby, but you don’t actually enjoy this though, do you, (It gets cheerier, honest!)
Then, after 5 days the above, you get to the weekend and either over plan it and sit head in hands while Saturday turns to Sunday and before you know it, you are back on the train like a fucking organic Tetris block, just trying to fit in…You poor cunt?
You still here? Take that knife away from your wrists, here comes the gift, my vision for London, something to make sure that none of the above happens to anyone of you, (like it did me).
Why do most Londoners walk around with that look of impending doom engraved into their face? Because they have no REAL challenges in their life, just the misery of above, which, apart from some jobs, amounts to no more mental challenge than potato prints. People are literally mentally falling apart because there is no challenge in their life (Oy, fuck you cunt, I forecast a 7.22 index on a foreign oil/gold/ fedex long point, blue chip, turnover, wotsit do dar?) No, not like that you unethical banker cunt, Humans were not meant to be sitting around coked out of their mind tits in front of multiple computer terminals. No, proper living, how it used to be, you don’t get whinging Inuit’s, or Amazon rain forest people do you, just crumbling fucks sitting each week for counselling, ohh didums….
What London needs is some proper excitement, and I have a plan, If I was Mayor, every day at 12.30pm a klaxon would sound and I would have 4 Chinook helicopters fly over and slowly lower Hippos and Brown Bears into Central London, 3 beasts on each flight, that’s 12 angry fuckers to turn lunch breaks from a pointless pricey bread fest into a primeval fight for life. (Oh, to make matters worse, the bears haven’t eaten or mated for 2 weeks, and the Hippos have large elastic bands around their testicles, and are fucking angry anyway).
Lunch breaks would become a two hour adrenaline rush, people would be on the phones, or chatting over a coffee, before hearing the klaxon, the sound of a winch and the nasal huffing and puffing of irritated bears and bollock bound river bastards looking around anxiously for the cunt who lashed their testes with elastic.
Conversations would end, fingers would point and a collective scream would sound out as people ran to find vantage points against the multi terrain traversing terrors.
You can’t climb a tree, because the bear can, you cant jump in the Thames, the bear and the hippo can swim, you can get on the tube because both animals have zone 1-6 oyster cards on their snouts or equivalent. If you are underestimating this because you have been fooled by a little duffle coat donning cunt called Paddington and have seen the Chambourcy Hippopotomas advert, let me give you a bit of background. A hippo doesn’t just kill you, it M and S kills you; it ties you to a chair playing “stuck in the middle” pours petrol over you and cuts your fucking ear off. A bear will call your parents or partner and make you cry down the phone to them. A hippo can drive a fucking motor bike with the bear in the side car for fuck sake, if you are unlucky enough to be picked, you will get got, they will dress as a fucking electricity meter man, trick their way into your home and then walk you into the carpet like a sausage roll at a shit party. 
At 2.30 when the beasts have been recovered everyone will return to work, apart from those who have been escalloped or half eaten like a bad sandwich, everyone would feel energised, euphoric and relieved, they would go home and appreciate those around them, and eventually sleep, just happy to be alive. (I thought about killer bees on the tubes at home time, but thought it would be ripping the arse out of the idea..)
“What else, what else, and how do I vote for you now?”, I hear you yodel from your wide eyed excited new self. Ok, I’ll summarise some of my other polices.
Maternity: This would be for everyone, even the childless could apply. People could take a 6 month break from work to go off and bring themselves up properly, making up for the shambles job their parents did. You would have to qualify for this by being a bit stupid or immature. This would be called Me-ternity leave. You would be expected to come back to work a bit less of a fucking idiot though.
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Speed cameras: The focus of these would switch from the cars and onto the pavements, to pick up the most annoying of them all, the cream of the crap, the shufflers and dawdlers. Anyone walking under 2mph would set off the camera and a PCA (pavement continuity agent) would hit them with a stun gun to speed them up, anyone caught walking slowly while reading a book, or eating breakfast or god forbid both, would have their trousers and pants pulled down and be surrounded by no less than 6 PCA’s and have their cock mercilessly laughed at for no more than 45 minutes. If it’s a girl they would have their hair done by a top hairdresser and then have cold water poured straight on it while the PCA’s laugh in different octaves like an ensemble vocal harmony group .
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Wanky Shops/Bars: Trendy sandwich shops and wanky bars would be destroyed in a real life version of angry birds, frozen turkeys would be fired at the shops from medieval catapults until they are destroyed, while the greedy owners cower inside like the smug robbing pigs they are. These shit holes would be replaced by reasonably priced pie and mash shops, fish and chip places; you might even be able to get a kebab for lunch or shops selling cheese sandwiches on normal white or brown bread. If you want something healthy, like Israeli cous cous or quinoa, sure, bring it in, but eat it out of sight, you nauseating nibble needing nutsack 
Pubs would return to take pride in the city, hearty frothy pints served by real women and the sound of real men sucking beer from moustaches and wiping obligatory beards. Anyone who comes into the bar and tries to order a coffee will be at the mercy of the PCA’s (pub continuity agents), yes there is cock mockery, but only for 15 minutes as coffee is ok, just not in a pub?
Crime: I am against all crime, anybody found committing a crime would be at the mercy of the PCA’s (prison continuity agents) there would be lots of penile pointing and mirth.
To be continued. (If I’m not sectioned beforehand)
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