I’m not a bloke who picks on a f*ckwit’s missus, because in Geebung we are reared and raised to respect sheilas, and if you want to pick a fight you do it with the bloke that you have a problem with, rather than having a sly dog crack at his missus.

But they obviously have a different moral code in the slums and swamps of England from which the queen-hitting cowardly bastard Ben Jones emerged, because this Pommy prick delights in taking the scalpel to a bloke’s spouse and sprogs. Which makes him a prime c*nt in any Aussie bloke’s books, and a dead man if he ever sets foot in the Bunger, because the wild-eyed wanker’s photo is all over the wall with the words ‘kick in the balls on sight if he has any‘ stamped all over them.

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It’s not just that this bovver boy sees fit to have a crack at women and kids that’s the problem for the Bruce’s and Brenda’s at the Bunger; it’s also that the hypocritical halfwit claims to all and sundry that he’s a working class hero, and then deserts the cleaners and the teacher aides and the biscuit makers and all the low paid workers he claims to represent, and jump ships for the dough to a middle-class mob who pay him a six-figure sum including a car, a short-working week, a phone, a computer and double the superannuation that the real working class cop in their pay packet, that is, if the boss pays it at all.

For bullshitter’s like the Bovver Boy the big picture’s the bread you see.

Principles? ‘What the f*ck are they?’ blokes like him ask.

It’s all about the money, money, money……

The capricious clown had dreams of rolling in it after his wife was pre-selected by Labor for the most appropriately named seat of Doboy, but there will be no Dough for this Boy after the weight of the arsehole albatross around Kerryn Loose-Jones neck became too much, and she cam crashing back to earth.

I personally feel sorry for the bird. It’s not her fault that her husband’s a c*nt, and a gutless one at that. But how the hell did the expect to be elected with that anchor chained to her? The bloke’s just a brick, and anyone whose mast he ties his sail to is only going to sink to the bottom aren’t they?

Why bovver with Ben luv? You can do so much better, and free of that yolk of a yoke you might even find yourself winning a seat next time.

At the very least perhaps you won’t have a mad bead-twirler loving father of sprogs sent to penguin-run institutions working like the devil behind the scenes to make sure there’s no ratepayer funded dough going into your dough-boy’s pocket.

And the couple of thousand votes that you lost to the ‘shit-thick Kiwis’ who were identified, direct mailed, letter boxed and door knocked by the spud digging alfoil-hatter from Geebung and his Paddy descendant mates – who like all real Irishman, as opposed to Poms who claim they are, never let a grudge go, and thus carried your husband’s hate rants in their hands every step of the way – may well win you the ward next time around.

In fact, I guarantee that you will. Do a close analysis of the booth results and cross-check them against the census and I’m sure you will understand exactly what I mean.

Revenge is a dish best-served cold they say.

I hope Ben the Bovver Boy enjoys his chilled Bunger-boiled Beetroot soup.

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