"What's wrong, Piglet," asked Pooh, concerned. "David Cameron still won't stop texting me," he said. pic.twitter.com/VEWnoxelCE— Ian (@iboudreau) September 20, 2015
"They know" pic.twitter.com/g6ENfu6WPX— Tim (@timabel6) September 20, 2015
Maybe Cameron is into West Ham after all.— Tony Barrett (@TonyBarretTimes) September 20, 2015
I think David Stubbs summed it up best:
Imagine. You force your fat, flaccid pink student cock into the rancid mouth of a dead farm animal while carousing obnoxiously with a bunch of debauched, braying cunts at an Oxford club, every one of whose members deserves to be slowly garrotted with their own entrails. And this ultimately proves to be the one thing you ever do to improve the quality of life in Britain, if only for a single, joyous morning.