“I am no friend of that very epitome of virtue, the saintly Dr Fox,” explained Mr Hitchens. “I know nothing about his exemplary private life, and care less. But I think it is a very dirty business that Bolshevik newspapers – which, it pains me to remind you, insist that a leering queue of screaming poofters forcing their rancid john thomases up our holy bottoms is on some sort of twisted moral par with the prayerful sanctity of propagating the faithful with one’s dear lady wife and chattel – have now sunk so low as to disgrace themselves with this ideologically bankrupt fraudulence, no doubt with the open connivance of that self-confessed communist stooge, David Cameron.”
|Peter Hitchens with his favourite writing tool|
The foamingly righteous Mr Hitchens was then hosed down and put back in his box by his keeper.
“Thank the good Lord that Peter Hitchens has spared decent folk the indignity of finding out for themselves what the lefties are saying,” sighed Mail editor Peter Dacre in frank admiration. “If the defence secretary was indeed perverting innocent young lambs in his sickening dungeon of forbidden lust, then his sordid affairs should be kept strictly between him and his maker– who, we should all hope and pray, will smite his corrupt penis with red-hot suppurating boils from now until the end of time.”