And there lived in those times a loud man, florid of countenance, who was known as “Hooky” throughout the land. Famous for his pompous expertise in rugby punditry and for his fiery utterances on any subject that came into his head, not a day went by when his sermons and moral exhortations were not heard across the airwaves. “Why oh why,” he would preface all his devotional warnings, “must we tolerate this socialist waste and depravity that we see all around us?”
And this saintly figure in his familiar blue shirt attracted a great many followers and filled his private coffers with riches until they were overflowing. But after making some rash pronouncements about the sensitive matters of rape and immigration, George was cast down by feminist mobs of accusers and was forced to devote himself to sitting on a column in the middle of the desert, known as his Newstalk studio.
And lo it came to pass that Hooky grew weary of living in a land of political correctness gone mad, a land where he was not welcomed, much like a prophet in his own town. George huffed and puffed, saying: “Verily, I have run my course and must retreat in a blaze of obscurity to join my long-suffering wife, the lovely Ingrid.”
And there was widespread rejoicing in the land that Hooky had finally taken a long overdue vow of silence.
But the multitudes were sore vexed when they heard rumours that George’s shoes were to be filled a hundredfold by Blessed Ivan of Yates. And so they fell to their knees in agony and cried: “Will no one rescue us in our distress?”
THAT DUP CONFERENCE