The Fictional Truth about George Osborne

Via Henry North London, I give you this gem of a story (that I really wish I'd written myself) mocking the attempts by Damian McBride and his fellow evil goblins to make up random shit about the Tories:

George Osborne is concealing a terrible secret.

In 1998, ten prostitutes were found murdered and mutilated in Oxford. Horrific crimes that shocked even the hardened lead detective on the case - the hard-drinking, twice-divorced, reckless but loveable maverick Jack Riley.

When Riley interviewed the helpful, blandly smiling clean-cut student George Osbourne to take a routine witness statement, a distant alarm bell started ringing in the back of his mind. There was no evidence tying this handsome and well connected young man to the horrific murders, but....

There's something about him, thought Riley starkly. I can't put my finger on it. Something wrong.

He started investigating Osbourne's movements and alibis for the nights of the murders, and told his sergeant. The next day, Riley was summoned to a private meeting with his sergeant. He was formally told he was being removed from the investigation.

'We're replacing you with Detective Muppet,' his sergeant told him awkwardly. 'You're being transferred to the Makework case.'

Riley stared at him in disbelief.

'You can't be serious. Muppet's never solved a case in twenty years.'

His sergeant didn't quite meet his eyes.

'I'm sorry, Jack. This comes from higher up. I'm just following orders.'

Yet, haunted by his suspicions concerning Osborne, Riley continued digging in secret. God damn it, he needed to know the truth. The more he learned, the more chillingly certain he became that Osborne's charming facade concealed a deadly psychopath. He learned of the woman who'd been found killed in the exact same way near Eton five years ago. Another identical case near the village where Osborne had grown up. Jesus, Osbourne had been doing this all his life. And now he was out of control.

Then quite unexpectedly, Riley was summoned for a meeting with the Chief Commissioner. The urbane and silver-haired older man greeted him warmly, and ushered him into his book-lined inner sanctum.

'Care for a glass of scotch, dear boy? Forty years old. I have cigars too, if you'd care to indulge.'

They stood together before a roaring fire. Riley felt as tense as strung elastic. The Chief Commissioner patted Riley's arm. The gesture was avuncular, yet somehow sinister.

'You are a young man. You have a promising career before you. I will do everything in my power to help that career progress. But first, you must let these ridiculous suspicions drop.'

Riley stared at the Chief Commissioner. He could feel the blood draining out of his face.

'W-what do you mean?'

There was a new and steely note to the Chief Commissioner's voice.

'You know exactly what I mean, Detective Riley.'

Riley hadn't told anyone he was still investigating Osbourne. He was sure of it. Jesus Christ, was he being followed?

As soon as he got back home that night, Riley went straight to his computer and started searching for answers. The luminous white light from the screen illuminated Riley's disbelieving face, as the final piece of the puzzle fell into place - and he found himself looking at a family photograph from an old news article that said it all.

Oh my God, Riley thought starkly. The Chief Commissioner is Osborne's uncle.

He grabbed up his mobile and rang a trusted friend - a newspaper journalist. He had to share what he knew with the world, before it was too late. His friend's voice answered on the sixth ring, sleepy and irritated.

'Jesus. Riley. Do you know what fucking time it is?'

'I've got something to tell you,' Riley said urgently. 'This is front page shit, Greg. I can't talk over the phone. It might be bugged.'

'So come on over,' his journalist friend grumbled. 'But this had better be good, motherfucker.'

Riley raced out of his flat, down the dark and silent stairs and out into the freezing, moonlit night. The world was deadly silent. Nobody around. He got into his car, his heart hammering away inside him. He slammed the door behind him, and turned the key in the ignition.

The car exploded in a ball of flame. Riley died instantly. His knowledge intact.

His death was blamed on a terrorist ring he'd helped to lock up five years ago.

To this day, the ten prostitutes' murders have never been solved.

Okay, it's not even remotely true, but it would make a fantastic story.

And there can be few better summaries of just where exactly McBride went so wrong: "Okay, it's not even remotely true, but it would make a fantastic story."