 I see you, Tony Blair. I see your rictus grin and your thousand-yard stare. I see your hands trapped out in front of you as you talk, making you look like a murderous thunderbird puppet. I hear the peculiar staccato drumming of your voice, as if you're doing a bad William Shatner impression, acting your way out of war crime after war crime. I see your trophy cabinet, and I see your glittering awards. You've got a Presidential Medal of Freedom, haven't you, Tony Blair, and a Liberty Medal, and you were 2014's Tits of the Year for Yorkshire and the Humber, and you've got a big pile of chocolate coins and a great big Easter egg that Sherry got you for putting on your big boy pants all by yourself. Aren't you brilliant, Tony Blair? You're a bloody hero you are, and you sleep like a baby resting on a massive bag of pillowy tits. I see you yawn in the early morning, Tony Blair, walking around your house and idly scratching your pendulous balls through the fabric of your dressing gown. I see you go downstairs to the kitchen and open the fridge, Tony Blair, and I see you taking out a jug. My nose wrinkles as I smell the harsh chemical stench, Tony Blair, and I see you get a crystal champagne flute out of the cupboard and pour yourself a glass of that thick black liquid. I see you throw it back, Tony Blair, and lick your lips. Crude oil is delicious, isn't it, Tony Blair? It's delicious and it comes out of every tap in your bastard house. I hear the alarm blaring, Tony Blair, and I see the vast expanse of your forehead furrowing. It's the Blair signal, isn't it? There's trouble in the Middle East, and only you can help. I see you hurry to the secret door hidden behind your trophy cabinet. I see the Blair Cave, and I see the hundreds of monitors flickering into life, casting pools of harsh white light into the cavernous gloom. I hear the dripping of water as a metal platform rises out of the subterranean lake. I see you hurrying down the gantries, your feet ringing on the metalwork. I see the images on the monitors, Tony Blair. I see terrorists, terrorists everywhere, oppressing the innocent and firing their guns. I see massacres and wailing mothers, a tragedy in sand, a never-ending parade of misery and blood. I see families separated, women and children herded into trucks, men beaten to the ground and stood over by bearded men with AK-47s. I see you shake your head, and I see you climb the steps to that platform in the lake. I see the gleaming red and gold armour of your Blair suit, Tony Blair. I see it unfold and click apart, waiting for you to step inside it. I hear the Blair signal booming across the stalactites, howling through the Blair Cave, a clarion call summoning you to battle. I see you gear up, Tony Blair. I see the Blair suit envelop you, shrouding you in five hundred pounds of interlocking titanium plates. I see the circle in the centre of your chest flare into glowing life as the miniaturised fish and reactor you've designed kicks in, sending power through your limbs and weapons systems. You're a clever bugger designing all this, aren't you, Tony Blair? You must be because of all that education, education, education you've got. I see the thrusters in your feet and shins blast plasma and steam out of their vents, Tony Blair, and I see you lift off the ground. In a second, I see you turn in the air, and I see you shoot out of the cave like a rocket made of Catholic justice. I see the town in Iraq, Tony Blair, the buildings pockmarked with bullet holes, the concrete blasted apart and the iron rebar poking through like teeth in the face of a guest on the Jeremy Kyle show. I hear the screaming, and I see the plumes of smoke, and I smell the copper tang of blood and the chemical sting of phosphorus and cordite. I see the sand whipping through the streets in the high wind. I hear explosions and gunfire in the distance, and I see the militants in the street, their faces twisted with hate and malice. I see you come spiraling out of the clouds, Tony Blair. I see them turn and scream at each other in panic. I see them raise their guns and blast them wildly into the air, the bullets pinging harmlessly off your breastplate and your helmet. Behind your mask, Tony Blair, I see you scowl. I hear the beeping of your targeting system identifying and tagging the threats. It's time, isn't it, Tony Blair? It's time to end this bloody conflict. I see your arms outstretch, Tony Blair, and I see the pulses of energy blast from your palms, burning a hole through a jihadist's chest and sending him spinning like a rag doll through the air. I see a truck explode, showering the street with metal and debris. I see tiny missiles blast from your shoulders and track their targets through the smoke, blasting concrete and dust and sand and blood high into the air. I see the lasers burning from your eyes and carving flesh in two. I see a head explode, brains and bone carpeting the walls of a ruined house. I see the last four men screaming in terror, turning tail and run. I see you chase after them, spinning through the air. I see you crash into their backs, Tony Blair, and I see their spines burst through their chests and scatter lungs and entrails like rain. I see you land in the dust, Tony Blair. I see your helmet crack open and slide away into your breastplate, revealing the glory of your face. I see you wipe your palms together. I see the women and children bursting from the houses, Tony Blair. Each of them cheering your name and thawning at your feet. I see the young men, tears in their eyes praising you and kissing your feet. I see you raise your hand, Tony Blair, and insist that it's all in a day's work. You don't need the fame or the glory, do you, Tony Blair? You just saved the world. That's just what you do. I hear the alarm blaring once more, Tony Blair. I see your eyes go wide, your pupils dilating. I see you sit up in bed, Tony Blair, your body slick with cold sweat, your hair plastered like seaweed across your face. I see the wet patch from your crotch down to your shins where you've pissed the bed. I hear you scream as your alarm clock beeps. I see you raise your hands from beneath the sheets, Tony Blair. I see that they are drenched in blood. I see Sherry next to you, her frog-like eyes blinking away the confusion of sleep. I see a frown spread across her clown mouth as she turns her back on you. Every night, Tony Blair, the same dream, the same bloody hands, and the same piss-soaked sheets, every bloody night. I see you, Tony Blair. I fucking see you.