Revealed: Red Ken Livingstone's triumvirate of terror

They are barely visible and occupy a twilight world of political chicanery, but the power they wield impacts on the life of every Londoner. They are the Mayor's Praetorian Guard, his Murder Incorporated, his Metropolitan Mafia, his Salaried Stasi, his Opera-loving Ogpu whose unswerving loyalty and unquestioning and fanatical devotion to their leader underpins Livingstone's black reign of fear.

Their devotion must be particularly comforting to Livingstone, who as pariah Mayor has few friends to enforce his own particular brand of democracy. Indeed, Red Ken's grandiosely-titled chief of staff, Simon Fletcher, recently declared that he would "not take a piss" without his boss's permission, and that policy directors Redmond O'Neill and John Ross had sworn a blood oath at a midnight torchlit rally to defend their leader's satanic regime to the last for a salary of around £60,000 per annum plus pension and health benefits.

Indeed, it was Fletcher who recently flew to his master's side after it was revealed that the Mayor had attacked his pregnant partner with a chainsaw, deftly handling aggressive press enquiries and personally punching out the lights of a paparazzi hit squad from The Daily Mail.

It might be imagined that such above-and-beyond-the-call-of-duty commitment would earn the admiration of those at City Hall. Not so. This so-called "triumvirate of terror" has attracted nothing but opprobrium from those amazed at their bloody rise to power.

Indeed, all three are graduates from the university of extreme left-wing politics. John Ross, now 55, once declared to a meeting of the Student Union that he would "cut off the head of any capitalist and then piss in the stump". Although he later discovered fine wine and opera, it is known that he and Fletcher and O'Neill were all active in a group called "Red Bandana" in the early 1970s, a paramilitary organisation concerned mostly with openly aggressive leafleting in the Dalston area of London.

Although a number of atrocities is attributed to the group — including painting a moustache on a statue of Winston Churchill, and calling Mrs Thatcher a cun*t — any attempt to probe further into its history meets a wall of fearful silence.

But Ross's personal vision of a working-class uprising goes even deeper. Terrifyingly, in 1969, while working as a home economics lecturer at Enfield Polytechnic, he icily told an amazed cookery class that "to make an omelette, you've got to break a few eggs".

Nowadays he restricts his culinary activities to sampling the best that London's eateries have to offer. In this he is joined by Redmond O'Neill, 48, the "third man" of Red Ken's unelected inner circle. Redmond's secret life encompasses an enthusiasm for Irish republicanism, and indeed all things Irish — especially Guinness, which he consumes in vast quantities in his oak-panelled office while receiving members of the Real IRA who have been flown to London at the ratepayers' expense.

The facts are these: The whole of London is run by unelected Red agitators whose hands are stained with the blood of innocent women and children. We must ask ourselves: How low has democracy sunk that demonstrably Marxist-Leninist fanatics can exert a fatal stranglehold on our beloved capital while honest and hard-working mayoral candidates are languishing in open prisons on trumped-up charges of perjury? We say this: Red Ken must go, he must go now and he must not come back.

Next week: Red Ken rapes schoolgirl virgin in drug-crazed orgy of satanic lust