Happy horrific

Welcome to the end of London.

Everyone knows what’s been going on. Knife attacks, vans mowing into pedestrians, panic and fire. There’s terror and there’s terrorism, there’s anger and there’s fear. Right now there’s police tape all over the Seven Sisters Road and a tower block filled with charred corpses gravely peering over Ladbroke Grove.

And now even the weather’s getting in on the act, the fireball searing every inch of exposed flesh and making every commute an exercise in keeping murder at bay. In June. All in all, this city’s done.

Yeah, right.

Continue reading Happy horrific

From Westminster to Wetherspoons

All week out here in Hanoi there’s been a storm brewing. God himself tore the sky asunder, bringing his omniscient cock down to bear on the Vietnamese capital and opening up a stream of holy piss the likes of which haven’t been seen since the time of Noah. Turns out the vicar’s daughter hadn’t been prudent enough to heed the warnings of senior Tory party reptiles and there will be no ark for her when the floodwaters start rising.

And rise they shall. We’re a little more than a week on from the election, and for all the tooth and nail gibbering that took place during that sordid chunk of history, there emerged no victor.

My predictions failed me. The Liberal Democrats were hung by the gonads from meat-hooks while students hurled rotten fruit and used tampons. That detestable invertebrate Nick Clegg lost Sheffield Hallam to Labour for the first time in over 100 years, slinking off with big watery puppy eyes. Dark times indeed for the centre-ground of politics, but the failure of the Glib Dems is no doubt indicative of the times we live in; madness begets madness and Tim Farron’s mild-mannered attempt to offer sanity was drowned out in the calamity and cacophony of a battleground for which he was not properly equipped. Farron too, lacked the guts to fight a campaign and now he goes snivelling back to lobbying on behalf of the Church, leaving the Liberal Democrats as impotent as eunuchs until Vince Cable steps up his game.

The list of casualties goes on, with the next head to be mounted on the mantelpiece of No. 10 belonging to former UKIP leader Paul Nuttall. Spare a thought for Paul. A truly reckless excuse for a politician, his failed abortion of a political career has tunnelled back into the dirt. From Westminster to Wetherspoons. There will be few tears shed for Paul’s demise and nor should there be. The town drunkard was a fraudulent charlatan, a snake-oil salesman and a blithering moron of such epic proportions, it’s some sort of anti-miracle that he survived this long.

But the press remain hungry for meat and only a prime cut will do. Theresa May was savaged by even the Murdoch owned papers, who turned on her like a leper in paradise. The Sun and Daily Mail ran a better campaign against Corbyn than May could have ever mustered herself, but in the end this vitriol did not translate into votes. Her career is as dead as her eyes, yet she limps on, dripping blood, forked tongue hissing violently at anyone she passes.

From day one she’d had all the support possible: the papers, the polls and even the public, but post-election that hereditary smugness transmogrified her face into a haunted lump of waxen dried fruit. But her talons are dug deep into the democratic hog and she has no plans to relinquish her death-grip, even enlisting the Neolithic troglodytes of the DUP – summoning them via time machine into the foul year 2017 to ensure the survival of her reign.

It will not be enough. A fire in a tower block is all it took to expose the hastily erected façade. Soon May will go quietly into that good night of politics the same way that Cameron did and while Dave has switched smoothly back into the meanest yuppie ever to roam the earth, Old Tessa will be lucky to run a village fete when they chase her out of town. All that remains to be seen is whether she runs weeping back to the wheat fields or if the reptilian Tory party will slide its barbed cock so far into her softer regions that she chokes to death on her own minced offal.

Somehow, Labour succeeded in pulling off some maniacal supernatural experiment where the embalmed remains of Jeremy Corbyn were reanimated and sent forth into battle like a withered Furby hooked up to the mains. Coming across as more human than a startled banshee caught in the headlights of youth in revolt probably wasn’t that hard and I suspect Corbyn was living off a diet of Viagra and espressos throughout the campaign, but it was still a better comeback than Jesus given the polls two months ago.

I expected Corbyn to be taken out back and shot. May was going to beat him like a drum and skull-fuck the Labour party into a shallow, unmarked grave. The whole left-wing was to be tied to a rocket by the genitals and fired off into a black hole, never to be spoken of again. For Labour, it’s difficult to see this as the defeat that it was. Yes, objectively speaking they lost, but they have shown there’s a real appetite for Tory scalps these days. Tom Watson has taken to wearing a necklace of ears and even Diane Abbot has one of Paul Dacre’s testicles for an egg-cup.

The good ship Blighty has sailed deep into uncharted territory and if our sinking prison isle is to survive, we need a better captain. With some new fresh hell rising out of the depths every day now, it is unclear exactly how the gaping chasm of a wound on our nation can be healed back to unity.

I suspect history will treat this current crop of Tories like the vultures they are – even the Nazis thought they had God on their side. I have never been one for hope, but it remains possible that the Time of the Bastards is coming to an end and some new hideous mutant hellspawn will be unleashed upon a screaming British public, but perhaps not. Big time politics is a strange game with few rules and only the most debauched and cannibalistic survive.

Before the typhoon strikes

Quietly churning away like my stomach at the sight of Amber Rudd tongue-punching Theresa May’s fartbox live on TV, the wheels of democracy have lurched us to the barren cliff edge of election day.

Diane Abbott has jumped off the cliff ahead of Labour Party schedule and is now wallowing in the strange purgatorial realm of ‘illness’ – one that reeks of a sick note from your mum that gets you out of being rugby tackled by the head boy in PE. Only the head boy is now a semi-sentient, permanently concussed farmhand and yet he retains a better grasp on politics than Abbott, which is almost a shame.

The haunted stuffed owl that currently shuffles through No. 10 like a somnambulist, waking in terror at every question fired off by a reporter, somehow still lives, although not in the traditional human sense. Whatever voodoo keeps May alive clearly didn’t work for Abbott. At least she went with a whimper rather than a bang; people are on edge this week and sudden movements make everyone queasy. Continue reading Before the typhoon strikes

The shifty librarian

I’ve actually quite enjoyed this election campaign.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve not lost my fucking mind. I haven’t been glued to leaders’ debates and party election broadcasts, desperate for a fix of election smack to see me through to the next Andrew Neil interview. I’ve quite enjoyed this one because it’s the first time in my adult life I’ve treated it with the same level of interest and respect owed to a hair-pulling girl fight at a Bolton comprehensive.

Continue reading The shifty librarian

The Grange Hill sausage

The band are on fire.

Not in a Bataclan sense, but they’re tearing through their set like a chainsaw through trifle. The crowd are going batshit and no-one will leave without tinnitus. And you’re in the middle of it all, mainlining life.

From nowhere, a boot is thrust into your eyeline like the Grange Hill sausage. It thrashes about and whips at your eyebrow, ayabastard. By rights you should be furious; there’s no reason for a boot to be up there by your head, nor the ankle poking out of it. You grab it, pull it and drag it over yourself. Sweet Jesus there’s a whole body coming with it, a fat fuck of a man punching the air. He’s shovelled forwards, crushing the pink mohican of the lunatic in front.

It’s brilliant and you’re having the time of your life. But enjoy it while it lasts, because they’re coming for it.

Continue reading The Grange Hill sausage

Strength and stability

This month sees the seven-year anniversary of the Tories’ ascension to Downing Street.

Seven is considered to be a magic number by many. Seven days of the week, seven colours in the rainbow, seven continents and seven seas on this great green-and-blue Earth. Seven Samurai, seven books in the Harry Potter series and seven fucking psychopaths.

Seven might be a magical number to some, but it certainly hasn’t proved magical for the majority of Britons over the last seven years, and it’s apparently not quite magical enough for Theresa May, who has decided to reach for five more years in the Prime Ministerial hot seat.

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A hole to China

It was a rather hot summer’s morning at about 10am. I’d been up since 6am because I work for myself and my boss is a total prick.

My friend came to see me, said he had the day off. Now, you know that friend you have that, when they say they have the day off, you know you’re about to spend all day down the pub? Well, this is my friend like that. Before I could even argue he threw me my coat, and as this was a summer’s day, this confirmed my suspicions that we would be in the pub all day and most of the night.

It was one of those days where work didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, really.

Continue reading A hole to China

And specially designed components

If you want an interesting, storied and happy life, office jobs might not be for you. I once spent an entire afternoon writing about how hideous mine was and hahaha you’re about to read it you mug.

Nevertheless, occasionally you find one that could charitably be described as tolerable. It pays, you don’t spend your commute increasingly aghast as the stations tick by and you only want to kill every second colleague loudly discussing The Walking Dead. The odd job is bearable for longer than the probation period takes to congeal like the pool of blood you regularly fantasise about spilling in the second hour of an average Tuesday morning.

But every job has its day.

Continue reading And specially designed components

A time before E.ON

Channel 4, home of Posh Pawn, My Big Fat Diet Show (?) and Three Wives One Husband, where three women shit onto a bloke watching the rugby. The other night I accidentally landed on Channel 4 when whatever I was watching on catch-up ran out, and made the fatal error of not hammering desperately at every button within reach.

It was a programme about the royal family, I think. At any rate there was lots of Diana in it and she died. There were clips of plebs exhibiting mass grief outside a palace they weren’t allowed in. A huge, blatantly hard man shuddered as his beetroot-red face leaked onto the pitbull tattooed on the bingo wing of the ‘woman’ consoling him.

Where is he now, I wonder? How does he remember that day? Nobly, one suspects, with gnarled fists brandished if his manliness is ever questioned. But the TV doesn’t lie, matey. No matter how many fat people it exploits while promising Baked-Off strudels are good for you, Channel 4 doesn’t lie. You bawled like a smacked infant at the death of a rich woman you didn’t know, who’d have treated you like a 17th-century peasant with a large red X on his door had she met you, and we all saw it.

Continue reading A time before E.ON

A B&B in Baku

As a man with nothing to save for and no offspring to syphon it away, money serves three purposes for me.

First, it buys toilet paper. On the one hand, bog roll symbolises mundane bills and unavoidable life expenses, but while clutched in the other it serves to hurriedly wipe away the terrifying results of money’s second purpose, dipsomania.

The third is foreign travel. Much as I love Britain’s glorious combination of comforting bigotry, polite sadism and fields, so many fields, seeing other parts of the world is now my principal route to joy. As I write, I’m in the 40th country I’ve visited, before my fourth decade is up, and I’m proud of that.

And as I write I can see two things. One is a jungle, right next to this hotel, from where a troupe of capuchin monkeys emerged yesterday to steal a fat man’s plantain.

The other is tourists.

Continue reading A B&B in Baku