Tag Archives: Britain

The Kingdom of Finchley

Amazing fact: there’s no such place as Finchley.

There’s an East Finchley, a West Finchley, a North Finchley and a bit in the middle called Finchley Church End. There was a South Finchley once, but we don’t talk about that (dirty ‘Hampstead Garden Suburb’ splitters). But there’s no ‘Finchley’.

With all this time on my hands I’ve decided to create a country. It’ll include all the named areas of this wonderful segment of north London suburbia plus the parts of Mill Hill nobody wants and I, of course, will be king. Clearly if you’re going to make a country in 2021 you don’t bugger about with democracy and presidents and elections and all that – you install a family who will rule for centuries through the trusted mechanisms of serfdom, patronage and inexplicable, unearned loyalty.

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A beach at Dieppe

I know I told you I had a yacht and a big cock, and it turns out it’s an inflatable canoe and three inches on a warm day, but picture the sunny uplands.

Think of the carbon emissions we’ll save circling around Teddington Lock not the Bay of Biscay. Given I also can’t get it up, there’s no threat of making babies that’ll blame solar panels for causing Covids 37 to 43 and feed Twirl wrappers to dolphins. The fact that you weren’t thinking of the climate crisis all along says more about your priorities than mine to be honest.

I can say absolutely anything I want, and when the truth doesn’t quite marry up don’t think for a moment I’ll act contrite. This is the Age of Fuckallaccountability.

You’ll know who springs to mind when we study this golden era of truth twisting. Last night our heroic leader told us that it’s best we start planning for the tariffs we’ll face if a dump we’ve innocently fired down a British khazi ends up rolling up a beach at Dieppe. Long gone are the spirited words: “There is no plan for no deal because we are going to get a great deal.” A great deal more fucking poor apparently.

The intricacies of the Brexit negotiations are of as much interest to me as they’ve lately been to Barbara Windsor. There may still be a deal, but even getting this close without one is a remarkable turnaround from trestle tables covered with cheap brie and prosecco amid the blue passport-waving 24-hour Morris dance of 2020s Britain we were promised.

But try as I might to put Brexit’s cast of charlatans from my mind, the fact that we’re completely inured to their scalding bullshit remains the one thing that can raise my hackles from their slumber. They say whatever the hell they want. We let them. And no-one ever has to be held to account for it, and apparently never will.

Examples seem so bountiful you could leave the house and bump into one quicker than a cough and an intensive care bed. Far quicker in fact, given these very same leaders have bullshitted us all into an imminent fresh round of tightened lockdowns. But come now, let’s stick with the non-stop beano of Brexit.

“British people will still be able to go and work in the EU; to live; to travel; to study; to buy homes and to settle down.” Johnson.

“Coming to a free trade agreement with the EU should be one of the easiest in human history.” Fox.

“Absolutely nobody is talking about threatening our place in the Single Market.” Hannan.

“We didn’t vote to leave without a deal.” Gove.

A blithering parade of imbeciles and no mistake, who half this country’s population put their faith in for reasons best known to the ghosts of the National Front. All hope has come to nought, it appears. So, at a time when everyone loves a good blaming, who do we blame for this? Perhaps the people who told us it would never happen, then proceeded to make it happen? Could we maybe force them to stand behind their quotes and actions?

No, because in the Age of Fuckallaccountability there’s zero chance of any of these people being held responsible for the forthcoming tailbacks, scarcity, hardship, unemployment, and probable strikes and riots. Dyson and the car factory bloke have already upped and fucked off abroad, Farage can go live in Germany with his German family and there’s nothing any of us can do about Mr Wetherspoon.

Those left in actual paying government jobs will stand in front of cameras to say that an ‘Australia-style arrangement’ is great news for us all. In case you’ve somehow fallen for this line, let me clarify: Australia has no deal with the EU. A recent Australian Prime Minister has said his country are doing everything they can to get a deal: “Australians would not regard our trade relationship with Europe as being a satisfactory one.”

An Australia-style arrangement is precisely, exactly and entirely the same as an Afghanistan-style agreement, yet none of the arseholes about to Taliban the economy will ever serve a day in the jail of public opinion, let alone Pentonville. Johnson in particular will be held up as defending British interests against uppity foreigners who simply don’t understand their place, nor ours as ‘global leaders’, of fuck all but injecting old dears.

You can only assume it’s the Trump effect, where the world’s been completely beaten down by his every word being utter nonsense. We don’t care if liars are punished, we just want them to go away, and we cheer from beneath the rubble when they do. I’m no fan of ‘Won’t somebody think of the children?’ but for Christ’s sake, what would any impressionable 12 year old think of this? Say what you like, do what you want, pay no penalty and stroll off chuckling. An entire generation of cake-and-eat-its. An entire generation of Jacob Rees Moggs, and presumably a generation after that of kids called Alberitious, Flatulencia and Getafix.

But since there seems no appetite for public inquiry, and no sacking or pillory even when there is one, I guess all we can do is embrace this period of saying what we want and meaning not a jot of it. If nobody can ever hold us accountable we can do as we please and have a merry old time doing so.

Wife catches you halfway up a barmaid? But for me, she could have really hurt herself falling from that height. Outed as still pissed on a Tuesday morning Zoom call? S’not booze, s’the pills for stress coz this job, no support, tough year, mental health and that innit. Broke the virus rules for your 60th birthday bash? Six months off on full pay.

Or maybe we all just deploy that catch-all excuse, the alibi that absolves us of every crime. Caught? Rumbled? Found out? Nicked?

Eye test mate.

Urns and trinkets

It is my considered opinion that Stephen Fry is a disgrace.

Woah there, you can’t say that about a National Treasure oh but I can, I can. I have no issue with most of the things Stephen Fry believes and says. He seems politically sound, he’s just the right type of anti-religious proselytiser that I enjoy, he loves his cricket and he’s provided some splendid comedy over the years, not least a bafflingly underrated nineties adaptation of Jeeves and Wooster.

But he’s on Twitter, see, this fucking guy. And again, normally that’s fine – right now he’s doing a decent job of trying to raise the collective mental health, and doubtless his own, as the walls close in and the Sainsbury’s website shakes its head. But I can’t forgive him, and I can never forgive him, for his disgusting remark in September 2018.

It is my considered opinion that #therepairshop is far and away the best programme on British television at the moment.

You’re cancelled, Fry.

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Shake, rattle and roll

What one day resembles Utopia, the next looks like Uttoxeter. Turns out if you let people do whatever they want at home all day every day, their favourite new hobby is to moan they’re bored.

Certainly the things people are doing to try to fill time feel a lot like barrel-scraping. Take gardening, when it’s not cold as a snowman’s carrot outside, because a week and a half of quarantine has completely reversed global warming and we’re now a fortnight away from woolly mammoths setting up market stalls in Aberystwyth.

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Wensleydale and the whippet

Let’s get this straight: when I’m Prime Minister, given basically anyone’s allowed a go now hahaha, the first new crime on the statute books will be tardiness.

I will trample a litter of newborn puppies to get somewhere on time. I don’t instantly want you dead if you’re late to meet me, but your first born are fair game. If we agree to meet at 7pm and you arrive with a “Sorry, I got caught up” at 7.50, I’ll have spent the 45 minutes since your grace period ran out thinking of ways to have you arrested for sex crimes.

But that doesn’t make me a hurrier. If I say I’m going to be somewhere at a certain time, I make sure I add a few minutes’ buffer to the journey. If I’m looking like being early, that’s why God made pubs.

I don’t spend my days hurtling about like a sheepdog on Ritalin. Which brings us to HS2.

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A shade of beetroot

I have a burning pet hate these days. I become so infuriated I’m sure I often resemble a ‘gammon’ myself as my face turns a shade of beetroot, my blood pressure skyrockets and I struggle to maintain my cool and dignity. I absolutely detest arrogance, especially when the so-called achievements are exaggerated or didn’t even happen.

So many Brits believe they are better than any other nationality, and living anywhere other than the UK is akin to living in North Korea or some third-world country in Africa. I really can’t comprehend where this arrogance comes from and I have no tolerance for people who think and behave like us Brits walk on water and look down on all other nationalities from our ivory tower. I’m beginning to think we’ve become a nation of complete twats, convinced we are far superior to the rest of the world and that our tiny little island exceeds any other place on the planet.

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My blood is boiling. Steam is blowing out my ears. I might just explode like Mark François was meant to on October 31st.

The reason? Hearing for the millionth time from some geriatric fuckwit who lives in Spain declaring he’s not an immigrant here, but an expat. Because clearly, as a British citizen living abroad, being referred to as an immigrant is an insult that puts us Brits on a par with immigrants in the UK. And everyone knows they only go over to get a free 6-bedroomed house, a mobile phone, a speedboat to smuggle the rest of their family over in and £2,000 a week in benefits.

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Stay frosty

War is hell. Women and children are under terrible threat and nobody’s doing a damn thing about it. Politicians seem powerless to stop it and outrage is everywhere.

Even those far from the front lines have their routines badly disrupted. But this is no ordinary conflict. This enemy is different – insidious, targeting the weakest in society, culling the sick and the old like a less cuddly Shipman. It’s an unwinnable war against a truly evil adversary.

Yeah, it’s a bit nippy out.

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Entangled in Elstree

The round involved a board of photos of famous people as they had looked in the 1980s. Big hair, moustaches, Gary Lineker looking the same. And very clearly Steven Spielberg. It couldn’t have been anyone but Spielberg.

Up steps Steve, a civil servant from Poole in a shirt that the geese have been at. Steve used to be a national level trampoline gymnast. Tell us Steve: who’s the chap with the beard?

“I’ll go with…Jeremy Beadle?”

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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.

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