Truly, I feel for you. Your job, family and life in general teeter on the rim of a slop bucket of decisions made by a government so erratic it makes Jair Bolsonaro look like Jacinda Ardern. Old Aunt Doris, may her Covid-riddled cadaver rest in peace, left everything to the bloody cat shelter just as your pot to piss in sprung a mortgage-sized leak. And as if things couldn’t get any worse they’re threatening to make you go back to work, ending the laziest and therefore greatest few months of your adult life.
Still, you’ve got your health. So quit fucking moaning.
Continue reading Sunset on the Whittington Riviera
This one’s serious then, is it?
Serious enough for politicians to admit that a few people might have to work from home for a while. The devastating effect this’ll have on the boss class – oh fuck, if they don’t need to be here to do these jobs, what’s the point of me? – was conveyed in the twitchy demeanour of Britain’s buffoon in chief, flanked by the experts he’s so recently branded as bogeymen. If staring about a podium wildly for help is ever a paying position, he’ll be fine, even as everyone who does a non-computer job is handed their last meagre pay slip and told to make it last because paper doesn’t grow on trees.
Before boffins had had the chance to give it the catchy sci-fi name Covid-19, red-top comics read by builders had planted ‘coronavirus’ into simple minds and that’s what we’re stuck with. How many of us are stuck with it, God only knows.
I heard some figures yesterday: the absolute worst scenario for people in the UK getting this virus is 80%. It kills roughly one in every hundred people who get it. Given the UK’s population of nearly 67 million, that would mean that the top projection of deaths from this is a bit over half a million.
A proper cull!
Continue reading The path of a 355
Don’t do it to yourself. Don’t listen, switch off, plug your lugholes and glue your lids shut.
There’s politicians on the rampage, oh hoho.
Continue reading A lot in the coming
When I was young, back when this was all fields, I vowed that I would never be one of those people who stopped caring about things.
Old people would tell us we really couldn’t change a damn thing, but we knew our generation was different. We walked down streets wearing wristbands that said ‘Make Poverty History’ and just knew we’d save the world. All we needed was a few people richer than us to give up their money first, then we’d maybe start chipping in too, once the student loans were paid off and we’d had a nice holiday and a couple of kids, and obviously they’ll need money for a house and to be honest these people should probably be helping themselves before they come to us for handouts but the point is we cared.
Old people just gave up, but we’d never do that. And I can honestly say I have the same politics as I did in 2005. I don’t squint warily at brown people and my investment portfolio stretches no further than the two cans of Guinness I left unswallowed in the fridge last night. I want more than anything to leave, but the last thing I want is to Leave.
And yet, with the tragic inevitability of the toast landing jam-side-down, the old people were right.
Continue reading The afterwank
At last count, the population of Venezuela was 32,157,182. I’ve taken this from a site that claims to have ‘live’ statistics, as bespectacled men roam South American hospitals impatiently tapping pens against clipboards to the sound of perineal tearing.
That’s a lot of people. Think of the huge range of talents there must be. Massive potential for growth and betterment. Imagine what a country that size could achieve if it made the most of its latent expertise.
Today, Nicolas Maduro has declared he’s the only one out of the lot of them with the stature and smarts to lead his country beyond its next election. As a result, he’s banned opposition parties from standing. All of them. Anyone who’s not him.
He’s a man in power. And if you think we’re giving that up any time soon you’ve a rude one coming.
Continue reading Grit and flair
Well, he’s at it again, only this time he’s only pissed off a community. Makes a change from pissing off an entire country. A while back, Trump, for some unknown reason, decided to tweet out about the LGBT community not being allowed to join the army anymore. Perhaps a man in a dress stole his ball and won’t give it back, who knows. And with his usual vacuous flourish he’s now signed an ‘executive order’ about it.
It’s not that he singled out the LGBT community. We should be used to people like him singling out communities by now. It is not even what he said really, that certain people can’t join the army. OK, it’s a total dick move, but it’s your army – if you want to reduce recruitment on the brink of WW3, that’s your call, I guess.
Continue reading Playgrounds
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.
Continue reading From Westminster to Wetherspoons
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
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
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.
Continue reading Strength and stability