Tag Archives: politics

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.

Sunset on the Whittington Riviera

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

The path of a 355

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

The afterwank

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

Grit and flair

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

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.

Continue reading From Westminster to Wetherspoons

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