Tag Archives: politics

Mooing in defiance

Trump got elected. It’s not hugely surprising. Poor people responded to their unhappy situation by voting in a man who plans to cut taxes for the rich. Uneducated people voted for a guy who will make it far, far harder for the average child to get decent schooling without parents who rob banks. It turns out people are stupid. Shocker.

A couple of years ago I probably would have been spitting feathers about it all. But there’s no rage for politics left in me. All that’s left now is to laugh.

This truly is the crowning glory of human achievement – the setting up of a system so confusing to the layman that they willingly truss their own hooves and leap onto the cart to the abattoir, mooing in defiance at the man with the bolt gun. If you can’t laugh at that you must be a Mrs Brown’s Boys fan.

Continue reading Mooing in defiance


You know what’s wrong with politics? You are. You, with your opinions and your Twitter and your Facebook groups. Your £3 political party non-memberships. Your hashtag games.

You are, I am, we is. All split off into our little tribes, haven’t we, especially since Brexit. One side lined up against the other. Swearing and name-calling, spitting at the ‘other’ in the street, throwing molotov cocktails through the windows of halal butchers. (This last may be more one side in particular.)

And look at the political left. I mean, look at the bloody state of it. It’s less than a month since a Labour MP got shot in the street by a man who later declared “death to traitors” and you’ve got people on Twitter saying the “only good Blairite is a dead one”; phoning up an MP’s constituency offices and threatening to kick the shit out of staff; throwing bricks through windows; hand delivering death threats to a PR agency; Paul Mason referencing traitors in context of a no-confidence vote.

Continue reading Momentum

The coffin of politics

I never thought this would happen. When it came down to it, I was convinced that the UK is a small ‘c’ conservative country and would vote to preserve the status quo. We’d vote to Remain, Nigel Farage would continue to bleat on about rigged votes and everything would carry on as normal.

But, oh, for fuck’s sake. It depresses me so much that a horrible, divisive campaign – so much like the one London comprehensively sent packing with the mayoral election – won over nearly 17.5m people. A campaign filled with outright lies, padded out with straight-up racism. A campaign that saw a woman get killed (a woman Farage seemed to forget about in his victory speech, saying his little independence movement succeeded without a single shot being fired. Oh, apart from those ones in Birstall, but never mind).

This wasn’t about Europe. This was about giving a bloody nose to them government poshos who never listen. There are Leave voters on the BBC today saying they didn’t mean it, they didn’t think Leave would win. On Facebook, there’s someone I used to hang out with – and no longer do because of bellendry like this – saying ‘oh crap, it was only a protest vote’. Yeah, well your little protest just wiped £1.5 trillion off the value of the world’s economy.

Project Fear my arse.

Continue reading The coffin of politics

Pass the kittens

I want Donald Trump to be president. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

After a brief spell of impotent fury, I decided to laugh at Britain when it re-elected Cameron and his collection of wide-foreheaded aristocrats last year. You witless dunces decided you want more of all the shit you were moaning about for the preceding five years, because the alternative was a bloke who looked a bit weird. You brought it on yourselves, and the parlous state of the nation you’re left with electrifies the part of my brain that recognises that disabled people are the scourge of our times, and must be taxed until their breathing apparatus whistles like a kettle.

This is the area of my subconscious, entirely beyond my control, that wants the world to suffer. It has no tolerance or compassion for anyone or anything. It gets goosebumps at the thought of kittens in sacks near bodies of water. It revels in disharmony and laughs at misfortune, it’s horrible and hungry for misery, and by gum is the world giving it some tasty treats to snack on right now.

This part of my brain wants Britain to leave the EU, wants Scotland to leave the UK, wants Boris Johnson as Prime Minister, wills refugees towards razor wire, is looking forward to robots taking over and slaughtering everything and above all wants Donald Trump to be the most powerful human being on this horribly doomed planet for the limited time remaining to it.

A spoilt little boy in a combed-over man suit seems nailed on to win the nomination of a party that hates him – a party that contains people who think the world is a sprightly six thousand years old, that abortion causes cancer, that trees cause climate change and that poor people should be delighted that rich people have all the money as they stare uncomprehendingly at a doctor explaining why little Carrie can’t afford leukaemia treatment. And he’s too extreme for them.

If he’s elected as President, the general consensus is that we’ll all die within a year or two. Most people think that’s bad.

Not me.

If we must die, we may as well die laughing, and no-one could deny that he would be hilariously appalling from start to finish, regardless of the fire raining down all around. Americans will chuckle apologetically at what they’ve done, usually stolid world leaders will be caught sniggering during summits at Trump’s incredible proposals – doubtless embarrassing him into letting loose a nuke or two – and viewing figures for the newly comedic News 24 will top the implausible numbers enjoyed by Still Open All Hours. While he’s making America great again he’ll be making life merry again, briefly, before ending us all.

And it’s not just The Donald I hope we inflict on ourselves – my subconscious welcomes doom more generally. Take the refugee crisis. We’re told that rampaging hordes of feral, greedy scroungers are currently pawing at Europe’s borders, masquerading their idleness as a desperate flight from the napalm they laughably claim is licking at their heels. A right-minded person might remember that advert from some years ago, explaining every person alive could fit, albeit at a squeeze, on the Isle of Wight, and think therefore the continent of Europe could probably cope with a few more.

But that pro-mayhem part of my brain natters away in there, making me wonder if we couldn’t instead build them a new, inflatable country in the middle of the Atlantic. Should they fail to curb the urge to poke each other with pointy sticks, their bouncy new home wouldn’t be much of a burden to the rest of us as it shot like a loosened balloon around the skies above Cape Verde and disappeared a few miles west of the Walvis Ridge.

This naughty part of my brain also wants Britain out of the EU. There’s nothing wrong with admitting that men with names like Nigel and Roger have been right all along, and that being hated by an entire continent should be a source of national pride. There’s also nothing wrong with gleefully anticipating the priceless disappointment on their faces when the country is not instantly transported back to 1955, with bunting and hats and people knowing their place, particularly black people, whose place is anywhere but here.

More importantly it would sweep to the helm of this fine nation a man who once railed at the idea that ‘tank-topped bumboys’ should be allowed to teach children buggery in schools, because that’s how it works you know. The peculiar rise of Boris Johnson, who has spent eight years doing precisely fuck all in charge of the country’s largest city, would be the perfect accompaniment to Trump in charge over the pond. With Europe now the enemy, the ‘special relationship’ will be all the more important to a shrunken Britain swiftly shorn of its northernmost nation.

And who wouldn’t want special relations with Donald Trump instead of dangerous continental lunatics like Merkel, Renzi and Hollande? How much more fun life would be with huge walls keeping former neighbours from flinging their rapists at us – a wall around East Anglia, paid for by Denmark, a wall in the Plymouth area to stop all those pesky armadas and a great barricade around Anglesey to keep out our most-hated foe, the Irish (tough choices ahead for the Isle of Man). Best of all, the one to keep the filthy Scots at bay is already half built.

Meanwhile, we humans are thrusting forth towards a sudden end at the hand of technology, if that computer winning a game of Go is anything to go by. I don’t know what Go is but that’s what they’ll make us do when they take over. That, or at the moment they reach peak intelligence the robots will suddenly realise there’s no point to existence and simply shut themselves down, leaving us in a technology free world where no-one remembers how to talk to each other and shepherds are kings. Who wouldn’t laugh at the end of Facebook?

Consciously, I don’t want everyone dead all of the time. Some of you entertain me. Some of you are future providers of organs I might need. Some of you even get a round in, in the rare event the combination of the Henry Squire Die-Cast Zinc All-Weather Combination Padlock keeping your wallet safe from the elements leaks from your gurgling mouth after the fifth rum and coke you’ve wrung from me that night.

But subconsciously, it’s another matter. People like me will be too old to suffer the searing consequences of our need to constantly consume, as the planet’s resources vanish in a puff of carbon dioxide. The world we’ll leave for the next lot is broken beyond contemplation and we who caused it won’t be around to see it burn. Wouldn’t it be more just if we all went out together, screaming maniacally like an internet goat being ridden by two fat blonde men?

Maybe the sick part of my brain has a point. Let’s go all in: vote Trump, Vote Leave, vote ‘Boris’ and vote for anything that’ll make the world a more side-splitting place as it staggers towards denouement. There’s comedy in everything and the more Jimmy Savile jokes we let Ken Livingstone tell the jollier the end will be. Pass the kittens.

Dear Dave

Dear Dave,

And all the other myopic bastards who’ve now successfully endangered my way of life a great deal more than ISIS ever posed: thanks for the prescient consideration of all the ramifications of lobbing more bombs. The juxtaposition of such an intention and its actual result would almost be funny, if the sounds of mirth weren’t to be drowned out with the sounds of bombs detonating in a far away land.

It would perhaps prompt a cheeky smirk of irony if you hadn’t just shot irony dead in the face by descending to the level of savagery that you seek to oppose. Unfortunately irony was just a collateral casualty in your decision making. Doubtless there will be many more to follow and unlike irony they won’t be abstract concepts but post-life humans of flesh, bone and dreams, reduced to mind-numbing statistics by the BBC.

Dave, I don’t know if anyone explained to you exactly why there are quite so many refugees – it was the bombs, Dave, it was the bombs. If you wanted to do something useful, you could’ve put the toy guns down, wiped your nose, climbed out of the sandpit for a moment and actually helped the people who you profess to want to help. Bombs rarely tend to help anyone; in fact they are actually strategically engineered to destroy things. They cost an awful lot to keep producing at the rate you intend to use them, which given the nature of Georgie-Porgie Osborne’s working-class holocaust seems a bit at odds with what we or anyone else in the world needs right now.

Given the knee-jerk nature of our current elected overlords, we just jumped up a few places on the hit list of ISIS targets. Notice how only countries currently hurling thousands of kilos of explosives are the ones being struck? Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll live long enough to see what further desecrations to our nation will be incurred in the name of national security and all the other bullshit double-speak that, whilst usually reserved for the infamously duplicitous language of HR teams, has now become the lingua franca of British politics. Tactically, practically and not least morally this decision makes less sense than Tony Blair’s role as a Middle East peace envoy or Noel Edmonds’ career in general.

Dave, your Dodgy Dossier moment is coming. For Blair it was those pesky WMDs that failed to materialise and for you it’ll be the elusive ground troops who you’re claiming will be able to mop up after the RAF goes on one their joyrides across the desert. The 70,000 FSA fighters you’re relying on are the same ones that you’ve been refusing to arm or support since this conflict blossomed into the global smear campaign against sentient life that it is today.

You really need to stop going along with what the cool kids are telling you; first the sloppy pig job, now this – where will it end Dave? Well, probably with that smug egg-shaped head of yours emitting a few apologetic noises into the camera from the safety of a lead-lined bunker somewhere in Kent. Unfortunately we won’t be around to hear those beautifully crafted words crawl out of your cunt mouth because we’ll either have had the sense to have abandoned the good ship Britain or have been incinerated in the inevitably escalating consequences of your ill thought-through decisions.

At this point, why not just paint a target on the face of every British citizen and have us all stand densely packed around Parliament until you’ve come out of the big boy’s bravery room and decided to apologise for being the petulant child with too many toys? It might give you an idea of what certain ISIS strongholds look like. I’m sure you’ve made use of the readily available material provided online by innumerate activists and correspondents in Raqqa and across Syria which highlights the use of civilians as human shields in strategic outposts. How, may I ask, will you verify this before you drop the bombs, Dave? You could send Boris Johnson and Noel Edmonds over there on a fact-finding mission where they knock on doors as a comedy odd-couple; fuck it, why not get hollow meat-puppets Ant and Dec to narrate the broadcast. It would still be a better effort than you’re making at present.

Finally, I’m not sure what level of education you were treated with back in the halcyon days of porking pigs, but there’s a really good subject that you could benefit from giving even the most cursory of glances over. Yes, Dave, I’m talking about history. Thirteen years on and Iraq and Afghanistan are still a mess, and we used a lot of bombs and bullets over there. More than a decade later and we still don’t have anything resembling a political solution. It doesn’t take someone with as privileged an upbringing as you to figure out that the success of this war will depend on whether you continue to deafen everyone with an arsenal of explosives or decide to actually invest in the mechanics of government that you purportedly desire to uphold.

So far you’ve got the incoherent volatility of a Manchester bar brawl standing in for an exit strategy. Since the vote you seem to have realised that this campaign of yours will actually take a really long time, like years – I mean shit, Dave, George might have your job by then, or is that your plan anyway? To squat in someone else’s lap and leave this big steaming turd of a military venture to soak through their trousers before wiping your arse on their tie, because if so Blair already pulled that one and he’s still being arrested by waiters and hailed as a war criminal, as a heads up.

Take care Dave, and try to avoid the cameras – your face has got that old pork-chop-left-in-a-puddle look about it. But it’s probably just due to the amorality of your own wretched ambition trumping the reality of national security and the general sanctity of life that you just threw up all over. I wouldn’t worry about it. You know Murdoch after all – loyal as a dog!

All the best,

Gerry Flynn

P.S: Stop making life look like the later series of 24 – it was too ridiculous then and it still bloody well is now.

I heart ISIS

So it’s war. From the moment a TV camera picked up the glint in Chuka Umunna’s eye, a little spittle in the corner of his mouth, it was plain which way the vote was going to go. Britain is now engaged in air strikes in Syria, and I do mean now given the frantic scrabble to hurl rockets at brown people miles away began mere minutes after our elected representatives completed what they doubtless believe is their crucial role in ending the world.

Of course, if it’s war today it was war yesterday. Britain has been dropping bombs on Iraq for months, and now they’re doing the same in Syria, on the other side of a border that is singularly meaningless from 30,000 feet. At any rate, the people being targeted don’t recognise the border on land let alone above their heads. It makes you wonder what everyone’s banging on about.

And yet banging on they are. In the lead-up to yesterday’s marathon debate in Parliament, our esteemed Prime Minister adopted his usual noble tone when he declared Jeremy Corbyn, and anyone accepting his viewpoint that bombing Syria is meaningless without a coherent plan on the ground, a ‘terrorist sympathiser’. You don’t agree that this specific methodology is sound in this particular case, so you’re as good as putting together a suicide bomber’s final packed lunch yourself. It’s faultless logic, so much so that I’d no idea how much I loved ISIS until he said it. God I ♥ ISIS, I really do.

I love the image of a man dressed for a long desert campaign popping up unexpectedly in a shopping centre and shouting ‘Admiral Ackbar’ in a final attempt to influence casting decisions in The Force Awakens, before pulling at what’s definitely not a parachute and sending tens of people to the great Primark in the sky. I love that religious fury is once again at the top of the news agenda, because without religion all we’re left with is science, and that won’t do. I especially love that in Paris many of the dead were engaged in the heinous act of watching a band play live, something I do nearly every week and as recently as last night. A small part of me wonders if they weren’t asking for it watching the Eagles of Death Metal but that’s probably the part of me that thinks “Well, he has a point” when David Cameron opens his curiously round mouth.

Cameron’s comment successfully caused Parliamentarians to waste vital debating time attempting to get the most unapologetic man in Europe to say sorry, as the House of Commons once again scoured its Big Book of the Playground for how to behave. There was joking and laughing at various stages, during a debate about remote-controlled death. When the result of the vote was read out there was clapping and cheering, after a debate about remote-controlled death. This was a happy day for Parliament as Britain once again showed the world she won’t be pushed around.

There was even applause, rare in the chamber, for a speech by one of the greyest men in politics, Hilary Benn. Finally emerging from the shadow of his disgracefully left-wing father, Hilary made an impassioned plea for something to be done, because ISIS – or ‘Daesh’ as we much now call it, or ‘ISIL Daesh’ as Hilary obsessively calls it to much bafflement – are evil. Thanks Hil, we hadn’t picked up on that. He explained that they kill innocent people, they kill other Muslims, they’re all-round pretty bad eggs. So we should bomb them. Top stuff, one of the best speeches in living memory we’re told today.

A cynic may at this point highlight that nobody disputes that ISIS are a shower of irredeemable cunts who should be ended with clinical force. The minor point of dissent, however, is whether showering towns and cities containing both terrorists and non-terrorists with heavyweight ordnance is the most efficient way of going about that. Considering ISIS reportedly spend half their time in network of deep caves it’s rather like treating brain cancer by repeatedly punching the patient in the face.

On Parliament’s glorious day, when democracy was reinvigorated and our principles were held aloft in the face of extremism, the picky among us could have noted the regular business of politics as undercurrent. Benn’s speech was serviceable, though it intentionally obfuscated the issue and was no better than many others of the day. That Benn is in direct odds with Corbyn, sitting po-faced beside him, surely couldn’t have contributed to the elevation of this speech from adequate to Churchillian. I find it hard to believe that Tory MPs would raise the roof for Benn in a bid to exacerbate divisions among the opposition, not today of all days. It’s inconceivable that Labour MPs would laud a speech that may accelerate the departure of a leader they view as alien simply for trying to be less despicable than Tony Blair. Given the topic, surely Members of Parliament couldn’t be so callous. Pass the diazepam.

In any case Britain’s contribution to this is nominal at best. John McCain: “We will have some token aircraft over there from the British and they’ll drop a few bombs, and we’ll say thank you very much.” Admittedly McCain is a man who once took advice from ‘Joe the Plumber’, but he probably knows what he’s talking about more than Hilary fucking Benn. Britain’s pathetic attempt to inhale the heady vapours of world power, long after having become as vital as Betamax, is encapsulated beautifully by the number of planes sent on the bomb overnight: six. Perhaps if Richard the First had had as many as six horses to call on during the Crusades we wouldn’t be in this mess today.

I’m not a pacifist, though it tends to take me longer to reach for the Winchester than most. I was fully against Blair’s Iraq beano, but with Gaddafi apparently about to obliterate Benghazi I drew the conclusion that something, anything, had to be done in Libya. I’ve been right and wrong, for the little it’s worth.

But any simpleton can see that a token bombing effort, bringing us inevitably closer to direct conflict with Russia while China looks on impassively, waiting for pieces to pick up, is a farcical move without some sort of plan to sift through the rubble looking for snipers. When there’s nothing left to bomb, what next? With terrorists having scattered to the four corners, will we feel safer? Perhaps the notion is that these nasty fuckers will simply stand and stare upwards, open-mouthed, as our wonderfully accurate precision-guided munitions slot down their throats and pop with barely a sound, causing little or no damage to the unfortunate Shia Muslim at that moment being tortured nearby.

If there was even the slightest chance this tactic could devastate Syria as it has devastated Iraq then surely it would have swayed a few more of the MPs currently chuckling at the naivety of people like me. I guess we really can rely on the thousands of Syrians in the opposition, allegedly as keen to smash ISIS as much as we are. That they’re currently wearing their own set of FAB-500 M62s as delivered by Russia’s own winged heroes doesn’t matter, because we’ve already decided Turkey will be the lamb on Putin’s altar as the end of days approaches and we can surely rely on the inscrutable Vladimir to look the other way as we do exactly the opposite of what he wants us to.

For now let’s just concentrate on ensuring Britain is seen to be doing something while really doing very little, so we can try to look powerful while the world sniggers, and we can make sure no-one so blatantly un-British as Jeremy Corbyn is allowed to express his views in public ever again.

It’s all a huge shame really, because I really do love ISIS.

The last Granny Smith

Thrilled. That’s the word she used. I’m not a fan of workplace violence but if we in this building were trusted to open the windows she’d currently be worrying the front wheels of a number 17 to Cannon Street.

The woman who sits next to me in my mercifully temporary ‘job’ wastes most of the breaths she has left on words and phrases such as ‘personas’ and ‘overarching user needs’. It’s some kind of research the government allows her to do in preparation for online projects which can not and will not be influenced in any way by that research, due to civil servants whose lives depend on sticking fast to impenetrable policy guidelines. Anyway, the government is all about job creation as they’ve been saying for months, and she has one. And she’s thrilled about it.

More specifically she’s thrilled at the re-election of the government which has for the last few months allowed her to get paid for work so meaningless she may as well be ordering Advent calendars for the citizens of Kathmandu. As she told me of her elation on one of the worst Mondays in living memory, she seemed truly delighted that we’d avoided what she clearly regarded as a catastrophic Labour-led coalition that would have caused immediate and irreparable damage to her bank balance and almost certainly allowed a battalion of filthy drug addicts on massive benefits to move into her spare room.

She’s not the only one I’ve heard puffing their chests out in pride at the wonderful decision many voters made in an election that’ll go down as the start of the end for many things some Britons hold dear. Equality, the BBC, the NHS, foxes; all these and more now face a variety of restrictions, cutbacks, bans and culls. Poor people will freeze and starve in great numbers as the ghost of Darwin taunts anyone not in a ‘hard-working family’ with visions of fights to the death over the last Granny Smith, which has rolled into the gutter beside the upturned stall of a recently bundled-away immigrant market trader. Their very first action will seemingly be to repeal the Human Rights Act, and I can provide no finer summation of them than that.

‘We’, though, ‘we’ will be fine. This ‘we’ includes the people who have worked hard enough to own outright at least a fraction of the property they live in. This hard work could have come about via traditional hard work, i.e. sitting bored out of your nut in an office. People in jobs that require them to go to the same place every day to do the same thing that they hate slightly more than last week, hatred they internalise as raised blood pressure rather than releasing at anyone in authority – these are the people who can now expect to be rewarded with a waterfall of golden gifts known collectively as ‘a stronger economy’, however that manifests itself.

It doesn’t have to have been your own hard work, of course. This government will probably reduce inheritance tax to allow people to pass more of the money that has been in their family for generations down to heirs who must wait patiently for interest rates to go up. If anything the wait for the Bank of England’s announcement is harder work than any performed by bleating blue collar plebs, like farmers paid below cost price for milk or cleaners not knowing how many hours they’ll get that week. Imagine having to wait a whole month to find out if grandpa’s millions will be worth millions or billions for the subsequent four weeks. Terrifying.

It could also have come about via a good stroke of fortune. Did you happen to bend over gracelessly in a nightclub packed with leering rich wankers, one of whom brought you gaily into a life of blissful married indolence? Well done, you will be rewarded by the government at the expense of someone who was born ugly through no fault of their own and who, because one low blow is never enough, can’t even find someone to fuck to keep them warm when the gas company doubles their prices because of something that happened to a pipe in the West Siberian Plain.

What are you fucking moaning about? You’ve got a pound haven’t you? Play the fucking lottery. Though, it’s two quid now. Sorry.

A few days ago all of this would have made me furious. But I’m done. If you people are going to voluntarily elect a government for the richest people in the land in the hope that they’ll somehow turn into a million Warren Buffets and shit a few bob on you once in a while, well frankly you can fuck off, oh mighty British voters.

In five years’ time, when the UK is out of the EU, Scotland has legged it and even Northern Ireland are casting glances over their shoulder at the possibility that maybe reunification isn’t such a bad idea after all, I’ll have flogged the farm and fled to Finland. You’ll be left wondering why you did this to yourselves, why all the fat people seem to have all the money, and why no matter what you do you still can’t seem to get rid of Wales.

When you look away for a few seconds and turn back to find the hunting ban repealed, don’t be throwing your arms up in anguish that they’ve inserted a clause in it to allow the hunting of homeless people with packs of beagles. Not that it matters to you, unless you find yourself unexpectedly turfed out because the land you live on has been sold to a Saudi beneath your feet and you can’t afford to live anywhere in your local area, and can’t find work outside that area that will pay your ever-increasing bills. That’s capitalism I’m afraid, that you’ve just voted for in your millions assuming bad things only happen to people who deserve it.

Well guess what: you all fucking deserve it. Your lack of faith in liberalism means you now have half a decade at least of the exact opposite. Included among a list of synonyms for ‘liberal’ in the dictionary are ‘broad’, ‘large-minded’ and ‘tolerant’. Its antonyms are ‘buttoned-up’, ‘fusty’, ‘unprogressive’ and ‘hidebound’. Thrilling. Welcome to the life you’ve chosen, and goodbye.


There’s an election on. The procession of dickheads we usually see on the news grimly telling us the country’s only hope is to lube up and take it are instead grinning and making promises akin to the young girlfriend assuring her man she’ll wait for him as he’s dragged off to the trenches, while eyeing up the bank clerk with flat feet. Policies that will never happen are being ‘red lined’ and ‘set in stone’ in a bid to make us all turn up to put a little pencil mark on a piece of paper some time on a Thursday. Life is absurd.

An election forces politicians out from behind their Civil Service forcefield and into our faces. This is when we get to find out if the latest batch should be applauded or ignored. In almost every case, the 2015 election has shown us that all they’re interested in is telling us as little detail as possible about what they truly believe, while spreading fear of the other lot. Every Party Political Broadcast involves multiple mentions of how if you vote for anyone but ‘us’ you will be directly responsible for the maiming and murder of countless citizens by a coalition of cunts. It has been by far the most obfuscated and negative campaign of my adult life and if I could vote for Guy Fawkes I would.

But there is a glimmer of hope, suggesting that 2020 may not be as calamitous for democracy as this latest round of shit-shovelling. A new group has emerged as a powerful, proud force in politics, with policies we can believe in and people who are just like us. That group is UKIP, and a vote for UKIP is a vote for our future.

Now, anyone with a passing interest in anything I’ve ever said or done may be surprised at this apparent change of tack. But Russell Brand’s example of comedic U-turning has given me courage to admit my real truth, I now realise. So, why UKIP?

Last night helped. A candidate for the party in Hampshire was suspended after being secretly filmed saying if his Conservative opponent of Sri Lankan heritage were ever to become Prime Minister he would ‘personally put a bullet between his eyes’. The idea that a random Tory named Ranil Jayawardena could become only the second PM ever to be assassinated, and the remarkable train of events we’d need to witness to get to that point, sums up why I think we need UKIP.

Politics has become fucking boring, and UKIP make politics fun again.

Who doesn’t hear ‘UKIP’ as the first word in a news report and experience a momentary exhilaration that the next two words might just be ‘have suspended’? This is a party with a long track record of selecting candidates and councillors that epitomise what it means to be traditionally British – afraid of ‘outsiders’, furious at the notion anyone should get anything from ‘the state’ they don’t deserve, jealous of other people’s success and inexplicably fearful of the threat of random gay men to their anal virginity. Brown people are inherently terrifying. Change of any kind should be resisted at all costs. Feudalism can and will prevail.

And with that in mind UKIP’s Dave Small was set loose on the internet last year with tweets about ‘poofs and dykes’, ‘perverts’ and ‘Pakis’. Kerry Smith’s choice phrases included ‘disgusting poofters’ and ‘Chinky bird’. David Silvester called homosexuality a ‘spiritual disease’, which is the very worst kind of disease with the exception of arse cancer and hangovers.

Lynton Yates declared that anyone on benefits should be banned from driving because they ‘really should catch the bus’. The famous Godfrey Bloom knows precisely where in the kitchen a woman’s place is. Matthew Ellery was nicked for robbing his own dad’s antiques shop. A whole raft of Kippers have been done for fiddling the books, while the best of all, Rozanne Duncan, declared unabashedly in a BBC TV programme that she had a problem with black people’s faces and didn’t really know why. She even had the style to admit she knew it was a slightly dubious viewpoint as she stood solidly by her lovely remarks.

Comedy even arises from the seemingly innocent. Roger Bird will forever be a hero of British politics for having stuck his cock in the wrong woman, who subsequently went public accusing him of all manner of misdemeanours. Interest was piqued as Roger, who looked 55 but turned out to be in his mid-30s, was enjoying fun times with a relatively attractive woman he would ordinarily have had little chance of penetrating. The upshot was he hadn’t done much wrong, but how we laughed at this odd, balding, bespectacled little man.

It’s because of each of these true Britons that I urge you to vote UKIP in the 2015 election. A UKIP majority government would be the most hilarious thing to have happpened in the politics of any country in humanity’s colourful history. The mother of all democracies deserves to be the pace-setter in a new utopia of news reports that make us laugh, wince and scream with rage in equal measure. Politics can, and must, be a source of mirth in these tough times to be human.

Every other party any of us could vote for will take us on yet another ride on the staid, tiresome merry-go-round we’ve been throwing up on for 15 years or more. More cuts, more stories of hospitals having no money, more libraries shutting, more teachers quitting or going on strike, more families moved out of the areas they’ve lived in for generations to make way for expensive propertry developments, more pollution, more food banks, more of a gap between the rich and poor and, by far the worst of all, more pubs closing.

Can you see Nigel Farage ever letting a pub shut? All right, so it’s a stretch to see that rubbery halfwit as Prime Minister for longer than about two and a half months before the people of Tottenham start burning down their own buildings again, someone declares Martial Law and we all get our first experience of the Home Office’s shiny new water cannons. But what a time we’d have. Britain could be great again, recalling some of our wonderful country’s finest moments, like the benevolent reign of Good King Richard III, the Charge of the Light Brigade, the Munich Agreement, Beagle 2, this summer’s Ashes and that time the dear old Queen Mum got pissed on Beefeater and pissed on a Beefeater.

So, I urge every man, woman and eligible animal to vote UKIP. I’ll vote Green to make sure it doesn’t look like a fix – we’re not Azerbaijan for Christ’s sake. I’ll take one for the team and try, somehow, to live with it. But if enough of you see purple as you enter the polling booth we could put this disgusting style of politics we’ve lapsed into to bed and finally return a bit of oomph to a country that’s dying on its arse.

Mad Moose

This election is boring me. Maybe it’s my cynicism or my allergy to buzzwords, but the parties are saying nothing to me as a voter of conscience. I’m pretty far left, but lately I’ve actually started to question the sense of Caroline Lucas for a comment that’s so ridiculous I’m actually enraged.

Every April I put up with the endless jibes of idiots that point at the Grand National and shout ‘cruelty’. Lucas has gone on record asking to ban it and possibly all horseracing as we are watching “horses raced to death”. This is an MP I have previously stood up for and followed, but this statement is a rare lapse into misinformation that has sorely disappointed me.

I know my nags. I grew up in a big racing town and worked in the yards and equine veterinary practices through my youth. I’ve seen handicappers, Derby, Gold Cup and Grand National winners both in training and undergoing treatment. The standard of care given to those horses in training is outstanding – the best food, constant love and attention by their lads every day of the week, frequent checks and scans at the slightest hint of a problem.

Horses are worth too much to be mistreated; would you harm a creature worth millions of pounds? They have clover flown in, solarium lamps to warm their backs, swimming pools and cushioned gallops. Racing vets are the best in the world, developing many procedures later rolled out even to humans (such as stem cell therapy on tendons). Jump horses sustain careers over many years, something that can only be achieved with care.

The races themselves have been made safer with whipping bans, safer ground standards, better jump build. Despite what people think, you cannot force a horse to jump or run. Many child has tried, believe me. The best example of this is the famous Mad Moose – now retired and banned by the British Horseracing Board for…not starting. He just said no. No violence, no danger, he just walked off. He once made it to a fence, slowing to a standstill. Does he jump? He does at home and out drag hunting, just not on racecourses. They tried, he said no, and now he’s retired and enjoying life (with a huge fanclub).

So where exactly is the cruelty? Sadly horses do die, but if Lucas looked at the facts it is far worse in the leisure industry where stupidity kills many horses. The worst cases I have ever seen of cruelty are by nameless individuals who starve, overfeed, overwork and even violently attack horses. I’ve been to too many riding schools which beat and overwork their animals, conning the authorities who discourage complaints.

Then there is the meat trade. Most abattoirs do not have CCTV to prove their treatment of all animals is humane, and horses fall through the gaps of the livestock laws. They are packed into trucks where many fall and are trampled to death; the volume of deaths through dehydration is staggering. This is cruelty at its most disgusting.

The real issue with horseracing is not the racing itself – that is after all what they are bred for. It is what happens after their career ends. Then they fall into the hands of arseholes who have no idea how to retrain a beast that knows mainly how to run, that has been treated as a god in a comfortable stable with little interaction with traffic. There are also many horses bred only for speed, with no consideration for temperament or a future career.  Only the economy reduces the amount of (sadly) shit horses being bred. A lot fall into the meat trade, as I’ve said a deplorable and grotesquely unlegislated area for the equine.

So where exactly is the fucking cruelty? I was the first to shed a tear when Balthazar King fell this year, choked up that he might die. Thankfully he is still alive, and being treated incredibly well by top vets in Liverpool. His fall was a mistake, and another horse hitting him a freak accident.

It is horrible, but falls happen. I’ve been fallen on by a small, fat, hairy Welsh pony before – every rider has at some point. Jumping a big fence makes it more likely. If you compare the amount of injuries or deaths in runs against the number of deaths happening daily among normal horse owners maybe it would put this into perspective. Lucas should speak with all the information at hand, spending time in a racing yard and seeing for herself how the sport and industry is run, not spouting vote-courting buzz-phrases.

Taking our pills and watching our cartoons

Some people say the world has gone bonkers. Some people say the world is dying. While I agree with the sentiments of both, I’ve got to think neither are true. The world is neither bonkers nor dying; it just is. We, however, we humans – we’re definitely all going to die. And we’re just bonkers enough to try and make that happen a little bit sooner by bringing down the world with us.

I like to think of the world as one giant lunatic asylum for the mentally and terminally ill. But instead of taking our pills and watching our cartoons and smelling the nice roses, we’re intent on smashing the fucking place to bits. On ripping great handfuls of plaster off the wall and shaping them into effigies of our deity of choice. On tearing up the nice potted plants dotted everywhere and creating useless baubles and trinkets of every imaginable size and shape, simply for our own amusement. On biting off chunks of the sofa and sticking our dicks into the exposed foam, then rutting until both us and the sofa are mere husks of their former selves. On, almost literally, fucking our environment into annihilated oblivion for no other reason than because we can and because it will help us to buy stuff to put with our other stuff and the stuff we’ve forgotten we bought and didn’t really give that much of a fuck about in the first place.

And the worst part? We don’t even acknowledge that we’re doing it. We refuse to admit our own insanity and the reckless effect it is having on our environment.

If all that metaphorical flimflam was too obscure for you, I’m talking about climate change, our role in it and, most gear-grindingly of all, the morons who deny it’s happening, and who, by some twisted logic, seem to end up being the ones in charge of addressing it.

If you haven’t noticed that it’s happening, you’ll probably want to pull your head out of your arse or that sand you’ve been burying it in or the oven or wherever you’ve been allowing it to coagulate for the last decade or four.

Of course, as with most things, this destruction of our planet and simultaneous shoulder-shrugging is most noticeable in the good old U-S of A. Only there could men who have quite literally written the book on climate change conspiracy (see The Greatest Hoax by Senator James Inhofe… then burn it … err, I mean recycle responsibly, of course) and compared the Environmental Protection Agency to the Gestapo (yes, really) be elected into the role of chairperson of a body supposedly designed to champion the causes of our flagging planet. Only there could the House of Representatives try to usher through a bill banning scientists from commenting on their own work (that’s right, those who are most qualified and most practiced in the subject are prohibited from sharing any of that pointlessly accrued knowledge). And only there would an elected official argue with regulations prohibiting the over-extraction of coal because “God said so”.

Of course, although our American chums are some of the prime offenders in this sadistic charade of planet-buggery, they are merely the over-zealous frat-boys at the cult shindig where everyone has most certainly partaken of the Kool Aid.

Closer to home, our politicians seems to have foregone all pretence of giving a fuck and are rapaciously pursuing the practice of fracking (it even sounds dirty) which has made our American brethren so delirious with capitalist glee. With their rubber fucking faces contorted into postures of patronising contrition, they nod and smile at the droning regulations imposed by the EU, which is becoming increasingly reminiscent of a senile old grandfather, forgetting his admonitions while still in the process of administering them. “What’s that…? Fossil fuels, you say…? Global warming, you say…? 20% reductions, you say…? Of course, of course…” they soothe treacherously, all the while tapping the walls for hidden oil reserves and sidling ever closer to the door marked EXIT where Nigel Farage proffers forbidden fruit and pints of bitter.

Meanwhile, Australia, our long-lost son, has appointed as its political kingpin a Speedo-toting moron whose complete lack of morals seem to be a point of honour. When faced with opposition to his barbaric planetary policies, the man and his cronies seem only able to reply that “COAL IS GOOD” in a macabre Orwellian pastiche of Hodor from Game of Thrones.

And just in case you thought my focus on Anglo-centric countries was indicative of the racist cap I donned to pen this harangue, then fear not – there’s plenty of bile stored up to shower over Earth-plunderers who speak other languages. Until recently, Saudi Arabia and Russia were so good at fucking the Earth and charging others to watch that they were ranked even above the outspoken Yanks. The giant cloud of impending doom that hovers relentlessly over the vast country of China is something of a clue to its stature as top dog in greenhouse gas emissions, cheerfully releasing more than 6 million tonnes of the fuckers into the air each year.

The industrial boom in India, not content with spitting out huge amounts of carbon and shitting all over the land it’s built on, has also saved some excrement for the exploited workers in its factories. Meanwhile, the Japanese, like the Russians, are all for cutting harmful emissions, but only on the principle that “you go first”. Even the endearingly benign Canada are not free from blame, mining their country’s vast resources into a state of ecological butt-hurt. Of course, not everyone is to be tarred with the same brush. Germany, for all its current environmental havoc-wreaking, is at least making some very loud and convincing noises about “wanting to change” in the near future. And Scandinavia… well, the Scandinavians certainly seem to have it all worked out. Though never having actually been there myself, I can’t be 100% sure it actually exists. Another Narnia, I suspect.

The great race to wreck our surroundings continues unstoppably and every one of us is to blame. But what does that matter when another Christmas is always coming and there’s ever more STUFF to buy?