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.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *