Category Archives: Embittered political ramblings

Jacob Rees-Mogg and the Apex of Failure

I’ve been rather out the loop this week. Nothing too exciting I’m afraid. I’ve not been gallivanting off around the globe lion taming in the Sahara desert or anything – just a simple house move. That said, it’s been rather nice to find myself cut adrift from the miserable malaise that has enveloped the country. Rather than being beaten over the head with yet more grisly tales of unfathomable governmental incompetence upon first waking up in the morning, instead I’ve almost been in a period of hibernation – cocooning myself in a comfortingly bland reality defined by endless shopping trips and the eternal struggle of flat-pack furniture.

So what did I miss? Well, let’s see – Theresa May managed to maintain her frankly peerless record of alienating huge swathes of the country whenever she opens her mouth in public, her EU withdrawal agreement remains about as popular as an e-coli outbreak on a transatlantic flight and, having failed to schmooze prominent git Michael Gove into becoming Brexit Secretary, she was forced to employ a man so unknown and inconsequential that a whole thirty minutes spent staring at himself in the mirror wouldn’t spark the faintest glimmer of recognition.

Same shit, different day basically.

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John Doe was apparently unavailable.

That said, there was something new which managed to penetrate through the suffocating smog of unbridled misery and offer up the faintest whiff of light relief.

Of course I speak of the glorious, almost life affirming failure of Jacob Rees-Mogg, as the pompous relic found himself at the helm of a ship he’d spent two years constructing, only to find it sinking twenty seconds after leaving port with only a crew that Captain Pugwash would look upon derisively for company.

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If you thought this panel was vivacious and full of life, you should check out your local morgue.

It’s been a curious experience following the adventures of Jacob Rees-Mogg these past two years. Not only has he had a surprising amount of exposure for an ostensible back-bencher, his ghoulishly anachronistic presence haunting our screens on a near daily basis, his ultimate motives have long since been visible from the far side of Jupiter – to take out Theresa May by any means necessary.

In effect this puts him at the exact same end of the duplicity spectrum as Boris Johnson, only instead of masking his deceit with preposterous buffoonery, he opts for a veneer of quaint Edwardian absurdity – schmoozing his way through each public appearance with laser guided manners, attempts at Latin which are as befuddling as they are gratuitous, both of which ultimately create such a charade of incongruity that it’s often easy to forget that what he’s proposing isn’t just patently ridiculous, but often reprehensible. 

You’d think that such transparent attempts at subterfuge would lead to Jacob being subjected to the most vociferous scrutiny imaginable from media outlets but, staggeringly, the kid gloves are rarely removed in his presence – as though interviewers are so bewildered by his presumed majesty they refrain from incisive interrogation in fear of committing an archaic yet treasonous faux pas.

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If you’ve ever spotted this man down your local job centre, you were probably in the midst of a horrific acid trip.

This has always struck me as somewhat of a missed opportunity. Spit polished foibles and baffling colloquialisms aside, the Mogglodyte has a tendency to come unstuck when pitted against someone with an actual understanding of the issues that Jacob attempts to sell himself as an authority on.

Pontificating on matters he doesn’t really understand isn’t the only similarity our chronologically displaced friend shares with Boris either. Take a look at this often overlooked artefact of political curiosity in which, during the Tory leadership scramble of 2016 after Dave dropped a dookie upon the bed-sheets and scarpered before changing the linen, self appointed man of honour Jacob Rees-Mogg changes allegiances three times as the wind repeatedly shifted direction – rather ironically becoming a “total convert” to his current foe, one Theresa May.

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No words are required – this really does speak for itself.

Still, even though the masquerade was arguably one of political necessity, it was about as convincing a display as David Cameron at Villa Park. Jacob’s coat was always set for turning and, sure enough, he and his cronies at the European Research Group (the biggest misnomer since the Nazis claimed to be socialists) hatched their nefarious scheme to undermine their dear leader at every conceivable turn – and, if you bought into the narrative spun by the oh so complaint media perpetually doffing their cap in awe, it became a presumed inevitability that their coup would succeed.

At least until it didn’t.

In light of their spectacular defeat in their bid to topple an unfathomably unpopular Prime Minister, Jacob has found himself comparatively absent from the spotlight – as though those who exaggerated his influence (and indeed, competence) were acutely aware that they’d once again fallen victim to a chancer who failed to bring any amount of substance to go with his admittedly idiosyncratic style, and had subsequently cast him back into the shadows, hoping that nobody noticed their folly.

In short, the entire circus crafted around Rees-Mogg, which the media were only happy to exacerbate, amounted to a colossal waste of everyone’s time in which nothing was accomplished – time being a commodity we’ve never really had.

The failure of Jacob Rees-Mogg might well present a wry sense of amusement to those of us who’ve found his omnipresence insufferably obnoxious, but when all’s said and done the real dereliction of duty once again lies with the media outlets, whose entire raison d’etre is ostensibly to inform the great unwashed.

Whilst it’s now painfully obvious that the emperor never had any clothes, with even a mere morsel of journalistic diligence it wouldn’t have taken over two years to spot his gonads hanging sullenly in the open air while he insisted that the solutions were in his other jacket.

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Dominic Raab and Theresa’s Cabinet of Misfit Toys

Anyone watch Peston last night? I sure did, though I possess nothing but envy towards you if it happened to have passed you by. Far from a relatively jovial evening of breezy political discussion with the always endearing Robert Peston, the experience quickly became akin to having a cheese grater forcibly scraped across your brain. This was largely thanks to the innately insufferable Nadine Dorries who, despite being ever indignant towards people questioning her intelligence, seemingly struggles with the relatively simple concept of not responding to questions that were asked of someone else.

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If you value your sanity, it’d be best you avoid watching on catch-up. Trust me.

Though to be fair to her, I can understand why she was eager to pontificate. The only card Dorries and her ilk have to play is to endlessly bemoan a perceived problem they don’t have any real solutions to – and with Theresa May finally having produced a draft of the EU Withdrawal Agreement, it gave her the perfect opportunity to express her self-righteous indignation while keeping the empty vacuum behind her eyes conveniently obscured underneath a veil of distraction.

Indeed, today’s inevitable ministerial resignations only serve as testament to such an approach not only being a prevalent tactic, but also one which has poisoned our parliamentary system, setting in a seemingly irreversible rot which precipitated today’s collapse.

There’s already been resignations aplenty, each one undertaken under the pretence of “principle” and accompanied with the sort of bitter sloganeering usually found in one of Leave.EU’s pathetic morsels of wretched propaganda.

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See? Right at home.

A significant portion of the resignees you’re unlikely to have heard too much of, having largely spent their cabinet career skulking in the shadows, periodically emerging with the occasional boneheaded, pro-Brexit soundbite or filling in if the government required a last minute stooge to suffer an avalanche of derision courtesy of the Question Time audience.

However there are two rather prominent Cabinet ministers who’ve also handed in their notice, though their prominence has only really been achieved by way of abject incompetence.

Obviously I speak of Esther McVey and, of course, Dominic Raab – a man who was ostensibly appointed our Brexit secretary in an move which can only be described as an act of sheer defiance against logic itself.

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I’d love to say I’m sorry to see them go – but that would be a lie. A massive lie.

The resignation of McVey was expected and nobody really seems the least bit disappointed to see her go. The only quibble anyone could really have with such a pathetically inept minister finally pissing off is that she’s managed to fashion her own exit; resigning over the supposed Brexit “betrayal” with assumed honour hardly befitting of someone who’s heaped untold amounts of misery upon the most destitute and desperate by way of Universal Credit.

As morally repulsive as McVey’s reign of ruination may have been however, she is but a mere pretender when compared to the dishonourable absurdity of Dominic Raab, our erstwhile Brexit Secretary.

Raab is a rather strange character, paradoxically bearing the demeanour of a lost and frightened child while sporting the receding hairline of a middle aged man. Though these are merely cheap shots at what is ultimately immaterial. To let a man of such callous ineptitude escape with a bit of shallow aesthetical ribbing would be letting him off far too lightly.

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Looks like young Dominic has been summoned into the headmaster’s office again.

It’s fair to say that not much was expected of Raab when he suddenly found himself in the spotlight as our nation’s Brexit Secretary. Our first attempt at employing someone with a semblance of nous had been an unmitigated disaster – and he didn’t even get fired; he himself having initially started the trend of running away the moment accountability drew near. So if he was shit, what could you really expect from his substitute?

Raab did indeed exceed expectations, though only by virtue of somehow making David Davis appear a veritable political titan by way of retrospective comparison.

Never once did Raab inspire confidence. While at times he did at least try to fashion his own style of aggressive negotiations, all attempts fell pitifully flat as each bluff was carried out with the expertise of a poker novice holding his cards backwards. In fact his chronic bumblings became so laughable there were rumours that he was in fact a hard Brexit sleeper agent, surreptitiously sabotaging negotiations from within. Whether there’s any truth in this only Raab himself will ever know, though it’s hard to expect such delicate subterfuge coming from a man who only realised that Britain is an island last week. Resigning in protest against a deal it was his job to cobble together is a move regrettably fitting of such a dubious intellect.

One man who most definitely is looking to collapse May’s Brexit deal (and indeed May’s premiership) however is the chronically displaced time immigrant Jacob Rees-Mogg, finally handing in the letter of no confidence we’ve all known was inevitable for at least a year.

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Having now seen what became of Walter the Softy, you can’t help but feel that perhaps Dennis the Menace had a point.

Naturally he wasn’t courteous enough to enclose a workable alternative, but that’s always been the problem with the hardline Brexiteers. Whether we’re talking about Dorries, Rees-Mogg or now Dominic Raab, their bluster and laughably ramshackle veneer of patriotic integrity is all they have. It’s the easiest thing in the world to rally against a proposal that is universally despised, but do they really have any better ideas? When you consider that, when pressed today, Rees-Mogg suggested Boris Johnson and David Davis as credible replacements for May – two men who have offered nothing but empty rhetoric for over two years – the answer can only be summed up with a definitive “no”.

So where does this leave us? The mere citizens helplessly chained to the roof of this runaway train as it hurtles ever closer to the ravine?

Well let’s see. A government collapsing in on itself? Check. An EU withdrawal agreement over two years in the making about to die on its arse in less than a day? Check. Michael Gove mooted as our next Brexit Secretary? Check fucking mate.

As much as the Mogglodytes clearly revel in boosting their own profile by way of political brinkmanship, it seems to overlook the fact that these are serious and needless risks that we’re taking – and the plebs are along for the ride whether we like it or not. Brexit has always been fuelled by unrefined ideology with feasibility not even reaching the level of a mere afterthought – and the fatal drawbacks of such a short sighted approach are becoming more obvious by the day.

Ultimately these calculated resignations are doomed to be an exercise in futility. They might very well oust May, but the ship will still be sinking with the antagonists short of actual solutions – and if we’re to learn from the lessons of recent history, Raab and the rest of the rats are going to flee before it finally goes down.

It’s just a shame they have to chew so many holes in the hull before they scarper.

David Cameron – The Man that Time Never Forgave

There’s been an unmistakable change in the air recently. It’s true that, since the morning of the 24th June 2016, hapless confusion and the ever escalating acrimony of division have reigned supreme, but in recent weeks there’s been a new addition – a disconcerting shift in which a palpable sense of desperation has taken centre stage.

Time is running short on Brexit, the scarcity of which is only trumped by a potentially fatal dearth of solutions. The Prime Minister is faltering, the ruling party is at war with itself and nobody’s entirely sure at which point the apparently confused opposition will get around to landing their coup de grâce, finally bring this wretched omnishambles of a government to its knees. The country is in such a befuddled state of instability you could quite easily mistake our current reality for a biting yet somewhat over the top satire of actual satirical masterpiece The Thick of It – and that’s without even mentioning what is now a criminal investigation into potential subterfuge during the EU referendum campaign.

Yet what of the man who brought this all about? That most generic of Etonians with the face of a varnished ham? Whatever became of the deeply disingenuous psuedo-bloke who gambled in a bid to bring his party together, casually using the stability of the United Kingdom as his stake – and lost?

He scuttled away to hide in his shed of course; in a manner much more befitting a clumsy husband who’s just accidentally smashed his wife’s best crockery than a supposedly dependable Prime Minister.

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Nice fall-out shelter you’ve got yourself there.

Cameron’s retreat from politics has been a curious one. Not so much in terms of his resignation. He was the unfortunate face of Remain (“unfortunate” in every imaginable sense) and had effectively staked his premiership on the outcome of the referendum – with defeat damaging his credibility as Prime Minister irrevocably. He had initially indicated that he’d remain active on the Tory backbenches, though that lasted about as long as his support for West Ham.

Since then, he’s become a fairly reclusive figure. Dawdling away the days in his wooden retreat, scribbling down his memoirs in complete seclusion from the chaos his folly had sparked. Public statements from him were rare with actual sightings scarcer still – and when he was eventually spotted by the peons he’d left behind to wallow in the Cameron induced turmoil, the circumstances were often bizarre to the point that you’d think it a narcotics induced hallucination. Almost as if he’d become the political Syd Barrett – only rather than invoking a bittersweet sense of deeply felt nostalgia you were left overwhelmed by the urge to eviscerate his gonads with one swift kick to the crotch.

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This hasn’t been Photoshopped – no really, it hasn’t.

Though in truth David Cameron was always a politician with an air of the uncanny valley about him. He may have been long since surpassed in the ghoulish automaton stakes by a certain Mrs May, but the surreal, almost ethereal nature of his mannerisms and persona lingers in the darkest recesses of our memory still.

There was always something unconvincing about him, which stretched beyond the seemingly innate mistrust folk generally reserve for the political class. Appearance wise, he looked the part – eerily so. Almost as if Airfix had inexplicably brought out a ‘Tory Politician’ range. He had all the parts you’d expect: the immaculate suits, the slickly coiffed hair, that unremitting, sharp eyed stare which was paradoxically piercing while acting as a veil for the soulless husk that lay just past the sockets. Hell, he even came with your typical Etonian background, rife with Bullingdon Club japery, detailed on the back of the box.

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Reminds me of my carefree school days, only with everything being completely different.

The only thing our poor model politician David lacked was a sincerity simulator, which is perhaps why his attempts at schmoozing the proletariat with his “Call me Dave” routine proved about as successful as Toby Young attempting to pick up women by pretending to be one.

It seems that inbuilt sense of entitlement never truly left Mr Cameron. Not content with wagering the surprisingly important matter of a country’s future to get the Tory Eurosceptics off his back for two weeks, it’s now rumoured that actually, two years after his self imposed exile, he wouldn’t mind a go at being Foreign Secretary – with so much relaxed indifference you’d think he was asking to be the banker in Monopoly.

Perhaps fortunately, the reaction has been universally negative. Turns out there’s not much clamour for Dave to emerge from his shed anytime soon, if indeed ever. There’s simply no nostalgia attached to the legacy of David Cameron, as indelible as his mark on British and indeed European history may have been.

After all – The Black Death also echoes through the annals of history, but that’s not to say anyone’s yearning for a comeback.

Boris Johnson – The man, the myth and the mugwump

Cast your mind back to the 30th of June 2016. Sure it was hardly an idealistic time of promise and national unity, what with Brexit’s narrow victory the week prior setting into motion over two years of hapless political bumbling that we’re somehow yet to escape from, but there was one small crumb of comfort to be had – at least Boris Johnson wouldn’t be our Prime Minister.

Having just about thrown his considerable weight behind Leave, a move which by this point is now almost universally accepted as one motivated entirely by self interest, Boris’ master-plan was oh so spectacularly undone by a move straight out of his own playbook, with Michael Gove publicly plunging a knife into the spine of his longtime confidant. That’s just how friends treat each other in the Tory party apparently.

The naively optimistic amongst us may have thought such a spectacular capitulation would spell the end of Johnson’s leadership ambitions, finally vanquishing the lingering threat of our supposedly proud nation inexplicably opting to be lead by a man who seemingly revels in his carefully crafted persona of an odious clod.

However if you’ve spent the past two years existing in blissful exile underneath the most hospitable rock you could find, this morning’s headlines will most certainly have jolted you from your slumber and back into the increasingly disconcerting reality we now occupy.

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Happy Sunday everyone!

Yes, Boris is indeed back in the spotlight – though in actuality he never really went away. While it’s true that he maintained a comparatively low profile upon the demise of his pseudo Churchillian dreams, he remained a familiar face in Theresa May’s cabinet; lingering in remission while maintaining an altogether disquieting facade of dutiful obedience – save for the odd not so accidental slip from the party line.

Not that anyone with even the slightest morsel of insight into the mind of Boris Johnson was especially convinced however. Boris wants to be the nation’s head honcho with the same obsessive desperation a man lost in the desert would have for a glass of water. So when the painstakingly calculated moment came to eject himself from the cabinet, with it came a feeling of freedom that, while undoubtedly bringing a great amount of relief to Boris himself, regrettably brought about a dark sense of foreboding for those with sufficient vigilance to see where this is all heading.

Sadly for Boris, the human mind has the capability for remembering events that occurred prior to the previous ten minutes. He can no longer play the fool, swanning around with the same effervescent buffoonery as before – the stage managed Benny Hill tribute simply doesn’t wash anymore and Boris is acutely aware of this.

So he’s had to change tactics. A leopard may be unable to change its spots, but that’s not a problem when said spots were painted on in the first place – and, providing the artist in question whispers enough promises of personal glory into Bojo’s ear, he’s more than happy to rent out his repulsive hide as a canvas for the highest bidder to doodle upon.

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If at first you don’t succeed, sell your soul to the nearest far right propagandist.

For all his internal delusions of being the next Churchill, leading our country to victory through times of unimaginable strife, Boris is ultimately a moral blank. The surrounding pantomime brought about by his purportedly chucklesome antics has never been anything more than a vehicle by which to gain access to Number 10 – even if that means ram-raiding his way through the front door. He wants to be Prime Minister and if that means claiming the highest office in the land without a single scruple in his pocket, then so be it.

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If you’re one of the 17.4 million, you probably don’t want this man speaking for you.

It is subsequently of little wonder that Boris hasn’t shown the slightest resistance to becoming Leave.EU’s would be leader of choice – a propagandist group with so little regard for the very notion of integrity itself, they’ll happily sit in front of a parliamentary select committee and smugly confirm that they routinely lie to everyone. Ultimately it’s of mutual benefit to both parties – Boris gets the unwavering support of a prominent social influencer while Banks and chums get themselves a media puppet with access to the highest reaches of government and beyond.

Though it’s not with this symbiotic relationship where the real problem lies, however ghastly a tag team they may be. For reasons beyond the understanding of my relatively modest intellect, Boris remains inexplicably credible to a significantly large demographic of voters. While his absurdly jingoistic twaddle may attract scorn from many corners, there remains a substantial base who see the appeal in such belligerence – still resolute in their belief that Boris Johnson is the political maverick who speaks for them and it is only through incendiary rhetoric that they’ll get the fantastical Brexit they’ve always craved. Fanciful perhaps, but the frankly astonishing power of self persuasion that comes with deep seated faith is not to be underestimated.

Those who, in spite of his galling ideological transience, continue to back Boris to the ends of the Earth are unlikely to find many arguments that sufficiently resonate in order to puncture their bubble of subservience. It’s the ‘feelings over facts’ situation all over again. Nevertheless, irrespective of its almost inevitable futility, there is one tiny question I consider worth posing to them – once Boris Johnson becomes Prime Minister, what then?

There’d likely be unbridled joy amongst his disciples at first, but this is likely to be swiftly extinguished by the practical implications of their triumph. After all, what can a man who is effectively a mouthpiece for hire really stand for?

And given that Steve Bannon is the one currently pulling his strings, we can only hope we’re never to find out.

 

 

The return of Farage and why we simply must make plans for Nigel.

While it’s been a rather mundane time in the weeks just gone by, what with the majority of Parliament swanning off to the very same sunlit uplands we’re on course to be diametrically opposed to this time next year, you may recently have noticed a rather disconcerting shift in the relatively calm political winds – suddenly tugging at your hat with irksome insistence as the nostalgic yet foul stench of jingoistic twattery begins to seep once more into your nostrils. What could it possibly mean?

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The worst comeback since leprosy, that’s what.

Yes, the repugnant pong of duplicity could only herald the arrival of one man – Nigel Farage. His much teased return to “front line politics” has only increased in terms of inevitability as public mood gradually shifts against Brexit, though many would justifiably argue that a seven time electoral loser deemed too toxic to have any involvement in the official Vote Leave campaign (trust me, this fact only gets more hilarious with hindsight) was only really ever on the periphery of the Westminster bubble. However that’s always struck me as somewhat of an irrelevance. While his eternal failure to get his hands on a glossy parliamentary seat all of his own is undeniably hilarious, I can’t help but suspect that firing snide potshots into the perpetual chaos of Parliament from the relative safety of the sidelines is exactly how he likes it.

Let’s face it, why wouldn’t he? Obviously there’s been some degree of scepticism as to whether he’s still the potently iconoclastic political saboteur he once was, a viewpoint entirely at odds with the joyous celebration amongst his hardcore base – dancing with the unbridled delight usually associated with Captain Scarlet joining you in the ongoing war of ideals.

The former, more grounded perspective is perhaps the more rational – after all, the public are arguably becoming more savvy to the tricks employed by Farage and his cronies is pursuit of the ultimate Brexit deception. What possible sophistry is there left that would penetrate the public’s collective fortifications of mistrust? Promise a second, even more elaborately ostentatious unicorn?

The truth however, is somewhat less idealistic. From the standpoint of an tragically naive optimist, the public would be sufficiently incredulous to recognise that the fabled unicorn will be little more than the exact same shabbily behorned pony from before – only this time coming equipped with a hastily scribbled go-faster strip across its back and the discarded motor from a derelict Ford Focus jammed up its rectum.

However in practice past deception is unlikely to hinder Farage as much as his opponents may have hoped. Sure, Nigel won’t be bringing anything new to the table. It’ll be the exact same untruths he belched out before and he certainly won’t be bringing a viable Brexit masterplan to proceedings anytime soon; but the reality as to why is simple – he doesn’t need to.

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Brexit’s rather simple when you’ve got no accountability whatsoever.

The reasoning behind this is twofold – firstly, despite being a considerable catalyst for Brexit sneaking the referendum amidst David Cameron’s disgraceful complacency, it isn’t really his problem. While true that it’s a damning indictment on his moral responsibilities as an alleged human being, in practical terms he’s holds no tangible sway in Westminster beyond that of an agent provocateur – leaving him free to sit back, light up a fag and gallivant across the globe endorsing suspected paedophiles.

There may well be a case that the public perception of Farage, already teetering on an incredibly dubious footing, could sour irrevocably, but that seems distinctly unlikely any time soon – at least in terms of him becoming a persona non grata for the entire universe. Ultimately, he’s not the one pulling the strings that yield significant consequence and there’s no reason for him to stick around as the shit inevitably torpedoes into the fan – with Nigel largely shielded from the ensuing splatter as cabinet ministers bear the overwhelming brunt of the proverbial faecal bullet. There’ll be damage, but Farage is used to playing the villain; a few newly formed patches of brown upon but one of his innumerable tweed jackets won’t cause him to lose much sleep. He’ll happily slither off in search of another previously tranquil pond to piss in, a preposterous cackle accompanying every splash of racid urine.

The second reason is considerably less obvious, though has unquestionably played a crucial role in maintaining Farage’s efficacy as a cultural antagonist – the mainstream media being unforgivably toothless.

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As hard as it might be to believe, finding a picture of Nigel Farage appearing on Question Time proved remarkably easy.

Despite proudly establishing himself as a man who holds the mainstream media with the same disdainful contempt you would a genital wart, they’re surprisingly keen to have him on. The word on the street is that he’s “box office” – chortle worthy perhaps, but they’ve definitely got a point. Farage does have a certain expertise when it comes to drawing your attention – much in the way you’d sit up and take notice if he suddenly sauntered into your house whistling a tune from the Hitler Youth back catalogue, before proceeding to burn down your living room and throw your dog out the window. He creates outrage – and there’s nothing that quite draws the crowds like a chance to add our voice to a screaming cacophony of collective disgust.

While never shy to champion their own sense of morality, the ratings game will take precedence every time – hence why television studios across the land continue to roll out their comfiest chairs and (seemingly) least inquisitive interrogators to lob soft-balls in perpetuity for Nigel to wallop towards a swarm of Romanian immigrants that only he can see; basking in their staggering hospitality like the anti-establishment folk hero he so obviously isn’t.

With the quest for viewers established firmly in your mind, it’s of little surprise to see Farage receive the kid glove treatment. He’s fully aware of the leverage he holds, it’s entirely within their mutual best interests to keep him relatively sweet – even if it’s an experience akin to chomping down on a vinegar soaked lemon.

As contemptuous as his apparent omnipresence is however, I’m not especially opposed to him being involved in the discussion – providing said discussion includes a thorough cross examination of Nigel’s spurious claims and distasteful rhetoric via the intellect of a well informed and incisive mind.

Yet that’s where our media fails us most of all.

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Honestly, watch the whole thing. It always cheers me up.

Have a listen to this. Or this. Or even this chucklesome number. Now compare and contrast Nigel’s lamentable performance with that of pretty much any one of his 68.7 billion Question Time appearances for the BBC. Quite the difference, isn’t there? Gone is the self assured smarm, drowning out all attempts at scrutiny with the odd toot of his trusty dog-whistle and allowing him to filibuster his way to a different question. Instead we see an anxious man, his ignorance and deceit laid bare by the smarts of a keen mind and a steely determination to prevent any desperate attempt at derailment. He stammers, he misdirects, he ends the call or requires his press officer to come in to bat for him – and it’s fucking hilarious.

So why don’t see more of this particular Nigel – his leathery hide shimmering with an anxious sweat as his poisonous artifice is ruthlessly castrated by a factually based argument?

Simple. It’d be of no benefit to the players involved – whether it be Nigel or the media. If Farage is torn a superfluous rectal cavity upon the second his original arse-chute comes into contact with the Sky News sofa, he wouldn’t show up. Nor would the many viewers his divisive presence brings. Sneers or cheers, the TV executive doesn’t much care – as long as you’re watching.

It’s often said that the best way to expose a charlatan is to let him speak and subsequently dig his own grave. There is indeed an element of truth in this but, without a vociferous and robust counterpoint to deliver the coup de grace and ultimately bury them, we’ll still end up duped – collectively standing in front of an empty grave wondering how the hell he got away with it.

Boris Johnson – A man of many faces, none of them Churchill

Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson –  a man of the people if you ever did see one. Or at least, that’s the characterisation he’s long since been desperate to convey. Sure, he may on the face of it come across as an especially ostentatious clod from a mercifully undiscovered Dickensian novel but don’t be fooled – “Bozza” is most definitely one of you.

Look. He plays football and everything:

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The Brexiteer approach to international diplomacy in five seconds.

As preposterous a scheme as it may indeed be, you can’t really blame Boris for indulging. The political class have always had an image problem amongst the great unwashed, with perceptions ranging from mere distrust to full blown disgust. Cut adrift in the impenetrable Westminster bubble, they couldn’t possibly understand the endless tribulations of the average Joe. I mean how could they? Joe’s life has been defined by endless toil and back breaking graft – a existence complete with worry, financial strife and a disconcerting sense of isolation; as if the prosperous spectrum of society isn’t just a world away, but an exclusive club he’s irrevocably cut adrift from.

Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson’s formative years however, looked somewhat like this:

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If you look really closely, you can just about make out the knife Boris used to stab Cameron right in the fucking back tucked away up his right sleeve.

With this in mind, the strategy for Boris was fairly simple – if he wished to elevate his standing with the British electorate beyond that of the average cynical careerist, the only recourse was to sell the fabrication that, despite his astonishing privilege, he’s really just your average salt of the Earth bloke. Unfortunately, convincing the plebs that a man born with a silver ladle lodged down his gullet is actually an easily relatable bundle of effervescent empathy is quite the challenge, which is perhaps why Bojo has always seen fit to ramp up the absurdity at every possible opportunity. Zip-wiring, clowning, writing a heartfelt sonnet about the Turkish Prime Minister penetrating a goat – you name it. If it plays with the shit munchers, then dignity is superfluous. Anything to maintain the image that Boris Johnson is a jovial figurehead for the proletariat, bursting with patriotic pride and a heartfelt desire to put a smile back on the faces of his subjects.

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Look at Boris. He’s just as stupid as the rest of us.

The trouble is, that’s not true is it? Not even fucking close. Of course, highlighting Boris’ duplicity now isn’t quite the newsflash it would have been pre-referendum. As he bumbled out of his residence the morning after the night before, he was met with a reception more befitting of a reviled criminal than the nation’s favourite buffoon – perhaps aptly. The mask of endearing chucklefuckery had been definitively ripped away and with the subsequent sight of Johnson delivering his “victory” speech with all the burgeoning triumph of a catatonic potato, many wondered what the future held for old Bozza.

To the surprise of nobody, it contained copious amounts of surreptitious skulduggery.

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Do the phrase “pyrrhic victory” mean anything to you?

It is indeed true that, in the wake of calling a close to his own leadership bid, Boris was rather conspicuously off the grid. Having fallen victim to an appropriately undignified ‘Boris-ing’ courtesy of alleged chum Michael Gove (who in turn managed to suitably ‘Gove’ up his own prime ministerial ambitions by failing miserably), whenever he did emerge from his lair into the public gaze, he cut a considerably castrated figure – the proverbial sad clown if you will.

Sadly, this self imposed media exile was not to be permanent and, with post-referendum disgruntlement having widened its reach across the entire, ever expanding swamp of deceit Brexit was fast becoming, Boris saw explicit opportunity in May’s failings to instil himself as a de facto figurehead of opposition within the minds of the Brexiteer horde – all the while being able to exploit Theresa’s hierarchical superiority to form an especially convenient shield as he fired potshots from the relative safety of the Foreign Office.

Boris was indeed back. Regrettable certainly, not least because it signalled the distressing rebirth of an especially sickly string to Boris’ bow – pseudo Churchillian wankery.

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Boris Johnson arranged a photo-shoot to commemorate the signing of his resignation letter. No really, he did.

Look at him. It’s like a little boy playing dress up, isn’t it? One expects him to have rehearsed that very pose throughout many long and lonely nights in the Foreign Office, as if in preparation to fulfil a self imposed sense of destiny.  The lofty reverence in which Boris regards Winston is clear as day – and his apparent desire to leech off the Churchill mythos to bolster his very own cult of personality is as laughable as it is cynical.

There’s a sense of grim predictability about all of this. Boris’ irrepressible desire to lead was universally confirmed the moment he shafted Etonian ally Cameron, effectively placing himself in direct opposition by leading the fight to leave. In practical terms, it’s proved entirely inconsequential that the man who drafted an essay in support of Remain the day before proclaiming himself a fervent Brexiteer is operating completely within his own self interest. The cynicism attached to his every move is, remarkably, met with begrudging acceptance rather than justified outrage; though perhaps the shock factor is significantly lessened when his infuriating solipsism is considered an open secret – just “one of those things”.

It is, of course, no surprise to bear witness to Boris’ latest not at all transparent attempts to slither into the Number 10. It’s merely part of the Boris Johnson cycle – and absolutely everyone knows exactly what’s going on. Though there is a troublesome irony to seeing him warble out his best Winston during a resignation speech to the House of Commons, the watching masses being acutely aware that the entire farce was overwhelmingly inspired by deep-seated instincts of profound cowardice; ever lingering in the murky depths of Boris’ lamentable being.

In truth, there’s only one phrase that adequately sums up Johnson’s game plan – chaos exploitation. Ever waiting in the wings, leering over a the carnage (which, quite likely, was of his own creation), eternally on the lookout for an opportune moment to swoop in and be heralded as a savoir – increasing his favour with the masses, edging a few more inches up that disgustingly greasy pole before fleeing into the shadows relatively unscathed, moments prior to the dysfunction levels reaching critical mass.

It’s often been said by an assortment of unpardonable cretins that “it would be a RIGHT laugh if Bozza was in charge!” and that may indeed be so – at least on the most superficial level imaginable. Laughter is widely considered to be a vaguely effective treatment to unrelenting misery and there’s most certainly a fairly receptive market to pompous buffoonery somewhere out there. But, as with laughter only serving to distract from considerably more tangible personal struggles, the inevitable Boris Cavalcade of Clownery will be nothing more than a mere sideshow to the clusterfuck originated by a man who most probably left the notion of integrity back in his mother’s womb.

Guffaw all you want the next time Boris becomes marooned on a zip-line or tumbles down a well. After all, Boris would most certainly approve. As every shyster knows, the sound of uproarious laughter is the perfect cover under which to hurriedly exit stage left. Boris won’t want anything to do with the mangled corpse of our nation once his master-plan of chaos exploitation has reached its natural conclusion.

Nor will you once the laughter dies down.

Donald Trump in the UK – The shit, the bad and the even worse.

Hear that? The sound of obsequious fuckwittery is in the air – and there’s no prizes for guessing as to the owner of the wretched orifice it’s spilling from:

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Lucky old Nigel won’t be needing the Viagra tonight.

Yes, the world’s foremost dayglo shitgibbon has finally come to visit – and eternally perplexing cretins nationwide couldn’t be happier. The Donald has arrived, bringing with him such a dominant aura of undeniable leadership that we Brits are set to be rendered catatonic with awe – simply bowled over by his magnificence.

Or at least, that’s what you’d think if you were to buy into the absurdist narrative being spun by the jokers over at Leave.EU. In fairness, the general coverage the mainstream news have put out there seems somewhat balanced – at least to my cursory glance – but the ever befuddling bumblefuck does indeed have some rather prominent cheerleaders polluting the ranks of UK media.

Perhaps none quite as prominent as one Piers Morgan.

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Fake news. He’s actually a cunt.

Regrettably, we all know who Piers Morgan is – eternally tedious, chronically unpleasant and perpetually resembling the most perplexed slab of mutton the world has ever seen. Basically, for the benefit of the somehow uninitiated, he’s a bit of a tit. Perhaps surprisingly however, he’s actually a tit with a rather sticky path awaiting him.

Owing to his inexplicable presence on a prominent morning show, Piers has to tread somewhat of a fine line. The inner thoughts of Donald J. Trump are such a cacophony of bile laced bullshit that something impossibly offensive is bound to eventually slip out and, given how Piers has rather tragically been attempting to sell himself as “Donald Trump’s British friend”, he finds himself trapped between two entirely incompatible desires. On one hand, he quite obviously doesn’t want to upset Trump – being a mindless lick-spittle to an idiot is clearly very important to him; but his level of fame (and indeed, infamy) is something he clearly relishes and his gig on Good Morning Britain is a key part of sustaining it. He can still be the impossibly obnoxious vat of rancid sputum we all know him to be but, when it becomes to toeing the Trump line which often strays beyond the pale, he’s left with no option but to be evasive and indirect – hence the infuriatingly constant misdirection he’s forced to employ here.

Still, a few cretinous ballbags aside, the prevailing mood towards Trump tends to be one of overwhelming negativity. This in of itself has led to a considerable headache for the British government. Severely weakened and alarmingly isolated having not yet kicked Brexit into the long grass, Theresa May and her cronies have a hell of a lot riding on being able to schmooze a vaguely respectable trade deal out of the United States and Trump’s pathetically fragile ego is understandably a cause for grave concern. Whether by way of self delusion or simply a nefarious yearning to irritate the fuck out of the entire planet, Donald effectively proclaims himself to be the single greatest human being to ever exist; a bubble of blissful ignorance which would run a significant risk of being resoundingly punctured by an especially irreverent stunt.

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Somehow, this absurd creation manages to look more real than Donald actually does.

Naturally, both the British establishment and Mr Trump’s handlers will currently be largely preoccupied with shielding him from anything which lay external to his own brain, in turn exposing the delicious irony of an allegedly fearless leader requiring protection from a balloon.

What awaits us over the next few days is anyone’s guess. We’ve already been treated to a masterclass of evasion by way of incoherence prior to his arrival, who knows what soul eroding nuggets of witless bloviation are in store? Perhaps fortunately, the general public won’t really have to deal with the bilious buffoon too much – at least beyond the indignity of temporarily sharing a landmass with him – but there’s an extremely high likelihood that Theresa May’s entire political future hinges on somehow gaining a result from the Donald. Given that Trump is apparently a man whose whims oscillate with each and every Fox and Friends story, this is indeed a high risk strategy with little chance of ultimate success but alas, the Brexit rod currently fused to her spine has left her with little in the way of alternatives.

Still, in the event of seemingly inevitable failure, at least she won’t be the only one left unhappy.

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Prominent cock finds himself cockblocked.

As for my perspective, I’m afraid it’s one of confusion. Not with regards my personal feelings towards Trump – I regard him as an irredeemable cuntbadger who thinks nothing of curling out a faecal mound of misery at a moment’s notice – but rather my perplexion is a result of his many sycophants.

Despite my staunch opposition to Brexit, I at least “get it”. I can see how, if exposed enough to the right narrative, you could find yourself thinking that perhaps escaping those nasty old bureaucrats in Brussels is a recommended move – but with Trump there is nothing; not a single, solitary foothold of understanding as to how anyone could legitimately admire him.

I accept that there’s almost certainly an element of being at least partially blinded by my own bias at play here, but it isn’t as though I’ve not tried to understand the appeal in being led by a blathering ideologue who apparently lacks even the faintest understanding as to how reality even functions. It’s just that the cult of Trump has remained entirely impenetrable to myself thus far.

Sadly, this has left me in a rather uncomfortable spot. Usually I like to at least attempt to draw some sort of conclusion whenever I cobble together a ramble, but in this case I’m left almost entirely empty handed – I simply cannot make sense of it. When presented with a man so unfathomably reprehensible, any chance of a morsel of empathy perhaps awakening within my brain is immediately and resoundingly shut down by disgust. While I accept that (as with pretty much all analysis) both sides of the debate are partial to hyperbole and bias, even when viewed through the most objective lens I can rustle up the evidence towards Trump being a deranged ignoramus is impossible to ignore.

Perhaps it’s just not meant to be understood. The adulation Trump receives from certain quarters might not make any sense to me but hey, nor does life itself and, unfortunately, I suspect this is the only conclusion I’m likely to ever muster.

That and the increasingly prominent yearning for a lobotomy of course.