Category Archives: Embittered political ramblings

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:

viagra
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.

cunt
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.

balloon
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.

cockblock
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.

Advertisements

Open letter to Tommy Robinson. All of them.

Dear Tommy,

How you doing? We probably haven’t met before so best clear up any misconceptions right off the bat; I’m not Tommy – I’m Graham. I realise this may be a tad confusing given all the Tommys; I do bear a passing resemblance to Brown Haired Tommy as well as being somewhat of a doppelganger for both White Tommy #4 and White Tommy #843. Hopefully you haven’t mixed me up with Racist Tommy #38 – that’d be awkward.

download
I Googled “Tommy Robinson” and it came back with some bloke called Stephen Yaxley-Lennon. I have no idea why, I guess Google is broken.

Anyway Tommy, pleased to make your acquaintance. Though regrettably I’m informed that this correspondence finds you struggling amidst troubled times. Word on the street is that Tommy is currently banged up in prison? At least one of you is. Either way, it doesn’t sound good and, with the latest word amongst the Tommys being murmurs of a press blackout, my interest has sufficiently piqued in order for me to delve further into this proverbial shitheap of Tommy’s – and I’m happy to share my findings with you.

The faeces had barely encrusted my fingernails before the first informative nugget of dung was uncovered:

tom
I’d say the applicable Tommy should thank his lucky stars to escape the big house.

My my, whatever is this? Sounds like you’ve been up to some typical tom boy tomfoolery, Tommy – in your down time from being a serious journalist. Well, if the Tommy in question is one of the journalist Tommys. There’s probably a few of them.

In any event I was very disappointed in Tommy (yes – that means you, Tommy), though remained curiously undecided on the nature of your punishment. You’d think I’d have been happy for you to maintain your freedom, it being a commodity that is rightfully cherished – but I couldn’t help but fear that this wouldn’t be the last the court system would see of Tommy Robinson.

Still, as you left court a free man, there was one explicit warning left ever ringing in your ears:

yax
Huh, I guess they got Tommy mixed up with that Yaxley-Lennon character again. Maybe he’s a Tommy too?

Seems straight forward enough; they’ll let you off this time, but should Tommy Yaxley-McCartney decide to piss pejoratives all over judicial proceedings once more – it’s the slammer for you. Or Tommy. Maybe both.

Despite this apparent clarity as we jump forward to the here and now, not only have the Tommys swelled in number (as if spawned into life by the re-lit flame of apparent persecution) but they’re also mad. Pissing pejoratives mad.

arses
At first glance I mistook that for a rolled up copy of the Daily Mail in Tommy’s back pocket – ready to beat down the establishment with the words of media moguls who run the establishment.

In a sense I can’t really blame Tommy (or Tommy) for becoming enraged – there’s nothing to stoke the fires of purpose quite like a perceived injustice and it’s actually unsurprising that Tommy feels that way. After all, there’s been a press blackout regarding your recent arrest, Tommy – at least initially. Whether this is simply standard practice for a case like this, I don’t know. I’m perhaps not as educated as some of the Tommys out there so my opinion on this matter is close to worthless but, with this lack of knowledge in mind, it does seem a tad odd.

Nevertheless, good fortune awaited. For, despite the efforts of those opium smoking, ivory tower dwellers who love nothing more than to keep an honest Tommy down, many a citizen journalist took up the reporting mantle and were right on hand to document a miscarriage of justice in action – Tommy’s miscarriage of justice, affecting Tommys across the globe.

livestream
Selfie of the year, bitchaz. Or whatever the cool kids say these days. I’m old.

Now you know me Tommy, I’m always willing to give you a fair shake of the dice, nor am I one to spread wild aspersions with joyful abandon – but that very much looks to me that you’ve been hanging around a courthouse as evidence was being given; for over an hour. Now call me crazy (or Tommy), Tommy, but this sounds very much like what you were given a suspended sentence for back in 2017 – a suspended sentence that included the condition that if you didn’t refrain from causing similar scenes at courthouses you’d find the suspension lifted and spend a year in jail.

Now Tommy may very well protest, saying “Hang on, press blackout and a lightening quick conviction? This all seems very odd indeed” in his cheery Lutonian chirp. Indeed that presents a quandary of sort. Short of actually being there or having an informant on the inside, there’s no way of really knowing what went down as you were bundled into the back of a police van.

Well, apart from the livestream you transmitted to the world. That probably helped in the decision to put you away.

Capture

So that’s about the face of it Tommy, looks like you inadvertently triggered the shit sandwich coupon you were granted last year. However the shit sandwich isn’t really the problem here. It is perhaps best to approach you from a purely ideological standpoint and narrowing it down to the specifics of the matter at hand – the spate of historical child grooming cases. Now in many ways I’d find myself with you, albeit with a copious helpings of asterisks and disclaimers – but yes, these tales of child grooming gangs that are coming to the fore after remaining undetected for a staggering amount of time are fucking horrific. As with all folk with the capacity for empathy, I have nothing but sympathy for the victims and unremitting contempt for the perpetrators. I’d also agree that serious questions must be asked as to how this was allowed to go unnoticed for so long; apathy at this point would be despicable.

I do however, have one very serious problem – the approach you took.

The fallout from your Friday skirmish with the police can be defined by two particular facets. The first being your part which, oddly enough, is arguably the least damaging. No need to go over old ground, basically if a judge tells you not to cause a scene outside a courthouse then don’t cause a scene outside a courthouse. Judges are proud, fiercely intelligent people – they’re not to be fucked with.

However it’s a potential consequence of your actions that lead into nicely into the next, somewhat heftier piece of debris – the hijacking of the narrative and, more pertinently, the potential it has to throw the very case you were “reporting” on into disrepute.

no
No it hasn’t.

As noted prior, it didn’t take long for a dominant narrative to prevail. Aided perhaps by the press blackout and nothing official to counter them, the Tommys quickly established a bleak, authorisation image of a totalitarian dystopia scooped right out of Orwell’s own brain. “Tommy is a political prisoner!” shouted Tommy, prompting another Tommy to tweet similar sentiments for the next Tommy to retweet. All it took was a few, ever so devious tweets from the odd well known bullshit dispenser and boom – the narrative is now contaminated before the truth has even got his trousers on; perhaps fatally so.

Though once again, this is far from the most pressing concern to spawn from this clusterfuck – that accolade belongs to the effect it could potentially have on the case. While we’re perhaps worlds apart in terms of politics and values Tommy, there are odd instances where our mindsets somewhat align. I’m sure you want justice to be served as much as I do, the same almost certainly being the case with your many namesakes. But that is precisely why causing a disruption outside a courthouse in the midst of a trial is a really stupid idea should you have any interest in a fair hearing, especially if you’ve already been told not to less than a year ago. A similar plea goes out to your identically named supporters; whether intentionally or otherwise, the narrative has become about Tommy as opposed to the cause he claimed to represent – and, as with everything involving Tommy Robinson, an excruciatingly tiresome circus is set to follow. A circus precisely of the sort this trial could well do without.

It’s understandable that emotions run high at times like this. The crimes we’re dealing with here are unfathomable in their horror and too fucking right I want justice to be served. But, as flawed a system as the British criminal justice system can sometimes be, for it to have any chance of granting a fair trial to all concerned then a certain amount of trust has to be offered – begrudgingly or otherwise.

After the verdict has been reached and the dust has settled, if you still feel that a miscarriage of justice has taken place then knock yourself out. Make your voice heard and use all method of protest available to you within the limits of the law – it’s your right after all. But don’t litter an ongoing trial with pejoratives and conjecture; not only is it in nobody’s interest, it also gives the distinct impression that you’re more in this for a stab at an ideological victory rather than the pursuit of justice.

Besides, the last thing you’d want to do is to derail the trial completely. That wouldn’t put you in the good books amongst the other Tommys.

Especially you, Tommy.

 

 

Impotent shrieking, spoiled ballot papers and the eternal quandary of the politically homeless

The local elections took place the other day. You may have noticed – they’re like a general election only even more effective at creating a malaise of voter apathy.

Momentum activists will likely claim that the tide is turning with regards a general political disinterest amongst the populace – and it is indeed true that, in London especially, punters were sufficiently jazzed to vote for Labour; but alas, the turnout in my local constituency barely scraped past 20%. Nobody gives a shit round here it seems, the sad fact of the matter being that the jenky local gala which insists on blocking up the main access road every fucking year garners more enthusiasm from my fellow town dwellers.

Reasons for this likely exist beyond the realms of my rather limited understanding but, for anyone who gives a shit, here’s how it ultimately panned out across the nation:

results
Somewhere, in an all but deserted UKIP headquarters, the world’s smallest violin plays a pitiful tune.

As you can see, a fairly standard outcome in which the apple cart merely wobbles rather than capitulates completely. Labour made some pretty nifty gains though perhaps not the sort they were hoping for, the Tories are merely glad that their eternal buffoonery wasn’t quite capitalised on in the way perhaps it should have been, the Lib Dems finally had reason to smile and UKIP’s vote share fell short of Enoch Powell’s electoral reach and he’s been dead for twenty years.

Still, the results being very much open to interpretation didn’t stop the odd malevolent shitrag or two from declaring victory from within the midst of a befuddling stalemate.

DcYPf-nWkAA5DsK
At least Meghan found a nice dress.

But what of the fate of Graham’s vote I hear absolutely nobody ask; what became of my solitary ballot? Well, it’s ultimately rather hard to say for I, like many, found myself treading the desperately isolated path of the politically homeless.

Alas, this was not a route I willingly set foot upon, instead being entirely a matter of circumstance. Being one of those unreconciled Remoaners who consider Brexit the worst idea since Piers Morgan, there was only going to be one issue that fully captivated my mind. Not to say that I’m a single issue voter of course, but let’s not kid ourselves into thinking that Brexit limits its influence to a single sub-category of politics – it has an oily tentacle plunged into every facet of our nation; its venom ever seeping in and leaving our future locked in a state of uncomfortable paralysis.

Which is precisely why our de facto two party system ultimately holds nothing for me at this current moment – the only distinction on offer being a delusional Brexit and a “Who gives a fuck?” Brexit. Hardly inspiring and leaving representation for the 48% entirely in the hands of the smaller parties. But just what voice would my constituency afford me?

No voice at all, put simply.

horse
Oh look, a horse. I’m sure this will have no relevance to anything, ever.

Ah, the Democrats and Veterans Party. If you detected the whiff of a faint, Brexity stench in the air then your suspicions are bang on the money. Not dissimilar to the equally pitiful For Britain. the DVP were born out of a failed bid for the UKIP leadership – only this one was more interesting because it involved gay donkey rape.

No, really. It did.

gaydonkey
You don’t say.

DVP supremo John Rees-Evans might have fond memories of this unauthorised tryst that he saw fit to commemorate with the party’s official logo but alas, such charming tales of horse violation were never likely to win my vote.

So what else? Well, not much for there was only one further party standing – The Yorkshire Party; whose entire policy on Brexit hinges on the promise that, whatever happens with the EU negotiations, the good people of Yorkshire will still be able to drink copious amounts of tea. In any event, their aim to increase Yorkshire’s political standing on a national (and indeed European) level, while admirable in its own right, isn’t a matter that is especially close to my heart and, subsequently, my pencil passed right over their box too.

So what was I to do? An embittered, alleged metropolitan elitist, with a mind hopelessly trapped in a debate I’m rather unreliably informed ended two years ago and nobody standing to represent me.

Well, the only thing left to do – spoil my ballot paper.

For all the inevitable (and, in many cases, perfectly understandable) howls of consternation this will invoke, I stand by it. Voting may well be perceived as a given right as opposed to a privilege of the fortunate few these days (though many EU nationals currently residing upon our shores will almost certainly beg to differ) and that’s a right I indeed respect, hence why I still felt it necessary to actually show up at the polling station – even if it was only to effectively piss scorn upon my constituency’s efforts at representation.

But why? Why bother to show up? And why not lend your vote to a legitimate party if you’re going to make the effort? Besides, these are local council elections, right? It’s not even about Brexit, you pissed your britches based on nothing more than an unfortunate misconception.

Well, sodden as my undergarments may be and as compelling as many counterpoints indeed are, I remain unmoved – if a tad pissy. I may not have backed a legitimate party but I backed what I consider a legitimate cause. While ostensibly an election based on matters of the local council, implications are eagerly seized upon in today’s political climate. Remember all that bilge regarding 85% of people supposedly showing their support for Brexit by backing pro-Brexit parties in the 2017 General Election? So desperate were the Brexiteers to snatch even the faintest of victories from the jaws of reality, they were more than happy to kick nuance square in the testicles to add fuel to their ever spluttering narrative.

hannan
Brought to you by Daniel Hannan, a man with so little integrity he’s currently claiming that Brexit’s failings are down to the very people who didn’t vote for it.

The contrast between direct and tacit support becomes a distinction without a difference in the eyes of the narrative and, for that reason, I simply couldn’t shift the ever pulsating tumour of Brexit from my thoughts. If you believe in Brexit then I don’t believe in you. Sorry, but I’ll lend my admittedly infinitesimal amount of political influence to a notion I can support and, if that means hastily scrawling “STOP BREXIT” on my ballot paper in what could very well end up being an act of laughably impotent futility, then so be it.

A fart in the wind it may very well be, but at least it came out of my arse.

War, Syria and the Pitfalls of the Perpetually Complicated

It’s the weekend once more and we all know what that means. Five entire days of having your already miserable soul trampled under the steel toe capped boots of customer dissatisfaction and wildly unrealistic performance targets are at an end, giving way to a two day lull which, while promising much at its opening, will likely descend into 48 hours spent entirely in bed binge watching old episodes of Happy Days.

Or at least, that was my expectation. Because instead of the wholesome antics of Potsie Webber and Ralph Malph opening up my Saturday, I was instead greeted with this:

bbcpage
I don’t remember this episode.

Oh shit. That doesn’t sound good. This is even more depressing than the episode where Fonzie went blind and, for those who possess a memory that spans beyond the last decade, there’s also a familiar sense of dread lingering in the air.

SNE7fk
Live scenes from Westminster – maybe.

Ah, war. Now there’s a dose of nostalgia that nobody is happy to see – save perhaps for Robert DuVall’s surfing CO from Apocalypse Now. To go along with all the death, destruction and diplomatic unrest that is par for the course when it comes to such shenanigans, there’s also the inevitable divide of public opinion. There’s those who, being well aware that we have a very capable military at our disposal, consider it our duty to intervene when a crazed fascist in a far away land sees fit to dispassionately kill scores of his own citizens in the most inhumane way imaginable – they themselves doing little more than desperately trying to survive with a war zone right outside their door. On the other side of the fence there’s those of a more pacifistic disposition, steadfast in their belief that further bloodshed can never be the antidote to a violent conflict – rather hoping that a pushing a diplomatic solution can finally bring about peace after decades of instability and brutality. The anti-war crowd also find their ranks significantly bolstered by a third demographic, people that feel we should stay the fuck out of squabbles halfway across the world – instead keeping our heads down and negating the risk of having ourselves dragged into a fight we could easily stay out of. After all, it didn’t work out so well last time, did it?

itsmorecomplicated
War – It’s actually a lot more complicated than this.

So where do I, a perpetually befuddled burn out, stand on all of this? Do I think military intervention is the way to go? Or would I rather we push for a peaceful solution, sending Assad all the fruit hampers our budget will allow in the hope he can eventually be brought to the table for productive talks?

Well, in actuality it’s not so much about where I stand but rather where I sit – and that’s firmly upon the fence, watching the debate unfold with increasing unease as carbuncles begin to form upon my rapidly deteriorating posterior region.

Don’t take this as ambivalence on my part however. My staunch entrenchment to the middle ground doesn’t stem from any sense of disinterest, rather a weary acknowledgement that I just don’t fucking know. As with most divisive issues, there’s sound arguments on both sides though, sticking to form, the mutual recognition that all participants have somewhat of a point becomes lost amongst the tribalistic bickering. In what has sadly become true of most 21st century disagreements, it becomes less about the moral responsibilities and implications of the matter than a frantic bid to discredit the opposition – the distant horror all the while continuing unhindered.

So what to do? Well, as a layman in both global politics and military strategy who isn’t sufficiently decisive to throw his weight behind either cause, all I can really do is to take stock of everything (in as objective a fashion as my inherently biased mind can allow) and attempt to make sense of it.

So let’s try that, shall we?

19-stop-war-corbyn-corbis
Many of us have been here before, Jeremy more than most.

Our first stop is at the door of those opposed to military intervention and the thoughts of arguably their de facto spokesman, Jeremy Corbyn – a man who achieved such idealistic prominence by way of routinely voting against every proposed military solution he came across during his 35 years in Parliament. Irrespective of whether you consider yourself part of his congregation, it’s rather difficult to argue against his dedication to peaceful resolutions and his portrayal as a dangerous, terrorist supporting communist is demonstrably ludicrous – but what of the validity of his counsel?

The main thrust of his contention with tactical strikes is what they will leave in their wake. Syrian refugees scrambling upon our shores are often noted by the mainstream media but considerably less focus is afforded to what they’re actually running from – quite possibly because it makes them much harder to demonise. Take a moment to look outside your window right now. See any buildings burning to the ground? Any dead bodies lingering awkwardly around the outskirts or your vision? Is your daily soundtrack punctuated by agonised screams and hails of gunfire? No? Then you’re lucky – very lucky. But if you were to be in such a position then chances are more missiles arriving on the scene courtesy of a distant third party wouldn’t be atop your wish list. Granted, the targets are described as military installations and chemical weapons plants but, as footage has shown, civilisation is never too far away.

damascus
Before being allowed to watch this video of missiles on their way to wreak destruction, I was greeted by an inanely cheery Workplace by Facebook ad.

Humanitarian concerns aren’t the only argument present at the table either – some concerns rest much closer to home. Assad may be a despot with an unsettling lack of regard for the value of human life but, somehow, he’s managed to obtain himself a few allies – one of which being the seemingly perennial menace that is Vladimir Putin.

https_cdn.cnn.comcnnnextdamassets171121091730-02-putin-assad-1121
With friends like these…

It’s arguable that we’re already embroiled amidst the opening days of a second Cold War, many fearing that one too many rushes of blood to the head could lead to this one heating up pretty quickly. Prior to the strikes, Russia had already stated their intent to both intercept any missiles that dared cross into Syria – along with a promise to retaliate against participating nations in kind. As to whether this is just bullish posturing or a genuine threat often depends on your own perspective but, with the perceived bluff having now been called, we’re all set to find out for sure – and there’s a dangerously fine line between petty bickering and walloping someone in the the face.

With more than a slight nod towards Corbyn’s historical opposition to war, the ‘take heed of the mistakes of the past’ argument also comes into play. His opposition to action in Iraq and Afghanistan wasn’t exactly popular at the time but has since been vindicated by hindsight and, given how blundering fists first into the fray proved a colossal mistake last time, Theresa May’s decision to disregard Jeremy’s calls for further investigation might not have an entirely happy ending.

006A5C9D1000044C-3903066-image-a-32_1478206970975
“Sorry to bother you ladies and gentlemen but can we interest you in a war?”

So if we don’t strike against Assad and his monstrous regime, what do we do? Well, diplomatic sanctions and a vigorous attempt at a peaceful solution of course. Such avenues have had their success in the past in remedying conflicts of varying size but such proposals aren’t without legitimate concerns. After all, we’re dealing with a tyrant who thinks nothing of indiscriminately gassing his own nation’s children – it might take more than a few harsh words and shoving a flower down the barrel of a gun to talk him down.

Speaking after Theresa May and her cabinet took their decision to take part in military action (completely without the approval of Parliament I might add), it’s fair to say that the debate on what we as a nation should do has ended before it really began – but did we make the right choice?

If you find yourself in the camp favouring giving that Assad character what for, chances are that the parliamentary decision to reject proposals for missile strikes on Syrian targets back in 2013 plays heavily on your mind. We stood idly by back then in the hopes that a solution not involving blowing shit up would arise only to find ourselves disappointed five years later. Nothing unveils the truth quite like the passage of time and Assad remaining at large to this day leads to a rather unsettling quandary. As to whether military action back then would have been the right thing to do is something that will remain unknown, but those that saw their wish denied back in 2013 are getting understandably antsy. For what they ultimately see in Assad is a vicious bully acting without restraint – and bullies need to be stood up to.

whateveryousay
It’s fair to say that Assad’s mates aren’t an especially delightful bunch either.

It may be an unpleasant and morally dubious path to take, even for those who ultimately are in favour, but there’s certainly an argument that the ends will justify the means – however brutal the repercussions may be. While the protests and alternatives brought forth by those in opposition may well be idealistically sound, many consider them at odds with the harsh realities of our increasingly dysfunctional world. Pacifists are quick to remind us that love is a universal language, but the sad truth is that violence also falls into such a category – and many suspect that violence is perhaps the only language Assad and his ilk understand.

SYRIA-CONFLICT

Whichever way you look at it, neither side of the fence is especially comfortable. Nor is, for that matter, the line of cautious neutrality that I’m attempting to straddle. It’s a miserable situation with a sense of futility accompanying our every move. Whatever we do innocent lives are set to be extinguished and it’s those lives that should be ultimately at the forefront of everyone’s mind right now – regardless of your political leanings. If you think this shit is nasty to read about, just try living it. Because they do. Every single day.

It’s the easiest thing in the world to demonise these people, blaming them for our woes while turning a blind eye to theirs but remember – going home isn’t especially easy when you don’t have a home to go back to.

The Indifference of the Irony Lady

Ever wondered what it would be like to peer into a parallel universe? No, me neither – but if you were ever sufficiently curious to take a peek through the looking glass then fear not. There’s no need for scientific quackery or appealing to the occult; not when you can just pop down to your local newsagents.

See the below case in point:

steel
I preferred the leather trousers.

Yeah, nobody bought it back then either; except perhaps for toadying careerists and the hopelessly entrenched. In any case, time has only served to amplify the absurdity of what was already an inherently ridiculous proclamation. Though May can’t cry foul about a lack of opportunity to prove her mettle – the ludicrous doodle above being perhaps the perfect example. The battle lines were drawn and the tough talk spewed but, now we can look upon proceedings in retrospect, it was ultimately May who yielded first – most likely because the potential success of her negotiating strategy hinged entirely on the EU falling for a bluff that was visible from Jupiter.

However, Brexit being ever the malfunctioning drainage system, spurting out endless torrents of shit for some hapless patsy to clear up, there’s barely a day that goes by without a split pipe for Theresa to fix – or at least attempt to. So what better way to sway public mood and attempt to live up to a preposterously inaccurate caricature than by taking a strong stance on the recent and increasingly disconcerting allegations of skulduggery by the Vote Leave campaign? I mean nobody likes skulduggery, so surely May has to drop that hypothetical (and indeed, hyperbolic) iron fist of hers, right?

wontderail
She’s got a point. There’s no such thing as ‘allegatiions’.

Oh.

You could just look upon this as so far so predictable before your mind moves swiftly onto its next object of vague disgruntlement, but by doing so you’d be missing out on an absolute goldmine of diversionary blatherings – perfectly encapsulated by the following quote which is perhaps the quintessential Theresa May non-answer for all time:

quote

Yes, all your old favourites are here. Starting off with a standard “Can I simply say…” before setting up the finale with the classic promise to be clear (very clear in fact). Then for those still paying attention, their focus is rewarded with an oh so typical sidestep cunningly disguised as a definitive answer – a staple of the May premiership.

When you’ve wiped away the tears and looked beyond May’s seemingly automated soundbites however, you begin to see something altogether more troubling – indifference.

It’s true that the Tories have never quite been held aloft as morally sound, bastions of empathy (a picture that in of itself can lead to a reaction of indifference from the electorate themselves) but, in this case especially, such an empty response to allegations of criminal activity simply cannot be swept under an increasingly conspicuous rug.

If such a brazen lack of concern wasn’t insane enough then factoring Theresa May herself into the mix adds a whole new layer of absurdity. It’s no secret that May backed Remain during the EU referendum campaign; granted you’ll not receive a reminder of this from May herself, but fortunately the vast repository known as the internet continues admirably in its role as a politician’s worst nightmare:

sign
If Theresa May didn’t add enough pizzazz, Bob Geldof was in the “In crowd” too.

See? She had a sign and everything. Taking this into account it seems almost laughable that Theresa is naive to Brexit being an act of folly and, with her response to allegations of foul play during the referendum campaign being little more than a dismissive shrug, the situation grows increasingly surreal. We’re bumbling towards a Brexit, a path we’re pursuing in stubborn defiance of all the warnings to turn back, led by a Prime Minister who, not only doesn’t actually believe in it, but outright refuses to pause for thought when it’s revealed that a result she didn’t want just may have been won illegally.

Sadly, we’re all along for the ride; gagged and chained on the backseat of a beat up Ford Escort, helpless to intervene as Nosferatu’s great aunt slams down on the accelerator with a cliff edge looming ahead. Obviously this is a pretty horrifying predicament to find ourselves in and, as our minds scurry between visions of fiery doom and chlorinated chicken, a lingering question remains. We know that the one driving the car is fully aware that what they’re doing is madness, so just why is she doing it? If her actions aren’t of her own design then who’s pulling the strings? What do they stand to gain?

What does Theresa May stand to gain?

dacre

I rest my case.

UKIP – A wounded and feckless lion with but one hand to play

UKIP have an image problem. It’s hardly a secret, even the most politically passive of individuals will likely find themselves experiencing almost innate feelings of unease should so much the UKIP brand flicker into their consciousness for but a brief moment. The reasons behind this are many and exist at many intervals across the entire absurdity spectrum; whether it be a, shall we say, reluctance  to provide aid to the third world or a perhaps overly aggressive approach to handling internal party disputes – the outside perception of UKIP remains one of near universal revulsion.

So what were the UKIP top brass to do? A public image, once foisted upon you, becomes seemingly set in stone and the act of shifting it a monumental task. Besides, the farcically regressive aura was hardly ill deserved. The only realistic shot they had at vanquishing the rot would have been to tear the whole thing down and to quietly set about starting from scratch, hoping beyond hope that the ever settling dust masks their intentions.

But of course, such a bold gambit would have taken vision, discipline and professionalism – qualities that have consistently failed to seep into UKIP’s isolationist cabal. So they just changed their logo instead.

logo
Surprise, surprise – it’s shit

Ever the populists, the UKIP re-brand played to its base – or at least attempted to. The ‘all the better colours were already taken’ purple and gold colour scheme remained of course,  but no longer was this the canvas for a fusty old pound sign to serve as their motif. Ideologues require something more fearsome rather than being merely symbolic and so, the lion won the day – inspiring a backdrop of groan inducing predictability.

Though, from the very outset, something seemed amiss. This was a recurring theme; a smog of farce had accompanied UKIP at every turn they attempted and it took but mere moments for incompetence to take centre stage once more. As to how much of these apparently inevitable blunderings are down to design or simple negligence is open to debate. Did they unwittingly re-purpose the Premier League logo? Do they appreciate the irony in appointing a lion, a creature that only currently roams these shores by virtue of being imported from a foreign land, as mascot to their hard line anti immigration party?

Who the hell knows? But one thing’s for sure – that lion sure doesn’t look happy. A sullen expression adorning its face and exuding a sense of beaten down impotence – one could argue that it epitomises UKIP perfectly.

However, occupying a state of feckless irrelevance hadn’t always been the norm for UKIP. Why only back in the 2015 General Election they achieved 3rd place in the overall vote share standings. Though this only ended up amounting to one seat, it still presented a significant victory and in part almost justifying David Cameron’s ill fated scheme to ensnare UKIP voters to his cause. With it being successful enough to grant him the majority he perhaps didn’t crave, the simultaneous rise of UKIP applied further pressure for Cameron to begrudgingly deliver upon what he had promised.

Leading the party during this period of unprecedented success was a peculiar chap named Nigel Farage. A former city trader turned populist war cry, who possessed a fashion sense so peculiar you could easily imagine it being the result of a night spent binging on 1940’s media whilst impaired by some sort of extreme narcotic. Nevertheless, this bewildering anachronism managed to prosper in grassroots politics, a world away from the uniformed halls of Westminster – a world that also contained the so called “unheard majority”.

Nigel set to work on schmoozing with the proletariat; he wasn’t like the stuffed shirt elites who littered the Houses of Parliament – he was just like them. He even had the ‘Fisher Price – Beer and Fags Accessory Set’ to prove it. He charmed them, he inspired them and, depending on the narrative to which you subscribe, he came to represent them – because he was just like they were; disenfranchised and pissed off at the corrupt system holding the little guy down.

farage-731813
Here’s an unrelated shot of Nigel Farage, surrounded by needlessly extravagant decor, buddying up to a cunt.

As divisive and morally dubious as Farage could be, he was most certainly an effective politician – all the while assuming the guise of a vengeful outsider. However with Brexit secured the party’s overall purpose had become increasingly unclear. The war was viewed as won and, with his name recognition having soared, the general decided to step down. He’d “got his country back”, now he was going to pursue getting his life back; though, having spent his entire political life chasing the Brexit dragon, with the dragon now quelled it didn’t seem like there was much else to get back to.

Still, losing their figurehead (arguably their only prominent figure in the entire party) didn’t sit well at a time their entire relevance was dwindling. Some sense of stability was desperately needed. If they were ever going to save the sinking ship then robust, reliable and enduring leadership was required – to hold the party together as their entire reason for being faded around them. This task fell to Diane James, coming right out of the blocks with defiant proclamations of UKIP’s potential to thrive – going as far to say that they would become the de facto party of opposition.

Diane James quit after 18 days.

diane james
Can’t possibly imagine why.

Nigel, ever the maverick detective for who circumstances never allow him to retire, took less than a day to swoop back onto the throne – albeit on an interim basis until a suitable heir could be elected.

Indeed an heir was eventually chosen – but if UKIP were hoping for a suitably cunning rabble-rouser to extend upon what Farage had created then they were to be sorely disappointed.

Stoke-on-Trent-Central-by-election
This is Paul Nuttall. I repeat – this is Paul Nuttall.

Paul Nuttall was a interesting bloke, but how much of this interest was down to his actual credentials and qualities as a person was infinitesimal at best. For you see not much about who Paul Nuttall really came out; at least not direct from the source. Apparently concerned about stepping into the shoes of a man who, at least partially, had achieved some measure of success by playing the ‘Cult of Personality’ hand, Nuttall seemed determined to cultivate his very own cult of personality. Unfortunately for Paul, likely being misrecognized as Eddie Hitler more often than being acknowledged for who he actually was, such a task didn’t seem especially feasible. Hell, what did he even have to work with?

So he set about crafting his own mythos and it was one that needed to tick certain boxes in order to be effective. UKIP aren’t especially well regarded by the would be intelligentsia so hey, by all means bolt a PhD next to your name.  Then there’s the working man to appeal to; your core demographic – the base. There must be some high profile yet highly emotive cause to latch onto out there, surely? Don’t forget to throw a footballing past into the mix. Everyone loves football, right? Politicians being deceitful is just the way of the world, it’s accepted. Even if someone were to check, who the fuck cares?

They checked, they cared and UKIP’s descent back to being a mere political punchline was all but confirmed with the unsurprising revelation that they’d appointed a jobsworth as their leader. Nuttall had staggered on to fight the 2017 snap election but he was a beaten man long before the battle had even begun. UKIP were vanquished, Nuttall resigned (seemingly disappearing into the nothingness from which he came; legends and all) and the stage was set for Nigel, ever on call for “one last job”, to return.

Only he didn’t. Nigel kept his name decidedly out of the hat and they were forced to look elsewhere. Following a fairly fractured party election campaign, (so much so that one of the unsuccessful candidates immediately jumped ship to start her own party; a kind of UKIP for the especially deranged) Henry Bolton OBE reigned supreme. A man described by Don Farage himself as “a man of real substance”. Could Henry be ‘the one’? Become Neo to Nigel’s Morpheus – finally stabilising the party in the process?

badger
The “substance” in question being the blood of executed badgers.

Perhaps not.

For that’s where this increasingly circular tale of near perpetual calamity (with the odd smattering of unforeseen success) catches up with the present day – aptly punctuated by a timely scandal. A UKIP leader, still green to the role, had become embroiled in another PR nightmare of his own creation. With what little credibility he may have once had dissolving away by the minute, the ever lingering phantom of Nigel circles overhead – seemingly prepping the waiting public with hints of a potential re-animation. Where have we heard this story before?

2100
That sound you can hear is Humphrey Bogart rolling in his grave.

Today’s news isn’t shocking; it’s merely part of the UKIP cycle – lurching from one slapstick episode to the next with little respite, each time having to fall back on Farage to keep their heads above water. It’s often been suspected that UKIP are a one man show and time has only served to provide evidence for the prosecution. At this moment the Bolton debacle is still ongoing and he’s remains in charge but, without any particular cause to avoid destabilisation for, it seemed his days are already numbered.

What happens next remains to be seen but expect a predictable path to be followed, in turn serving to further highlight the increasingly laughable notion of a future for UKIP. Whilst it’s undeniable that UKIP are a somewhat more potent proposition when fronted by Farage their dependence on him seems certain to be their undoing. They’re mired within a high stakes game of Pontoon yet find themselves hindered at every interval when they’re inexplicably dealt a joker with every second deal. It’s not just that they’re struggling to replace Farage, they simply can’t. The party rose to prominence with Nigel at the helm with his colleagues relegated to background extras in the recollection of the general public – hardly an environment within which a potential successor can thrive. Above all, it’s Nigel who, whilst not bringing respectability, at least brought some sense of feasibility to the cause; not least with his apparently permanent residence on the nation’s television screens getting the message heard.

Alas, it’s with a certain irony that the man who established them will also be their undoing. Without Nigel there’s no feasibility and without feasibility the enthusiasm among its members is destined to fade away – finally bringing an end to this miserable and misguided tale of attempted populist upheaval.

Not that the UKIP lion gives a shit. He’s foreign.

 

The real reason people hate Boris Johnson

It’s been a sombre few days in the wake of the Parsons Green terror attack. The aftermath of such incidents is always a tempestuous time with finger pointing and scapegoating coming into direct conflict with calls for solidarity. Basically it’s such a clusterfuck of narratives that there’s little chance for much else to break through the haze.

Which is precisely why many were curious as to the timing of Parliamentary Potato Boris Johnson’s article detailing his vision for Brexit. The responses to this piece were largely negative, ranging from his motives being scrutinised to some questioning Boris’ grasp on reality. 

Though there was support from one fellow aristocratic anachronism.

jrm
Little known fact: Jacob Rees-Mogg uploads his tweets via telegram.

So far so predictable. Boris plunging his recently buffed shoe into an ominous mountain of faecal matter, quite possibly of his own making, is a regular occurrence and the reactions are often the same. Those possessing any semblance of scepticism will rip the limbs off his claims whilst his Etonian allies launch a staunch defence, all the while keeping a sharp blade close by in case a mutiny is required at short notice.

However, this time a rather idiosyncratic perspective emerged from the gloom courtesy of Daniel Hannan:

borischeerful
From the same reliable mind that brought you “Absolutely nobody is talking about threatening our place in the single market.”

Certainly the nuanced position. So perverse you’d expect my reaction to be one of incredulity but, to my surprise, it triggered something – an epiphany if you will.

I’d always suspected that my intense loathing reserved for the bulbous bumblefuck was down to more practical reasons. You know, the sort of duplicitous shit that impacts people’s lives? That drives our nation down the gutter for the benefit of personal advancement? Like, I don’t know…spearheading a campaign that knowingly misled the electorate? I mean we all saw it. Boris standing front and centre, doling out deceit through the medium of charming buffoonery. Does it matter that he didn’t really believe it? That his support for Leave was entirely disingenuous?

To Boris it certainly doesn’t. After all, what place is there for integrity when you’re manoeuvring to ram a knife into the spine of one of your oldest friends? There’s no room for such outmoded notions of decency in Boris’ schedule, not when he’s got subterfuge on the brain. He needn’t worry about being held accountable to those he so gleefully deceived either. Instead, he can just slither off into the background the moment consequence rears its timely head.

You could be mistaken into thinking that this is the behaviour of a particularly nefarious piss weasel, willing to brazenly mislead the public he claimed to serve for his own benefit. Pretty deplorable shit, right?

But no, people hate him because he smiles a bit.

rugby
Boris Johnson here, ploughing into a small child with a smile on his lips and a song in his heart.

In my naivety, I also fooled myself into thinking that perhaps his disputed competence could be the source of the unrelenting resentment towards Boris. It’s true that many of us are apathetic towards our jobs with this sometimes spilling over into outright ineptitude – but most of the jobsworth collective don’t find themselves winging it in a position of power and importance. Fucking up in Argos doesn’t tend to carry the same ramifications as fucking up as the Mayor of London for instance. Or fucking up as the Foreign Secretary. Or straight out fucking somebody you weren’t supposed to while on the Tory front bench. Naturally this sorry tale of staggering negligence is punctuated by his continued presence within influential government positions, poking the very concept of a meritocracy in the eye with every subsequent blunder.

You could be forgiven for considering this the employment pattern of a chancer, leaving the metaphorical motif of an indelible piss stain upon each establishment he degrades – all the while being enabled by his unscrupulous peers.

But no, he’s despised because he got stuck on a zip wire that one time.

CFmbjDY
Should have just left the fucker there.

I could continue on with this rather rudimentary barrage of sarcasm but the point has been laboured enough. It does bring me onto one rather noteworthy point however.

When viewed in the broadest possible terms Hannan’s statement is demonstrably ludicrous but there is a tiny fragment of truth buried beneath the landfill of insanity. Whilst it’s certainly not the most prominent of factors, a fair portion of the ire towards Boris is indeed down to his jovial tomfoolery.

Curiously Hannan seems to posit this as fatuous reasoning but nothing could be further from the truth. This preposterous Etonian omnishambles is our Foreign Secretary. To nations around the globe he’s the face of Britain as a diplomatic entity. We don’t want him publishing limericks about a foreign leader rogering a goat. We don’t want him careening like a bequiffed boulder into a former German international footballer. We just want him to be good at his job.

Brexit has taken a gargantuan piss into our pool of friends. The Foreign Secretary will be one of the key players if we’re ever to win back approval and craft Britain into a respected and formidable entity once again.

If anyone thinks that this role can be reliably carried out by a gurning caricature who’s most prominent skill is an uncanny ability to piss off almost everyone then who am I to stop you?

I just hope you’re still laughing when it comes time to reap what Boris has sown.