Tag Archives: brexit

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 an 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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Impotent chest-beating, insidious tossery and the hopeless descent into the Brexit void

With Parliament pissing off on their summer jollies for 48 days, you could be forgiven for assuming that we’d be in for a period of respite from the usual deluge of disingenuous fuckwittery flooding the political discourse with empty promises and excruciating sloganeering. However, much to everyone’s dismay, it turned out that there is one, pus laden boil on the arsecheek of humanity still lingering in the shadows to exude that familiar smog of deceit into an already tempestuous atmosphere:

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Achieving the “easiest trade deal in history” is quite tricky when you’re impossibly inept.

Yes, that is the disgraced Liam Fox MP you’re witnessing above, advocating for an entirely different reality than the one of staggering complacency he attempted to portray just under a year ago. Naturally this is little more than brazen political gamesmanship designed to hoodwink the apparently unwashed into buying into an idea that will exclusively benefit Liam Fox and his cabal of independently wealthy bastards – and, on at least some perhaps superficial level, pretty much everyone is aware of this deceit. Sure, it’ll provoke howls of derision from the perpetual abyss of unbridled outrage known as social media – but it’ll soon be superseded by the next obnoxious meme or Boris Johnson accidentally poisoning an entire reservoir by way of his own rancid piss, leaving the previous beacon of contempt to inconspicuously vanish into the ether; forever escaping tangible accountability.

So far, so standard. Politicians being duplicitous scumfucks has been the case ever since they first slithered into our realm but, while our previous passivity may have led to us being played for saps on many an occasion, the hustle was nevertheless played out against a backdrop of stability. It always helps to have the safety net of economic and diplomatic security when you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing – that’s just logical.

However that’s all about to change. Not only is the aforementioned net about to be ripped away from underneath us, it’s being removed entirely at our own behest. An act of madness certainly though, rather disconcertingly, one of which the true consequences are yet to be fully understood and appreciated by the general public – myself included.

This is perfectly understandable. After all, how would we know any different? We’ve spent decades living a relatively cossetted existence which, while not exactly utopia, at least afforded us fully stocked supermarkets and a nationalised health system to stitch us back together. As a man ever hurtling towards the eternally dreaded thirty mark, it’s certainly all I’ve ever known. I can appreciate a crumbling society on a conceptual level, but it remains lost to me viscerally; a lack of experience I suspect shared by the majority.

This is probably why propagandist appeals to my elbow grease gland like the one below, have little to no effect on my ilk.

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I may be totally clueless with regards global economics, international diplomacy and basically as to how anything even works – but it’ll all be fine based on my not being alive to shoot down German fighter planes 70 odd years ago.

Yes, that’s right. Over two years on from the referendum and with the nation sliding ever towards the Brexit abyss, the level of pro-Leave debate still hasn’t evolved beyond the point of slapping an ostensibly reputable face alongside suspiciously shallow yet unmistakably cretinous platitudes.

While somewhat baffling, the reason behind this remains relatively simple – there just isn’t a logical argument for Brexit being a better path than the one we were previously treading. It would be nothing short of unrealistic to anticipate one, what with the prospect being terminally crippled through lack of supporting facts – creating a task akin to constructing an international high speed rail network spanning the entire globe exclusively out of bread. A tantalising concept for a hungry dreamer forever lost amidst the clouds perhaps, but not exactly compatible with any known reality.

So, ultimately, what other choice do the Brexit propagandists have? Those that have dared to stick their head above the parapet and present some form of reasonable argument found themselves eviscerated like shit in a blender – not the most dignified of positions to find yourself in, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Still, jingoistic tub-thumping and bizarre nostalgia for a thoroughly miserable past will only stave off those pesky, inquisitive questions for so long – so what else can you do? With another distraction needed, maybe a scandal will work? Something to anger the plebs to such a degree that their memories of concern will become lost amidst a haze of righteous outrage; but where could we find a toad so unscrupulous as to sacrifice what’s left of their soul to such a caper?

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Yes, that should do it.

Of course, it had to be Boris – it could only be Boris. Say what you like about the bulbous bumblefuck but he’s a master of creating a convenient disturbance – and when scrutiny looms Boris hurls a handful of shit at the nearest fan without so much as a moment’s hesitation. Sure, there’s bound to be some amount of splashback for old Boris; people will justifiably hound him for his intentionally inflammatory babblings, but they’re just words – empty yet wonderfully intangible words. That’s not to say they can be utilised without repercussion but, if you’re sufficiently weaselly, chances are you’ll be able to nudge your insidious agenda far enough over the boundary while still being within touching distance of cover – albeit a shoddily assembled picket fence made up of semantics and misdirection; but at least empty, political spiel is easier to defend than an absurdly risky diplomatic proposal.

In actuality, this is perhaps the gravest concern of all. That such ham-fisted filibustering nevertheless manages to succeed in averting the allegedly unremitting gaze of public scrutiny. It may be mocked, it may be derided but, effectively by way of omission, it’s accepted – and that’s really not good enough.

Time is running short, desperately so. Yet our understanding of what awaits us is demonstrably lacking – and that’s just the politicians attempting to steer the ship while drunk on their own hubris. On every cognitive level you can fathom, it should be drowning out your internal monologue with piercing alarm bells; but the alarms barely sound – as though the stench of detached disdain emanating from the bubble of Westminster has anaesthetised us to such an extent that we’re but helpless drones, ever sleepwalking into a void we can’t even begin to perceive.

 

 

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.

morningafter
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.

The People’s Vote, Brexit and two entire years of impotent fiddlefucking.

Remember the EU referendum? Sure you do, it was only two years ago. We all vividly recall the respective campaigns, it’s almost impossible not to given the vitriol and division it created. Remain had their tedious approval of the status quo, forever insistent that a failure to heed their message would be met with the most mundane torrent of doom imaginable – and we had Leave contingent, with their somewhat jingoistic proclamation that we should throw off the shackles of supposed EU tyranny and drive a suspiciously mendacious bus over the horizon, ever onward towards a previously untapped land of gumdrops and global prosperity.

As astonishing as it may seem, Remain’s cautionary screed detailing the perils and pitfalls of economic downturn didn’t quite have the same sex appeal as promises of previously unfathomable wealth and a magic unicorn on every driveway – perhaps signifying that Leave’s eventual triumph wasn’t quite the Earth shattering upset it was initially portrayed as.

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If you consider this sex appeal, just wait until you get a load of Nigel.

Still, whether the apple cart was toppled over or not, Leave had won the PR war and victory was immediately seized upon as the inerrant “will of the people” – with anyone who dared express concern as to the feasibility of this master plan being simply dismissed off-hand as a sore loser, wallowing in their own sense of bitter incredulity.

With this in mind however, it does indeed beg the question as to why today, two years on from a supposedly infallible expression of unyielding intent, thousands of people are taking to the streets of London to decry that very notion, demanding they be afforded some semblance of control.

I’m far from infallible myself, but I suspect it may have something to do with this:

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Boris can scoff all he wants, at least a bog roll Brexit will afford us the tools to clear up the shit it’ll inevitably leave in its wake.

Yes, that is a real headline; and not from the preposterously backward universe next door. Horrifyingly, it’s from our own.

You likely recall similarly tiresome platitudes polluting the discussion way back in the aftermath of Leave’s victory. While naturally concerning to see figures like Boris Johnson (who days prior had taken to the stage, beaten his chest and declared a national day of independence in the event of his triumph) seemingly at a loss as to what the fuck he was supposed to do, time at least remained just about on our side. Scepticism was obviously rife, not least from increasingly inquisitive Remainers, but joyous Brexiteers were insistent that it’d be figured out in due course.

Two years on however, Vote Leave figurehead Boris Johnson is still marooned in the ‘mindless platitudes’ stage:

bog roll boris
It seems fitting that such a prominent bullshitter would have an inexhaustible supply of toilet paper.

Oh Boris, you cretinous bumblefuck. You sure can craft a soundbite capable of warding off suspicion from the most suggestible of Brexit loyalists, but unfortunately empty rhetoric doesn’t have a morsel of economic value and, consequently, isn’t suitable fuel for what is undoubtedly Britain’s most drastic diplomatic move in decades. Jingoistic bluster may well have swung the referendum, but it’s of no use to the subsequent aftermath – a fact that has become increasingly apparent as the months drifted by without even an iota of tangible progress. Of course that doesn’t stop both leading parties from attempting to create the impression of success, conveniently ignoring that their respective flavours of Brexit have already been unceremoniously spat out by the EU, but they try nevertheless – though it’s little surprise that many haven’t been fooled.

It’s from that very sense of disenfranchisement that the People’s Vote was spawned.

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The merits of such a concept are something I’ve touched upon previously, so I’ll spare you an explanation. However, I would like to address the inevitable scorn that has already been doled out by the usual suspects of shitehawks.

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Oh look, Julia’s got democracy confused with shopping again.

You can dismiss the marchers as nutters, you can disagree with their politics – but in no way can you claim that they’re enemies of democracy, fiendishly attempting to subvert the nation’s collective will. You may rightly point out that the EU referendum was democracy in action but, as inconvenient to your narrative as it may be, today’s march is too. If Brexit really was the golden ticket to utopia it was advertised as, then there’d be no need for this. People are pissed off and justifiably so. They were told Brexit would improve their lives, heralding a new dawn of democratic accountability and a properly funded NHS – yet after two fucking years we’ve received nothing more than a few risible slogans equating crashing our economy with the desire for a decent breakfast. Ludicrous doesn’t quite cover it.

Look – you can treat the People’s Vote march with as much derision as you please; that’s entirely your prerogative. Sure, the overwhelming majority of attendees likely did vote Remain, but they won’t be alone. A smaller yet no less significant demographic of regretful Leave voters, having borne witness to the rudderless shit-show that Brexit swiftly became, will also be joining the cause – and if “taking back control” really is important to you, I’d recommend you also join the party.

Unless that is, you’d rather listen to Boris Johnson bloviate endlessly about bog roll.

Your choice.

Nigel Farage and the Game of Blame

It’s not nice being lied to. Not only does it signal a distinct lack of respect, needling your self esteem with every word, it also creates a disconcerting sense of confusion – if that’s not the truth, then what is? Life’s already befuddling enough without a disingenuous dickcheese throwing deceit into the mix at the worst possible moment, why make things more difficult for everyone?

That said, despite inhabiting a world ridden with unbridled dishonesty, there is occasional respite. Some lies are easy to spot – lies like this one:

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Oh good. We can now add “Brexit dividend” to the list of promises that are never going to happen.

Yeah, that’s our Prime Minister lying to the entire country again. No biggie, right? It’s not as though it doesn’t happen every fucking week or anything. So why make the point of picking out this one in particular?

Well the answer to that one lies not such much in the deception itself, but the reaction to it – specifically what came from the myopic mind of Wormtongue Farage:

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I’m not sure what voters had in mind when voters opted to make Nigel an MEP, but it likely wasn’t to have his own radio show.

No, your eyes are not deceiving you; the supposed “Brexit dividend” really is so ludicrous that even arch Brexiteer and Tsar of Bullshit Nigel Farage will call it out. But why? He’s never had any issue with smearing the discourse with disinformation previously, so why now? Just what is that slippery rascal up to?

It’s fair to say that Nigel’s behaviour has been somewhat curious of late. Previously the foremost proponent of the idea that Brexit would lead us to a glorious future of diplomatic dominance and a robot butler assigned to every home, it was perhaps then surprising to see Nigel shuffle onto a considerably more pessimistic tune.

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What is it they say about liars and being unable to maintain eye contact?

Quite the shift, huh? Certainly not quite the iron clad proclamation that we’d be better off no matter what flavour of Brexit we opt to choke down upon.

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See?

But of course, as with every utterance that spills from Nigel’s face rectum, it has to be taken with a lethal dosage of salt. You know he doesn’t believe it, so you’re left with little choice but to look upon proceedings using the same lens as Nigel himself – one of total self interest.

Though, rather than reap the rewards of a utopia he promised, Nigel seems strangely preoccupied with getting himself as far away from Brexit as humanly possible.

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Ah yes, starting the classics. “It’s not Brexit as an idea that’s the problem, they’re just doing it wrong” has been a staple strategy amongst the most cowardly of Brexiteers wishing to avoid accountability. Hell, preposterous chucklefuck Daniel Hannan has been at it for ages. Brexit is dying on its arse and everyone who had previously championed the presently rotting carcass is wasting no time in getting the fuck out of there before the flies swarm in. Gutless – but expected.

However, this yellow bellied act of revisionist trickery rather urgently shines a spotlight upon a considerable failing of today’s news media – a flaw entirely characterised by infuriating impotence.

Brexit is falling apart with each passing day. While yet to be halted dead in its tracks, the already laughable potential for it to be in any way a success is ever dwindling. You’d think that this would be a pressing concern for the nation’s journalists, not normally shy in ramming their fingers into whatever rancid pie they stumble across – yet this indigestion inducing dessert remains oddly untouched, apparently without even the slightest curiosity as to who served up the rather sorry soufflé.

The rationale behind this is both baffling and alarming in equal measure, though as a collective we don’t seem especially perturbed by this – and we really should be.

Nigel lied. Daniel lied. They all lied. Not just to you, but to everyone – without shame or concern. They saw a chance to further their political aspirations and ruthlessly seized upon it; the naive electorate they hoodwinked in order to achieve their aims are of little concern – you voted Leave and that’s all they needed. So what if the Rolls Royce you opted for back in 2016 doesn’t have an engine? Or wheels? Or even seats? Do you really think Nigel Farage is going to be waiting at used car dealership, clutching a cheque for reimbursement?

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Say no more.

There you have it, clear as fucking day. Not only is Nigel’s deception indisputable, it’s staggeringly brazen – further underlying a withering contempt for those he ushers down the garden path.

That’s not to say you were stupid for believing him; who wouldn’t sit up and listen when a supposed upgrade is offered up, complete with promises to propel us to global prosperity and beyond? But that’s no excuse to abandon all sense of inquisitive scepticism – especially as there’s precious little time to take the likes of Farage to task before he slithers off into the night.

Whether you agree with my own assessment of Brexit is ultimately an irrelevance here. I’m not asking for your political agreement; just that you at least call into question why the Brexit Rolls Royce you were sold is notably lacking in any sort of warranty before it’s too late.

Because let’s face it – Nigel’s not going to be around to help when you break down on the outskirts of Plymouth.

 

 

David Davis – International Man of Mystery

David Michael Davis MP – now there’s a curious fellow. You’ve likely seen him, though given he’s somewhat of the retiring type you perhaps couldn’t spot him in a parade – he’s far more likely to be lurking in the confines of his office, taking occasional bites from a ham sandwich somebody else made, than jet setting around the world, being a relentless antagonist to the EU and pushing the case for a “Global Britain” he so obviously entirely understands.

Reclusive as he may be however, he does come bearing a rather unmistakable presence – wide eyed and befuddled, stumbling around the European Council with an alarming passivity more befitting of a competition winner being given a tour than the British Brexit Secretary.

You know, this bloke?

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He doesn’t just look like a competition winner, he’s also done the same amount of prep work.

See? Instantly recognisable. Bet you never thought such an expression of smug bewilderment was even possible but there you go, apparently. It’s fair to say that Mr Davies has become somewhat a figure of ridicule in the past two years. While unsurprisingly reluctant to position himself as the de facto figurehead of Brexit negotiations – most likely down to his desire to not leave too many fingerprints upon this most sorry of car crashes – when he has dared to stick his head above the parapet, he’s immediately the proverbial rabbit caught in the headlights. Eternally equivocal and preposterously hesitant, with each increasingly unwelcome query of his rhetoric being met with ever more pronounced involuntary tics – the most notable of which being the near constant removal and immediate reseating of his glasses, the irritation growing as the questions continue to search for answers he simply doesn’t have.

Still, his allies are quick to remind us that chronic incompetence and expertise in the placement of spectacles aren’t the only strings to his bow:

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So he’s just like James Bond, basically. Only entirely different.

Basically, if you thought he was merely a jobsworth you’re mistaken – he’s a jobsworth who is apparently trained to take people out; presumably with a machine gun crafted out of a discarded fag packet.

The how and why as to the apparent need for David Davis to take someone out remains unfortunately confined to the limitations of Nadine Dorries’ fevered mind – not to mention being entirely irrelevant to the real reason his mug is currently being plastered all over the news: he’s threatened to resign. Again.

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You’ll be reassured to know that the headline hasn’t been doctored – it is indeed real. Have a nice day.

Curiously enough, despite it being the apex of good sense to offer your resignation should a work colleague be sacked for throttling the old fun stick on company time, David didn’t fall on his sword following Green’s rather enforced departure. This presented somewhat of a problem for what was, at the time, the prevailing narrative – it being that Davis was simply looking for the best way to abandon ship before it careers off the face of the Earth. It just didn’t seem to fit, so what else could our erudite man of mystery be up to?

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Oh look, it’s the broken clock’s time to shine.

For your answer to that poser, you need to strip away the polish and other assorted artifice to look at Mr Davis in the simplest possible terms – does he want Brexit and what would he stand to gain from it?

As if his support for the Brexit cause pre-referendum didn’t provide a resounding enough answer to the first question, the fact that he does indeed have a considerable vested interest in Britain crashing out of the EU only strengthens the case.

It’s with that in mind the pieces all suddenly start falling into place; as with all Leavers standing to personally profit from Brexit and are faced with debate they lack the coherent argumentation for, he resorts to his last remaining card – distraction.

Given there’s growing unrest amongst British citizens that this Brexit malarkey isn’t quite what they had in mind back when they lent their support to it, it’s understandable that the Jacob Rees-Moggs of this world are getting a bit antsy. With dissatisfaction comes the need for debate and it’s a debate the Brexiteers simply don’t have the ammunition for. Even nauseatingly slick operators like Jacob have been reduced to gibbering simpletons when the perennial party pooper of reality decides to show up at the worst possible time.

Their only remaining tactic is simple – if the debate can’t be won then it must never be held in the first place. There’s no room for pride; the moment the gaze of scrutiny goes all Sauron on you there’s little choice – jettison what little of your dignity remains and pray your inquisitors take the bait, irrespective of how non-sequitur it may seem. Don’t believe me? Simply look at the intense scrutiny the current Brexit proposals are being subjected to. Or at least, were – before the silver fox decided to unleash another circus by pondering his resignation once more only for nothing to happen. Just like the last time, right? On a superficial level, it all seems somewhat pointless – until you’re hit by the sudden realisation that the most ridiculous version of Brexit possible has edged ever closer to the finish line while you were busy talking about something else.

So don’t be fooled by the blunderings of David Davis. He’ll lie, he’ll misdirect, he’ll even fall flat on his fucking face if he has to – all to keep us laughing as he surreptitiously delivers a burning bag of dog faeces through our letterbox.

And trust me, you won’t be laughing when it’s your turn to scrape up the shit.

 

Open letter to Jeremy Corbyn – The People’s Vote is perfectly compatible with your ideals

Dear Mr Corbyn,

How are things? Bet this recent sunshine has done wonders for that allotment of yours, though hopefully you haven’t dwindled away too many hours there – not least because a considerably more publicised letter than this one has made its way through your letterbox in the past few days.

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Give the people a say on their own future? What a novel idea.

Yes, it appears that those latte slurping, metropolitan elites are at it again – keeping the feeble proletariat down in the disenfranchised dirt by way of a diamond encrusted shoe. Except that they’re not – a fact which will become remarkably apparent if you listen to what they’re actually saying, rather than tuning into the witless bloviations of Nigel Farage.

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See? Seems reasonable enough now, doesn’t it? Which is precisely the reason why it’s a source of endless puzzlement that you, as yet at least, don’t seem particularly keen on the idea.

You see, I rather like you Jeremy. While I haven’t yet taken a gulp of the Corbyn kool-aid, I’m most certainly not amongst the unpardonable cretins who consider you the love child of Stalin and Fidel Castro. You seem a perfectly nice bloke – amiable, considerate and, above all, possessing a genuine desire to improve the quality of life for your fellow travellers. All that lovely shit of which I’m entirely onboard with.

However it is with some sense of regret that, despite the aforementioned superlatives, I find myself unable to lend you my vote. Sure, it’s only the one vote lost amidst a vast ocean of ballots up for grabs; but given that you’re a man who utilises sincerity as a key staple of his brand, positioning it neatly alongside your apparent quest to aid the forgotten in their bid to finally be heard, it’s a vote you should care about. Also, if one were to further extrapolate, the notion of a people’s vote on the final Brexit deal should be perfectly compatible with your aims – not to mention being a wonderfully effective means of wrenching power from the political elite you so despise and handing it to the people you dearly wish to represent.

Yet you continue to oppose such an idea, affording the proposal such disdain that you sacked Owen Smith the moment he publicly uttered his sympathies for such a cause.

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Being “for the many, not the few” is a key tenet of Labour party policy. Except when it isn’t.

Of course, there was semblance of logic in your decision – you can’t sell your manifesto without a united front standing behind it – but that’s somewhat of a red herring in this case. Under your stewardship, Labour have (for perhaps the first time in years) been able to create a clear distinction between themselves and those curmudgeonly old Tories – at least when it comes to the prevailing narrative. You’re not merely content to just be the party for the people, you yearn to be the party of the people – hence why your steadfast reluctance to even entertain the idea of a final Brexit vote isn’t just befuddling, it’s entirely antithetical to your aspirations.

Now you could very find yourself retreating to the confines of the politicians playbook at this point, trotting out the groan inducing mantra of “the people have already spoken – they voted to leave” and yes, that is indeed true – they did vote to leave. However, failing to acknowledge the vast wealth of nuance that goes along with such a proclamation is the undoing of many a man’s credibility and it would sadden me to see yourself, a man of obvious good character, fall victim to the horrendously binary trappings of the Farage school of thought.

Not least because the man’s clearly an idiot:

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You might not get another vote on Brexit, but Nigel is happy for you to dump dead fish in a river.

That said, there was a brief glitch in the matrix when Nigel rather bizarrely called for a second referendum himself – before quickly changing his tune once more, going as far as to claim he never actually said the words that millions saw him utter on live television. As I said, Nigel’s a man who indulges in idiocy with apparent impunity – though there is a certain, rather disheartening irony to the fact that, if only for a brief flicker of time, Nigel Farage was more for giving people a voice than you are.

Not that I’m putting you anywhere near Farage on the Disingenuous Pissweasels leader board; please don’t think that of me – though I do implore you to listen to what those voices are actually saying. Despite what your Eurosceptic comrades may tell you, they’re not all clamouring for a Viagra charged Brexit while erecting picket fences across the entire coastline – there are many disquieted murmurs out there if you’re willing to seek them out.

While this letter may have come across as adversarial at times, it remains addressed to yourself in perfectly good faith – and, for the record, I do consider you a man of integrity and honest intentions. Yet I simply can’t clamber on board your bandwagon given the stance you currently subscribe to – even if it is heading to the most happening music festival of all time.

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I hope John McDonnell plays the album version of ‘Let’s lynch Esther McVey’. The single cut was rubbish.

Honestly Jeremy, there really is no reason to oppose a people’s vote – especially if using your own ideals as a baseline. The naysayers might be insistent but they’re not infallible. This isn’t about blocking Brexit, nor is it about undermining the “will of the people” – it’s simply a chance for those very same people to make a final, informed decision on a question they were posed two years prior with minimal information. That’s all there is to it at its very core.

When all’s said and done, you perhaps said it best yourself: leadership isn’t just about talking, it’s about listening too – and what sense does it make to listen to a previously uninformed electorate as if their word were gospel if you’re just going to close off your ears the moment they start putting the pieces together?

So come on Jeremy. Clamber out of that allotment, dust yourself down and get to work putting power back in the hands of the citizens you value so highly; by backing a people’s vote for the many, not just the few.