• 24 Jun

    The Fox in the Henhouse: Boris Johnson Will Be Our Prime Minister

    I continue to watch from across the old sea as my country collapses in on itself. Weird times. Strange days.

    Three years ago, when we had the chance to stop Brexit, we failed. Even those who canvassed so aggressively to leave looked as surprised as us ‘remoaners’ when the results came in. Gove, Johnson and Farage stumbled out, blinking into the morning light in utter bewilderment.

    They tapped into the anti-establishment malcontent, patriotic impotence and paranoid xenophobia that had been brewing among the British population following 2008’s banking crisis and years of subsequent austerity, and their barrage of bluster and bullshit actually convinced some people this might dig us out of whatever hole they perceived us all to be in. Well, look at us all now.

    LOOK. AT. US.

    We thought it was bad then. It’s a fantasist’s utopia compared to the toxic clown convention currently seeping amidst Whitehall today.

    Three years on since we cracked open the Hellmouth, unleashing all these foul demons, and Britain still festers as the punchline of a truly abysmal joke. But here’s the topper. A ridiculous, scheming oaf is set to rule Albion.

    We’re about to witness the keys to the Kingdom being handed over to a self-serving shaved ape who lacks the charm or grace to see that he lacks both charm and grace.

    A coiffured suet pudding whose existence is so rarified and exclusive, he equates human suffering with not having that fifth helping of Sasquatch steak and mermaid caviar.

    A conniving boar-bear chimera who mistakes stubborn tenacity for guiding principles, bare-faced mendacity for political acumen and cheap charisma for intellectual savvy.

    A fair-weather politician who switches his views and policies at the drop of his topper to manipulate whomever he is trying to either bully into submission or woo under the jizz-splattered sheets of his extra-marital bedchamber.

    To call him a swivel-eyed loon would be an insult to swivel-eyed loons; he is a dog chasing cars.

    He just wants to clutch his Golden Snitch, all consequences be damned. A glorified journalist with a nose for popular rhetoric and received opinion, which makes him more dangerous than the facade of public buffoonery might suggest.

    At some point in his bafflingly-fascinating life he decided to imitate his political idol Sir Winston ‘it’s complicated’ Churchill.

    He thought he could position himself as the determined British Bulldog, chugging down Blitz spirit as he bulldozes his way through to the hearts and minds of the people and into the hallway of Number Ten.

    After the Bus Debacle and the very public professional evisceration, we all thought he failed. Then This happened. He’s only gone and done it. He’s only gone and bloody done it.

    Despite all those lies, gaffs, tricks and blunders, it’s actually happening.

    The worst part? When this overgrown homunculus lumbers into the top job – which he inevitably will – he’ll feel utterly vindicated in his self conviction. That he was right all along. That he was destined to be Prime Minister.

    Fuck all you naysayers and fuck all your slandering, he proved them all wrong. He’s reached the top of the tree and you know he will only go down swinging. And all we can do is watch this unholy shitshow unfold in hideous realtime.

    There is nothing we can do except witness this monstrous arsehole take the reins and charge the stallions over the precipice.

    This is why I drink a lot of gin.

  • 25 Jul

    Russians, snacks and china tat

    More proof emerged this week that we are evolving as a species: Russian president Dmitry Medvedev has signed a bill that officially classifies beer as alcohol. Well thank God for that. After all, if we’re honest none of us were sure.

    Yeah we’d all heard the rumours. But that’s all they were. No concrete facts. To some the very notion of alcohol in beer has been consigned to myth and legend – a spook story used by parents to frighten the children. Well not any more.

    It must be a great comfort for the hundred and forty million odd Russians that they’ve got this genius running the show. And he’s clearly on a roll. Early reports have come in that President Medvedev will address the Russian people next week to tell them trees are made of wood and the sea is wet.


    I have come to the conclusion that the vending machine where I am currently working is not my friend. It is a spiteful monster that wears me down in a mean-spirited process of attrition.

    Every day it’s the same. I come into the office each morning with the best intentions. I make myself a tea, glance at the vending machine and scoff at its audacity. How dare this arrogant contraption think it can break me with its sugar-filled trinkets of deceit. I don’t need to rely on it for a snack fix. I’ve brought in an apple.

    But come four in the afternoon, several hours after I failed to enjoy my pathetic apple, it’s a different story. I’m wandering around the office like a crack-riddled homeless person, asking people if they can spare any change so I can gorge myself on chocolate and crisps. I’ve snapped. And it knows. The vending machine is laughing at me. Every single day.


    Who buys those hideous china figurines advertised on the back of magazines? Will somebody please own up. Clearly these foul baubles are being bought because they keep on selling them.

    For only fifty pounds you too can be the proud owner of a delightful porcelain cat dressed as a Victorian scullery maid. Or a timeless ceramic gravy boat emblazoned with a horse standing next to a duck. And if you buy two or more you’ll receive a pair of tiny china shoes and a miniature English country cottage absolutely free.

    Who looks at an inaccurate image of a member of the Royal Family badly painted onto a dish and thinks, yes, that gaudy piece of tat will really tie the room together?

    Commemorative plates are the worst. Is it company policy to hire artists who can’t paint? Saw an advert the other week for a plate claiming to have Lady Diana’s face on it, but it looked like Rod Hull.

    Thing is, if there actually was a Rod Hull commemorative plate on the market, people would buy it. Which is probably what he would have wanted.