Gil Scott-Heron chanted “the revolution will not be televised,” bloody right too, it’ll all be on Facebook no doubt. Videos captioned “what the BBC aren’t showing us,” go viral, even if it’s a link to a BBC video. I should stick to posting my all-time favourite album covers and annoying others by nominating them to do likewise. C’mon it’ll be fun, oh yeah, and China are committing mass genocide BTW, or is that just Western propaganda? No one knows for sure, The Beano being the only trustworthy journal. Still, I like “Dare” by the Human League, how about you? Yesh, u too? First world problem vacuumed.
If you get a friend request from me, don’t accept; no scam, I’m just unfriendly, apparently. Selfish, some say; just doing my job, lady. It’s a sign of the times.
Is there an app to tell us we live in a false economy of unachievable dreams and aspirations? Or should it be just common bleeding sense? They never even put a warning label on the country, something to consider at least? Warning: Ticking Timebomb, do not touch.
While our leaders guide us down this ever-decreasing circle of doom, we seem to either accept it blindly like it was a Facebook friend request from a Natalie Portman look-alike after no strings fun, as we joyfully click on her outside link, or else we shake our snowflake heads and share an opposing thread; look at the glorious JC’S charity shop sandals; sure someone will assume he’s being antipatriotic wearing those, while okaying Theresa, as she shows off the diamonds on the souls of her shoes, got a poppy on though. To organise a protest is to promote it on Facebook anyway, hmm; click “interested” to show you’re against the regime, but to start painting a placard is a step too far.
Soz, didn’t respond to your revolt event Watt Tyler, I dunno why, but my phone was on airplane mode; the chance of me being able to afford the petrol to make it to a fucking airport is slim, let alone go anywhere on one. Universal Credit, what’s universal about it other than we all go hungry?
We’ve succumbed if we wanted to or not, sterling crashing on the stock market and prices for basics going through the roof doesn’t seem to put people off the idea of barricading ourselves in, provided we get our country back so Tommy Robinson and his mates can spurt racist bullshit without fear of persecution, so we can take our borders back, and other bookshops too, and we will build Auschwitz on England’s green and pleasant land. Oh, quit nit-picking, you silly re-moaner; don’t you care about Britain? No, course not, that’s why we moan, dipshit.
Brexit had a point worthy of discussing in my opinion, but caging ourselves in with ferocious, selfish beasts wasn’t part of it, do I look like Steve Irwin? The NHS will be a fleeting illusion by the time they’ve savaged us and we need more than a plaster. Young conservatives got pissed at your expense last month and scrawled their intentions for our health service on their shirts, and we ignored it, else think oh, that’s disgraceful, but only get as far as sharing on our fucking Facebook page; come the revolution and I might add it to Instagram too, amidst pouting teenage girl selfies with nothing better to do, cos there is nothing better to do.
No point hiding the fact May was laughing in our reedy, sore faces; she’s fucking dancing the dancing queen; young and sweet, I ask you? That’s wasn’t a dance, it was a gloat; one step away from opening the palm of her hand revealing grain for us to squabble over the spoils, while she jangles her jewellery like Jimmy Saville entering Broadmoor; he was a Tory, wasn’t he? She’s no Beyoncé, it’s going to bite her in her shakin’ booty very soon, her screw-loose cabinet looking more like MFI than Harrods, may as well stuff our opinions on Brexit, throw away this divide and rule trap, unite and get these bastards off their seats.
How far can the pompous English be pushed? If this was another country, another era, there’d be a civil uprising.
Every move she attempts to bust I shudder another foreign nurse or doctor is packing up and heading for the Chunnel; can you blame them? The only Doctor left will be our liberal incarnation of Dr Who, and come March 2019 and she’ll probably be cited as an ex-Russian spy who mysteriously kicked the bucket from a bottle of Odour le Novichok. BBC act all leftie for entertainment but it’s an Orwellian future with Newsnight; England will prevail.
Got to get a Russian nerve agent in your town just to be able to park for free.
Ha, and if you thought I’d stopped the No Surprises column, there’s a surprise for you; it’s been stuck at the traffic lights in Tory heaven. Maybe this column has nicotine in it, I’m trying to give it up, but on a bad day, just gotta write a whinge for you to laugh at; go on, giggle at my anger, sadists. Chuckle at my anguish, titter at my troubles, nobody gives a toss anymore; back to square one. I’ll be honest, it’s the closure of this column, as it’s supposed to be satire and nothing is fucking funny anymore.
Life is getting so hard even stinging nettles deliberately grow where there’s no doc leaves.
We don’t need another rant, another sarcastic bastard. We made more of a fuss because roadworks made us ten minutes late then we did when Wiltshire Council threatened to close our education facilities. I observed the posts, shouting, swearing and blaming Amanda Attwood, as if she’s the high priest of all matters Devizes infrastructure. She kicked you off, nobody’s fault but yours, toys too pricey to throw out of prams these days.
So, you take to the multitude of other local Facebook groups to shout and curse her name, as if your world has crumbled around you. As if you’ve some God given right to hurl abuse at people in the group she created, as if as creator of a group of over 1000 she has now ceased all prerogatives over it. Else you start a new local group, call it “the issues with the issues with the issues of the Devizes Issue;” you could do that waiting in the traffic.
Ah yes, you can see it now, unfolding before you, billions will request to join a place where you can type “big jobs,” and not be punished. Though they don’t join, cos they’ve joined thirty similar others already, and the group fades into obscurity unless you can find the next viral meme of Boris Johnson popping a letter into the eyelet of a burka before Teeder does.
Whitehead smirks; “Attwood takes the shit for me ha-ha.” It’s the new blame culture trickling down from Whitehall to Devizes Tory Hub.
Some donkey actually commented on one of the killion posts about road works in Devizes that Claire Perry should step in; They. Actually. Said. That. She doesn’t care if her actions cause earthquakes, you think she gives a sausage sandwich if you are half hour late for work?
Thing is, I reckon we enjoy other’s pain and tribulations, makes us feel better about ourselves. We long for our therapist to stop beating about the bush when we unload our deepest psychological worries, we yearn for them to reply, “no, sorry, nothing I can do for you pal, you’re fucking mental.” My mum pays for someone to tell her off if she eats too much, yeah, “fat club” she calls it, Slimming World to you and me. “Can’t eat that cake,” she gives it, “they’ll tell me off.” She pays for that shit. I laugh at her misfortune, under my breath. Then I help her out, as any good son would; I take the cake, ha-ha.
I’m so evil now too, the wind of change drifting me with it; Brexit/remain do what the fuck you like, you will anyway; that’s democracy not powerful media persuasion, subtly painted on the side of a big red bus. I just lounge and watch Spongebob Squarescrotum, trying not to contemplate our fate. Couldn’t care less anymore, I’m numb, about anything. Used to put milk in after brewing my tea, now I just chuck it in before the hot water. You can quote me on Facebook saying how I like my tea, the rest, I’ll sue your ass.
Meanwhile another overpriced pub shuts, the social hub now virtual; “Joe Blogs likes this;” he doesn’t have to put his hand in his pocket for the next round. Teenagers ask “okay Siri, what is meant by the term ‘round’ in a social environment?”
Nobody got the spare cash for a plastic lollipop, let alone a round of drinks. You’ve uncultured yourself, well done you, abandoned uniqueness, succumbed to Spoons and now you can drink twelve pints for the cost of ten in pub with character; ten pints hardly touches the sides, is there a Europe tribute down the bin? Yeah, the Final Countdown, da-da-da-da-da.
Oh, the irony, we’re heading somewhere but it ain’t Venus, it’s a penis, with the face of Jacob Reese-Mog, the Andrew Ridgley of xenophobic politicians, with a protective army of brainwashed twats who thought Romper Stomper was about a soft play centre. The Willy of the people, heart on your sleeve? He’s one big wizard’s sleeve.
And while we’re on sleeves, why not get a tattoo? The whole fucking sleeve and try not to think how others are sleeping rough. Daddy will buy you that Fiat Punto, you’ve got to stick a shitley rendered eyeball motif on your bicep. Flex it whenever you see a foreigner applying for a job you wouldn’t stand to do anyway. Bloody homeless camping in a graveyard, do they know no shame? Might have done prior to clearing them out of the woods so we can all hang dog poo bags from trees there.
And breathe, thank the heavens for small mercies, that that brazen wanker has written his final shite No Surprises column, cos it’s not funny anymore, any subject he could cover is so damn dark and disturbing it satirises itself; The president of America, look at him. I rest my case.