No Surprises Living in Devizes; Returns for a Last Local Political Conclusion

I was delighted to have met all of our local candidates and interview them prior to this election thingy……… wha? Missed one you say? Yes, I must be terribly bias, just like real newspapers. I favour to call it common sense, and I have reasons….

Through all this political point scoring one thing is certain, the Tories don’t listen to Bob Marley. The quote “you can fool some people sometimes, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time,” springs to mind. Yet much as I love the outpourings of this reggae legend, I overlooked “never let a politician grant you a favour, they will want to control you forever;” but it was only a cuppa at New Society, honest, Bob!

Despite the notion to keep Devizine as politically free as possible, the importance of this election is paramount. It must be, otherwise political parties wouldn’t risk exposing their blatant predisposed fabrications or vicious disingenuous methods; think the Conservative Party website posing as an independent fact-checking site. I asked Danny “do you believe in an election, campaigning parties should use whatever means necessary, no matter how deceitful, malicious or morally wrong?” No Answer.

The Cottingley Fairies photos fooled people a hundred and three years ago; We. Have. Photo-Shop. The ultimate question, how stupid does the propaganda wheel take us for? Did the knuckle-dragger who so poorly copy and pasted a picture of Jeremy Corbyn in his holiday shorts and I heart the IRA T-shirt onto an IRA funeral procession photo really think we’d be like, “he is not human, I’d wager he’s a demon; observe the way his t-shirt naturally creases yet the logo upon it doesn’t, witchcraft I tell ye!”


Over on a new Facebook Devizes debate group, which I refuse to join for my own sanity, but for some unknown reason frequently pops up on my newsfeed, a bunch known for having a hard-on for Boris are suggesting the photo of the four-year-old boy on the floor of the Leeds hospital is fake. Despite the hospital apologised to the family and made a statement, Tory fake news-bots rushed to their laptops to perpetrate and spread this despicable lie. Across the superhighway fruit bats copied and pasted the falsehood, and the mainstream media followed it unchecked. Neither example can do the Conservatives any favours, you’d think.

Yet that’s the mentality, if you cry every piece of exposure to the right-wing’s corrupt agenda is fake, what will ever convince you we need to make a change? Maybe the hospital is fake, and its staff, maybe the ex-army solider living in a cardboard box is fake, maybe cardboard is fake. Fake, fake, fake. Show a picture of the shoes of the victims of the holocaust, and they’ll cry fake; they just nipped round the back of Freeman Hardy Willis on bin day. Dangerous juvenile behaviour Orwell introduced us to in 1949. Nineteen Eighty-Four was supposed to be a warning, not a self-help guide.


Therefore, I felt if I didn’t say something my brain would explode from Facebook newsfeed overload; a miniscule detonation, obviously. But social media is catered to taste isn’t it? For me Labour is winning, pretend to be the opposition for a scroll or two and you’ll see a multitude gathering support for Boris; just a shame their grammar and spelling is illegible. Yet I say, I’ve genuinely enjoyed meeting the candidates; Emma of the Greens, Jo of Lib-Dem and Racheal of Labour…. Ah, you spotted it with your incredibly fine toothpick; clever so-and-so. Now you’ll screech political bias at me from your ivory towers, won’t you, oh sweet Tory town of mine?

There is one missing. Yeah, I know, right; all I can say in my defence is I tried. Danny Kruger seemed up for it, returned my message, and while I deliberated an angle he messaged again. Unlike the others, there was never to be a cuppa in the deal; Danny requested I emailed him some questions. I did, he never got back to me. His campaign publishes news of Danny gallivanting the downs, rapping to sure Conservative bets, but akin to sixth formers banned from questioning Boris at a school visit in case fifteen-years-olds had too taxing a question, he’s failed to address conflicting folk, visit Open Doors or the Food Bank; historically blue cushioned seat, does it matter? I asked Danny, “…perhaps others need persuading. Yet it’s a minority in this constituency, so does converting them matter to you, in such a safe seat?” and “how did you get the cushy number?!” No Answer; pattern emerging.

Thing is it’d have been no skin off my nose if he didn’t want to do it and told me so. Rather he opted to pretend he was up for it and stood me up, crying at the altar. This meant I had wasted precious free time deliberating questions which, incidentally, was far harder than the others. At first, I headlonged with the sensitive criticisms of the current government, then I considered it unfair to offload every problem onto this one guy, Boris’s buddy or no, I’m nice like that. I watered it down somewhat, but each time my frustration at the performance of said government got the better of me and so I decided, with careful wording, it was futile not to be direct.

I’ll tell no lie; it was playing on my mind. Danny Kruger is a far superior writer; articulate and educated. I thought he’d eat me for breakfast, so I started grinding over myself some black pepper in preparation; proper Waitrose stuff, as he’s doubtless accustomed to. Politicians rarely get time for a full breakfast though, before rushing to parliament for a snooze.

Given he had no desire to meet me for a cuppa, as the others did, in the real world, I guess my deepest fear was he may attempt to infiltrate my dreams and make me into sausages there. Wishing to get it over and done, and in full knowledge if I could extract him from my dream, he would have human vulnerabilities and could be destroyed, I set the scene in my mind prior to sleeping; a disused cattle market in Devizes (no, not the old Royal Oak.) Dressed in my best Scooby Doo jimmy-jams, trembling, I sauntered the abandoned building in a smoky haze. But you know what? Even kipping in a bath of baked beans, he couldn’t be tempted to turn up.

Banter aside, and in fairness I did get a standard letter, signed by Danny but from Bojo’s office. It stated “we can end the doom and gloom” by reaching a majority government, the new excuse, as after nine years at the helm, “Labour did it,” looked implausible, not for the want of trying. I mean, you ask any Tory why they intend to vote Conservative, rather than quote a policy they’ll snap, parrot-fashion into a rant about how filthy Jeremy Corbyn’s vest is. Yet a majority government isn’t democracy, it’s totalitarianism. Given the manifesto claims; “Better hospitals, safer streets, improved schools; let’s unlock Britain’s Future,” against their current record; education spending slashed by £7bn since 2011. Claims of 20,000 extra police, when approximately 21,000 have been cut. The National Audit Office found Conservatives have not built a single starter home out of the 200,000 it promised. The promise to build forty new hospitals only amounted to repairing six. The promise to ban fracking was thrown across the media, the immediate U-turn was quietly pushed in, I asked Danny why, and “if the current manifesto is really intended to be implicated, why hasn’t these things begun during the nine years in government?” No Answer; pattern apparent.

“Last election Labour was slammed for having a candidate not local, rather from a faraway land called Swindon, this year you’ve been shipped in from London by the Bojo himself, even upsetting local Conservatives. This year the tables have turned, Racheal and Jo are very much locally based. Do you think this’ll make a difference to the result?” Asked him that too; yeah, you guessed it, no answer. Unfortunately, Danny not be one of us, ewe; he’s not proper job. He’s never fallen out of the Bin on a Saturday night and puked kebab meat and chips on the towpath, neither has he been kicked off The Devizes Issue for no apparent reason.

It takes many years to get fully accepted by the locals, yet fasten a blue rosette onto a dog turd and the insular will vote for it. Indoctrination here is a process which can be sped up by climbing the drainpipe at Roses and mounting the sit-on lawnmower displayed on its facia. If Danny Kruger had the decency to ask, I’d have gladly pointed out the store, informed him to Google ganderflanking, and bought him a Barbour jacket, so he’d at least look like one of us. His knowledge of our area is no better than one who attempts to turn right off Dunkirk Hill at Shane’s Castle.

My humble email was prior to the supposed exposure of the real reason he was drafted in, to “fall on his sword” for his buddy Boris should he make a mess of Uxbridge. That trustworthy Gazelle & Herod claimed Danny poo-pooed the idea and said the Daily Mail was being “mischievous.” Ha, they do that though, don’t they? Funny, like the time they alleged JK Rowling had falsely accused her former church of bigotry, or the story about a hotel restaurant in Nigeria serving human flesh, and ha-ha, when they accused Israel of intentionally opening dams to flood the Gaza Strip, or factually hysterical headlines like “Sold out! Flights and buses full as Romanians and Bulgarians head for the UK,” and “Is the changing role of women in our society behind the rise in autism?” Very mischievous, I’d rather call it sexist and racist propaganda, but whatever floats your boat. So, anyhoo; could be false I guess; smarmy Telegraph journalist.


I was saddened to learn Boris isn’t jetting over to our constituency, I confess I think it’d be great if he did, it’d give me no end of satirical ammo. The only advantage if Danny wins is it won’t inflate Claire Perry ego. Imagine our horror of her reasoning that we voted for her due to her popularity and not just her allegiance to the nasty party? When Danny was whisked over, the local campaign leaflet had a bold statement he was “our new MP.” Due to social media outcry it was quickly changed. “A rather audacious and arrogant assumption,” I asked Danny, “or a plain phraseology error? As a journalist and speech writer yourself, shouldn’t this error have been picked up prior to publication?” No answer, yet you and I know the silent majority will blindly vote blue, so it’s only an incy fib.

With all the candidates who did give me their time, one thing was unified, that this current government is not the Conservative party of yore. “A vote for Tory means we leave in January no matter what, deal, or no deal. Why January? Isn’t this, coincidently, the same month the EU promises to curb tax loopholes for offshore accounts?” Danny’s saying nought. Proof it doesn’t have your best interests at heart, unless you’re a billionaire. Not a billionaire, are you? Then do not vote for them.

If you’ve succumbed to media persuasion and retch at the thought of voting for JC, then you should note I liked the cut of the Lib-Dems’ jib too. I say this because, ah, well, this totalitarianism concept scares me; documents leaked suggesting meetings have been had and deals are on the table for US privatisation of the NHS. Some have wafted a history of always wanting to do this meme in my face, and expressed the wonky opinion it’ll never get pushed through. With a dictatorship it could, and with Brexit it’ll have to. Ah, who remembers the young conservatives debauched party photos, where they scribed “fuck the NHS,” on their shirts? Funny!


The working classes might just manage to pay their meds bill, or eat, but not both, as it is in the good ol’ US of A. I asked Danny, “yet Boris continues to deny this. Thatcher would turn in her grave; if she intended to do this, she would take the attitude; I’m doing this, like it or lump it. Wouldn’t honesty be a better approach? And if so, I thank you, but why are we selling off the NHS?” Starting to see why he didn’t answer me now.

I mean, another question I put to Danny, “the government is accused of a dereliction of duty, after admitting that it has no plans to carry out an assessment of the economic impact of the prime minister’s Brexit deal. Without the propaganda baloney, man to man; why will the government not consider a final vote on the issue, for if it’s truly “the will of the people,” leavers have no need to worry that the result will change?” Honestly, I tried to be nice, but Brexit makes my blood boil and no party is putting the real vital issue of the environment first. In an ideal world we all should vote Green. Doesn’t matter, we can sort all that out in 2050 when you’ll be delighted to be swimming off the coast of Potterne; being a coastal resort will be great for local business.


The election’s overexposure has done one positive thing, bored me silly. I like being silly, let it be known. Yep, I feel we’ve lost our Britishness in taking politics far too seriously. It’s as depressing as the thought of losing Channel 4 because it didn’t laugh at Boris Johnson’s hilarious and PC letterbox gag. Even the meme started out as a bit of fun, now we’re basing our entire political opinion on the one with the most incorrect grammar. Old Jean Luc Picard only facepalmed over Borg, not Brexit. That said, I have more faith in the meme as a trustworthy source of information than the British press.

Oh, bring back the good old days when we ripped the piss out of all of them and went about our day chuffed with the knowledge of a job well done. If James Gillray could see us bickering now, he’d turn in his grave. There could never be enough rubber in the world to make Spitting images puppets of all the lying twats in politics these days, and it’s a shame about Rik Mayall; he could’ve sued Boris Johnson for plagiarism.

Come on, it’s high time we started taking politics as the complete piffle and laughable shambles that it is, and unite in mocking and caricaturing them with grotesque and offensive material, not the other way around. See, while we squabble it out and threaten one another on local Facebook groups with only 15 members, they’re laughing at us, guzzling vintage bottles of chateau le Pin, paid for by us. They don’t care that you care, so stop caring and find your sense of humour, for without it, it really doesn’t matter some donkey’s kidneys if we leave the EU or remain, it doesn’t matter if we sell the NHS to Trump and die a horrid drawn out death because we deported every doctor and nurse, or starved because no English man is brave enough to pick fruit when it’s raining, yet thinks they’ve the bollocks to cope with a return of the blitz, because without our sense of humour we’re no better than a bratwurst in a tutu.

They wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, because they think you’re stupid. They Tweet and announce blatantly that they think you are stupid, about how much they hate you, and then you vote for them, proving them right, despite their PA told them they had to apologise. We are stupid. Stupid for letting them get away with it and bottling up our outrage unless we’re on Twitter. What kind of shit, shabby show are we letting them get away with?


The time has come to give up the seriousness and stop feeding these egotistical attention seekers. Let them do whatever the fuck they want, they will anyway no matter how many toys you throw from your Facebook posting pram, they’ve tax-free offshore accounts to uphold, no point in trying to find their compassionate side by thrusting a famished baby meme their way, not when they’ve a luncheon to attend. We cannot win, so I suggest we start taking the piss out of them in the most unflattering, cruel and spiteful method possible, or all that was once great about Great Britain is truly lost.

Thick skinned are they, that it’s pointless to lightly smear them; a strawberry milkshake just washes off. They will not break until every last man, woman and child has slaughtered their ego trip with a machine gun of mirth and wit so nasty as to curdle the very milk of their cosmetically veneered milky teeth, and make them spew the silver spoons from their mouths.

Viva le funny revolution. Do it now, take the piss out of your politician; your country needs you.

© 2017-2019 Devizine (Darren Worrow)
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