PorkBalls, Blairpologists and Monkey Poo

It's been a while, etc. But enough of that. Welcome to hell. Hello!

As the UK teeters on the edge of financial ruin, and the populace seems to now be leaning so far to the right that the country might actually crash into the fucking Netherlands, we can at least console ourselves with the fact that Gammonface is on his last day, and we will no longer have to put up with a regressive, right wing, elitist and dangerous Prime Minister. Instead, we're going to get a regressive, right wing, dangerous and elitist Prime Minister. And he's left the country in a divided and bitter mess, the scamp.

Gammonface, or PorkBalls, finally got that Broken Britain that he so craved when he was first elected. Or something like that. He kept on about it, anyway. I wasn't really listening.

Yep, the UK's falling to bits. All of the Brexit leaders (Pob, BoJo the Narcissistic Clown, multi-millionaire common man Nigel something) have scarpered, whilst their lies still stick to the walls like monkey poo. So much monkey poo. No matter how hard you scrub, no matter how many of us try to jetwash the simian lie-nuggets, full of nuts, mashed banana and thinly-veiled racism, people are reluctant to see the truthy walls underneath, thinking that a faecal Farage masterpiece is easier on the eye. Soon, we won't even be able to afford Brillo pads, as our currency is about level with Post-It notes at the moment. But at least the EU can't fund projects in some of our most deprived areas now, eh? The fuckers. How dare they?!



Just as we're all fatigued from the devastation of Brexit, we get the bittersweet joy of Cameron deciding to not be bothered to deal with the chaos he's inflicted on the country. This triggered the Tory leadership battle, with the party tearing itself apart. An ideal time for the Opposition to destroy them. But, the PLP being the PLP, they thought they'd give the Tories an even playing field, which was very generous and sporting of them.

Anyway, back to the Tories. BoJo was favourite (a phrase that looks bizarre and doesn't quite work), but the twin events of being stabbed in the back by Pob, and realising that his I'm-going-to-be-PM positioning in supporting Brexit whilst publicly not really a few months ago had blown up in his clown face, he decided he couldn't be bothered to sort out his fucking mess either, and was last seen in a really shit reboot of Happy Days.



Everyone was leaving everything, even if they weren't in it. Fleeing responsibility is the new black amongst the out-of-touch political elite.



But Pob sprang back, lacking the upper body strength to get his knife back out from between BoJo's bumbling shoulder blades but chipper, lovable and charismatic as ever. Also, a ritual was performed involving a salt pentagram and mongoose blood, and Liam Fox rematerialised in our plain of reality. Realising that not enough of the animal kingdom was represented in this Contest of Champions, Stephen Crabb also threw his hat into the ring, and his car keys into a bowl, looking like a character from a Kenneth Grahame cheese nightmare.



And then, someone else. Andrea something. It turned out that her credentials were a bit suspect, but since nobody really knew who she was, it probably wouldn't have been spotted anyway.




And this one was there too. 



While all this rubbish brewed in the background, and the country waited with baited breath for an even more right-wing government, the Chilcot Inquiry finally showed up, and was completed before George R.R. Martin could release The Winds of Winter. Season 7 of Game of Thrones will be following the latter few volumes of Chilcot instead, so we may finally get to the scene where we find out what secret notes Cersei Lannister was passing to George W. Bush, and where Blair sits on the Iron Throne, but gets a really big sword up his arsehole.


This led to lots of parliamentary Blairpologists trying to downplay their culpability, whilst Blair appeared on TV, his rictus grin spitting out no apology. It was everyone else's fault, you see. Everyone but Our Tony. Jeremy Corbyn apologised on behalf of the Labour Party, which Chief BBC Propagandist Laura Kuenssberg probably twisted into an admittance of guilt.

Back to our favourite right-wing zealots. The first round of voting saw Liam Fox lose out. If Fox and Hunt had campaigned together, they would have been leapt upon by the Tories. Crabb dropped out, after being caught finding that sexting is really moreish, and then Pob spat on his final TV screen.






Andrea Leadsom valiantly destroyed her career by saying something crass about having kids and yah-boo-Theracist-May-doesn't, and within a day or two, she was gone, and we were stuck with another PM without a mandate of their own, but with a really impressive record of human rights abuse, and with an extremely popular policy ready to launch where you'd better delete your fucking browsing history sharpish. The Tories were still intact, and this was largely due to the Parliamentary Labour Party being opportunistic shits.

Whilst the Tories pulled together like wasps around a cadaver, over in the Labour Party, Hilary Benn called Jeremy Corbyn a twat or summat to his face, and his leader had no choice to sack him on the grounds of being a disgrace compared to his father. This led to clearly spontaneous, on-the-hour resignations from the Shadow Cabinet, coincidentally keeping them in the news, all on the basis that Corbyn had failed to win the Remain argument, which he didn't. But still, the spontaneous, unplanned and unchoreographed resignations happened hourly, just as they'd been planning and choreographing for months. One thing led to nothing, so did another, and finally, a candidate was chosen to sacrifice her political career to clear the way for others to contend. Step forward 4th-place runner-up of last year's Labour Deputy Leader contest.

Although I don't think she's quite got the hang of it yet. Anyway, she's awful. So awful, that you can only laugh at the sheer mess she's made of her presentation so far, ably mimicking the Blairite soundbites that have been scripted for her by... someone. I can only guess who, but I'm pretty sure their name's an anagram of Mean Old Serpent. Her awfulness isn't exclusive to her ham-fisted leadership campaign. She has an appalling voting record, voting for the Iraq war, voting against an inquiry into it, abstaining against the welfare bill... she's a disgrace.

So, here we are. We're having a leadership contest in the Labour Party, and we've got a vile new Prime Minister. She's chosen her cabinet already, and has filled it with like-minded people.



The thing is, the Tories are no different to the rebelling PLP members. Both howl and bang tables at meetings (the Tories with May, the PLP with Kinnock, both in the same week), and both are in it to win it, no matter the cost. They're a bit like football teams; no real difference in what they do, they're ultimately aiming to win by playing the same game as each other. We really do need an alternative to this shower of shit.

Bah.

Anyway, back tomorrow with some Fun May Facts. Ta ta!

Class Wars: Askew Hope

Last week, the BBC released a revised class structure. They didn't feel that the current three-tier one defined people well enough, so their patronising 7-tier structure, based on things ranging from who you're friends with, what your hobbies are and how many people called 'Colin' you know was designed to neatly categorise the British Public like cattle.

The Tories aren't happy with this, and want it resimplified, so have devised their own multiple choice test to seperate the posh from the plebs. See how you do! Post in the comments your outcome.

https://testmoz.com/140607

And, taken from the pages of Young Tory Fun, here's something to start 'em young:

Speaking of bloated Tories, here's something I noticed recently about two of them...

And finally...

Take care, one and all. Don't let them beat us.

Irony-free outbursts from Russell Howard fans

As I've not been anywhere near here for a while, I found a couple of comments awaiting moderation that have been sat there doing nothing. I thought I'd share them with you. These are aimed at myself and anyone else who commented on previous posts about Russell Howard (Lucky 13 and Aaargh! It's the Dystopian Advent Calendar 2010), who inspires a baffling degree of violent hero-worship in some of his fans.

Firstly, we have Matthew Burn, who tried posting the same comment twice from behind the safety of his computer screen/keyboard before realising that they have to be moderated first, the silly billy.

"Jealous scum... The lot of you... Would publish something more creative and witty but I really couldn't be fucked with the likes of you... Enjoy the safety of being behind a computer screen/keyboard pussies..."

Thanks, Matthew! Finally for now, we have someone who wished to remain Anonymous, which is a shame; being behind the safety of his computer screen/keyboard, he or she needn't be so shy amongst friends.

"You're all sad pathetic cunts. You need to get a life instead of coming on the internet to insult him. Go fuck yourselves"

Ho, ho! Wise words indeed, Anonymous! And thanks for coming on the internet to add your thoughts.

Hopefully, I'll have more to share with you in the future. These are fun people.

ITV in 'praise' shock

It's been a while. Hello.

So, what's new? Well, I'm still getting abuse from Russell Howard fans, who have an insane level of hero-worship for him, so nothing new there. Other than that, business as usual.

Apart from one thing. A few weeks ago, I praised ITV.

I know, I couldn't believe it either.

To celebrate 30 years of Children's ITV, the CITV channel ran an Old Skool Weekend, and as you can imagine, I was a bit bloody happy about it. For all of its many, many, many faults, ITV was responsible for some of the best children's television during the 80s and 90s, eclipsing Auntie Beeb almost entirely. It was generally more anarchic, less staid, and tapped into the psyche of kids in a way that Peter Simon's Double Dare could only dream of.

"Where am I?"
"You're in a room."

A few things became obvious during these two days of brilliance. Firstly, child actors used to be less drama schooly, to coin a phrase; they were believably normal kids, bereft of the plague of jazz-hands camera-mugging that infects the airwaves nowadays, such as Dani Harmer with her unfeasibly large, orange face. We were treated to two episodes each of Woof!, from opposite ends of the show's run,  Children's Ward from around 2006 (by which time the general quality of CITV had diminished somewhat), Knightmare (from the last series where they started pissing around with the formula, brought in fledgling CGI and tried to make it look like an Amiga role playing game), and the wonderful Press Gang, Steven Moffat's first television work. How jarring to hear mild swearing and to see a dead drug user in a children's programme. The late, lamented Cosgrave-Hall's Dangermouse and Count Duckula, the 90s remake of The Tomorrow People, and the very bleak Dramarama, a children's Twilight Zone made on a children's department budget, the episode 'Back to Front' being a highlight of the whole weekend, with a very dark, downbeat ending. Largely superb stuff overall.

I have no idea who two of these people are.

However, how do you choose from three decades of programming to cram into a microscopic schedule? There were some notable omissions, like Your Mother Wouldn't Like It and its spin-off, Palace Hill. Round the Bend was absent, as were Bad Influence and Telebugs, and seeing as it was on a weekend, an episode of Number 73, Get Fresh, Ghost Train or Motormouth wouldn't have gone amiss. A couple of episodes of Fraggle Rock ended up as filler material, and it was the US version that was never shown over here, being as the localised UK version starring Fulton Mackay and John Gordon-Sinclair has been wiped from the master tapes, just like the Beeb used to do with Doctor Who. Seems like a literal waste of time to me.

The choices did seem a little odd at times. As I mentioned, Knightmare was represented by a couple of latter-day episodes rather than the early stuff when it was at its height of popularity and quality, and Press Gang was bookended by its first ever and last ever episodes. For nostalgia-seekers like me who found themselves getting drawn into the episodes, it's a tad cruel to deny us everything that happened in between.

And there's the problem. Facebook was awash with people of a certain age clamouring for more, talking over the whole weekend about their memories of these gems of broadcasting, but it ended as quickly as it started. That's it, no more. The following day's schedule on CITV just highlighted how utterly shit their modern day programming is, and how overlooked the entire era is. Nostalgia channels will show 'grown-up' shows from decades past, but there is a huge gap in the schedules for nostalgic children's channels.

When TV was good.

Still, kudos overall to ITV for daring to make this weekend possible, with entire episodes of both forgotten and fondly-remembered classics dominating the arse end of the channels list for a couple of days. If the BBC attempted anything like this, it would take the form of a 1-hour listings show on BBC Three narrated by Robert Webb, a countdown of brief clips interspersed by talking heads segments with Fearne Cotton, Jack Whitehall and Barney Harwood taking the piss out of, rather than celebrating, the shows. Credit where credit's due, for one brief weekend, innocence without irony won the day. More please.

Stu Hall's Letters From Canada #4

I have been living in this country for four years now, and there has been a perpetual bogeyman hiding in the shadows. I’ve never seen him. In fact, I’m not entirely convinced anyone has seen him, but he must exist because people whisper about him all the time. Who is this bogeyman? No, it’s not Prime Minister Harper. I’m talking about a bizarre meteorological event that Wikipedia describes as, “raindrops [that] become supercooled while passing through a sub-freezing layer of air … [that] freeze upon impact with any object they encounter”. It has a METAR code. I don’t know what a METAR code is, but it has one. I am talking about “freezing rain”. No, no. Not hail. It’s different to that (and hail has it’s own METAR code). No, no. It’s not sleet. No, not black ice, either. It’s “freezing rain”.

Let’s back up a bit. British people are well known for talking about the weather, but Canadian people are little obsessed about it too. As the dominant European settlers, it is our gift to Canucks. The tools to discuss weather, and a penchant for tea. While British people are specifically obsessed with their one day of snow, or their one week of summer, Canadians are obsessed by freezing rain and spread warnings about it all the time. Because worrying about snow in Canada is for tossers. The problem with this chatting is that it spreads to the 24-hour news networks. Just like everywhere, these feral bullshit gatherers work so hard to whip up the drama of a story, to create an exciting narrative for the purpose of selling advertising, that they end up creating the story itself. There’s going to be freezing rain. Stay indoors, unlike us, filming from our satellite van parked on the hard-shoulder, otherwise you will die. The news networks’ warnings make freezing rain sound like a dastardly, yet mostly ineffective, form of moisture based terrorism.

The fact that I have never witnessed this mysterious form of precipitation and the fact that people are terrorised off the streets by its mere mention means that I am now calling for a ban on H20 in any circumstance where its gas, solid or liquid chemical state is in a position to be confused.

NO MORE TEA FOR YOU, CANADA.

@stuhall occasionally parps out something of vague interest on his blog

Stu Hall's Letters From Canada #3

Unless you’ve road-tripped across some large territories, I’m going to assume that you can’t really visualise the size of the world’s 2nd biggest country. Well, fear not. I am here to help elucidate and confuse you in roughly equal measure. The first time I came to Canada, I thought it might be interesting to drive a hire car around Lake Ontario. It is one of the Great Lakes and Toronto lies on its shore. I didn’t know this at the time, but other sizable towns on the shore of Lake Ontario include Kingston, Burlington, Oakville, Hamilton, St. Cathe`rines, Niagara and Mississauga, which is pronounced roughly as “missy-saga”, making it sound a bit like a prostitution service at an over 50’s resort. It turns out that the time it takes to drive around Lake Ontario is measured in days. It’s big. Immense. Massive. Larger, but significantly more natural than, all 6 of the Kardashian’s tits combined. Let’s look at some of the measures that people use to conceptualise the size of things, shall we? Quite often people will say that something is the size of a certain number of football pitches. So how many football pitches could you fit in Canada? NEARLY TEN MILLION. Ok, that doesn’t help. We need to something larger. How many times would London fit into Canada? About 6,500 times. Oh! British people love to say how many times larger than Wales a thing is. Wales fits into Canada around 480 times. That’s a bit easier to imagine. And what’s more, both countries have people angrily speaking secondary languages!

@StuHall sometimes updates his blog, stuhallwrites.com

The New Elizabethans

Hello. Please welcome Jim Lawrence to the Dystopian Fuchsia 'team' with his first article...


The New Elizabethans – An Alternative List

You are almost certainly aware – it’s been shoved down our throats since last year, after all – that our glorious unelected head of state, Queen Elizabeth II, will be enjoying (yes, she does occasionally crack a smile) her sixtieth year on the throne in 2012. To commemorate this exciting fact Radio 4 will be selecting a panel next month whose task it will be to compile a list of the sixty living Britons who have most influenced our national life. Just as the first Queen Elizabeth ruled over a Golden Age that ushered in the Early Modern Period, an era of cultural and political ferment not seen in Europe for generations, so it is said that our Elizabeth has overseen a time of greatness, of innovation in the arts and sciences, of profound changes in mores and social habits, a symbolic Mother of the Nation at whose ever-flowing teat we grateful subjects imbibe comfort and unity.

Well, I think the picture is not so clear. I tend to the Rotten theory of post-war British society – that it’s the fascist regime that made you a moron. (Not you of course, gentle reader.) And so, in that spirit of splenetic, contrarian, dangerously close to misanthropic disgust with this low dishonest decade or six, I offer you my own list of sixty luminaries who, in my view, have done their best to make Britain what it is today. And never before in the field of human TV watching, sport obsessing, flag waving, bovine conformity has so much contempt been owed to so few by so many.

1. Katie Price
2. Everyone who has ever been in Hollyoaks
3. The Saatchi brothers
4. The Beckhams
5. Ann Atkins
6. Peter Bazalgette
7. Lord Tebbit of Chingford
8. Wayne Rooney
9. Peaches Geldof
10. The inventor of Thought for the Day
11. Joe Pasquale
12. Neil & Christine Hamilton
13. Abi Titmus
14. Simon Cowell
15. The Chuckle Brothers
16. Garry Bushell
17. Chris Moyles
18. Cheryl Cole
 19. Danny Dyer
20. Fred Goodwin
21. Kelvin Mackenzie
22. Louise Mensch
23. Boris Johnson
24. Ant & Dec
25. Adam Boulting
26. Pete Waterman
27. Peter Hitchens
28. Russell Brand
29. Phil & Kirsty
30. Peter Andre
31. Everybody who works for Talk Sport
32. Sir Digby Jones
33. Lord Sugar
34. Jimmy Carr
35. Rebekah Brooks
36. Richard Littlejohn
37. Melanie Phillips
38. Kay Burley
39. Andrew Neil
40. Commissioners of BBC1 sitcoms
41. Trevor Kavanagh
42. Janet Street-Porter
43. Michael Portillo
44. Clarkson, May & Hammond
45. Vernon Kay & Tess Daly
46. Lord Prescott
47. Keith Lemon
48. Nick Clegg
49. All royal correspondents and entertainment ‘journalists’
50. The National Lottery Commission
51. Lord Mandelson
52. Sir Phillip Green
53. Andy Coulson
54. Lord Rothermere
55. Migration Watch
56. The Confederation of British Industries
57. The Adam Smith Institute
58. Everyone involved with Loose Women
59. Quentin Letts
60. And finally the two towering figures who most neatly epitomise and did so much to create the spirit of this vicious and shallow age: Baroness Thatcher of Kestevan and Anthony Charles Lynton Blair.

Text by Jim Lawrence, image by Ian Hewett

Stu Hall's Letters From Canada #2

Boris Johnson on Crack

In May 2008, Londoners voted for Boris Johnson to become their mayor and in December 2010, the people of Toronto voted for Rob Ford to become their mayor. It seems that on both sides of the Atlantic, on the other side of a couple of fences, there was a hell of a lot of green grass.

There are similarities between the two mayors. They were both voted in because people were apathetic to their predecessors, but the main similarity is that they are both buffoons. In appearance, Toronto mayor Rob Ford shares a striking resemblance to both the arch nemesis of Danger Mouse, Baron Von Greenback, and to the James Bond Villian, Goldfinger.

Both mayors can be infantile, although in the childishness stakes, Rob Ford comes out on top. His brother, Doug Ford, also works in government and is not afraid of wading in with his massive mouth like he is auditioning for some angsty playground confrontation scene from Waterloo Road.

Everyone in Toronto would like subways. But, if they had the option, everyone in Toronto would also like to skip through Homer Simpson’s Chocolate Fantasy Land in place of their daily commute. Ever since someone lost all the money in the world, most people accept that both options are equally irresponsible. Except Rob Ford (and Doug). He wants subways, and he resists answering questions from the media. He literally stands at conferences and repeats “Tax-payers want subways, it’s what tax-payers want, it’s all about subways”. Jeremy Paxman would wring his fucking neck.

As a compromise, most TAX-PAYERS and the city council want a light railway like the London Docklands. But... Rob Ford repeats his mantra, “TAX-PAYERS WANT SUBWAYS, nah-nah-nah, I can’t hear you!”

Rob Ford has been arrested for possession of marijuana

Accused of fighting a student American Football player

Accused twice of driving whilst using a mobile phone

Called three councillors “two steps left of Joe Stalin”

Called an opponent a “gino” (an ethnic slur against Italian-Canadians)

Said “I don’t understand a transgender, I don’t understand, is it a guy dressed up like a girl or a girl dressed up like a guy? And we’re funding this for, I don’t know, what does it say here? We’re giving them $3,210?”

Avoided attending Gay Pride

Was ejected from an Ice Hockey arena by security after swearing at a couple

Suggested that women get AIDS by having sex with bi-sexual men

When a TV presenter from a satirical news show tried to interview him in his drive, he called Police 3 times and swore at the operator when police were not forthcoming

Said that “Those Orientals work like dogs” (“orientals” is politically incorrect in North America and so is calling people dogs).

Said "my heart bleeds for them [cyclists] when one of them gets killed... but... it's their own fault"

Boris Johnson looks like a tit on his Have I Got News For You appearances, gets locked out of his home by his angry wife right in-front of the media as he returns home from a jog, misses several times when he shoots at a basketball hoop (again, before the press) and talks nonsense about bendy-busses. Basically, he is cuddly and cute even when he is patronising the people of Papua New Guinea for living lives of "bourgeois domesticity". Can we have him please?

Stu Hall's Letters From Canada #1

Hello sir! Your regular host, Ian, has invited me to guest post on his blog. It didn’t take me long to accept his offer and begin writing about Canada, where I have been living since 2007. You see, before I moved here, I knew bugger all about Canada. The only Canadians I knew were Terrance and Phillip from South Park. I was genuinely surprised to learn that, when Canadians speak, the top halves of their heads don’t really flap around. While you might not be as ignorant as I was, I’m just going to go ahead and assume you are. British people seem to believe a number of stereotypes about Canada, but let me set them straight. It doesn’t snow all the time, just enough to raise the all-important suicide rate. Not all Canadians are nice people. For example, most Torontonians would kill you if it meant getting your seat on the bus. Canadians don’t go around saying “Eh?” as they emerge bleary-eyed from their igloos. No, they say it as they emerge bleary-eyed from the bar. Or the local coffee shop, for that matter.


 Coffee brings me on to things that are actually true about Canadians. They love coffee. Instead of a newsagent on every corner, Canadians have a coffee shop on every corner. Ok, that's kinda true of Britain, too. But in Britain, they are Italian-style places that require a credit check just to make a purchase. Canadian coffee shops require a few quarters and a liberal sprinkling of pocket lint. If you want to catch a Canadian, you could do far worse than by setting up a trap using coffee as bait, or better yet, microwavable macaroni and cheese (“Kraft Dinner”). They’re obsessed with that shit, and I’m yet to work out why. I suppose it’s the Pot Noodle equivalent: “It’s dirty, and you want it”. All Canadians apologise for Bryan Adams and Alanis Morissette. 


I hope you enjoyed dipping your toe into Canada, or at least my warped impression of it. It’s ironic that I have written about stereotypes, because if you choose to continue reading my posts, what will become apparent is that Canada is not that easy to pin down. The only constants about Canada are that it is a massive, massive place and Canadians.... really love coffee. I don’t want you to think I’m winging this, especially with Ian paying me so much to write here. It’s not like I don’t have any ideas (I have at least two more ideas for columns about Canada that came to me during a feverish dream), but if there’s a Canadiana based topic you would like to hear about, leave a comment and let me know. 


 @stuhall writes sporadically at http://www.stuhallwrites.com

Rupert Murdoch Ate My Soul

Tomorrow sees the launch of the Sunday edition of The Sun, Britain's biggest-selling right-wing scaremonger. Here, we have an exclusive preview of this historic, um, thing.

To avoid claims of right-wing bigotry, in the centre pages you'll find a copy of socialist newspaper The Morning Star. It's a bit like a politically unstable Whizzer & Chips. To add to the fun, contributors of the rival newspapers will 'raid' the other, just like Sid's Snake and Shiner used to do.

To help the smooth transition, old favourites are on hand. Sort of. For example, here's new resident astrologer, Mystic Beks:

Who is this mysterious woman?

And, of course, there's Hagar the Horrible. But, in a special clause, News International are given free reign to localise it to suit their British audience:

The Sun on Sunday: evil incarnate, now seven days a week.

(Seriously, please don't be fooled into thinking that tomorrow's newspaper is a collector's item, just as the News of the Screws's final issue wasn't. Yet people still bought it. Do not help this man and his vile rag succeed. I thank you.)

2011 Ends With Dignity

I wish you all a fantastic 2012. Thanks for reading over the past year (even the quiet months, which I'll be telling you all about soon), and promise to be slightly less doom-laden in the coming year.

Except if those fucking Mayan prophecies are actually true.

Happy Nude Year, one and all!

Yes, even you.
x

Finally... Shit Britons 2011 Part 3!

Hi there. Welcome back from Xmas hell.

Here's the third and final part of the Shit Britons 2011 results video, where Skeletor has formed a coalition (of doom) with David Cameron...




If you missed them, here's parts 1 and 2. I might edit them into 1 video when I can be bothered.




Anyway, thanks for voting David Cameron as the worst person Britain has ever produced. We'll see who wins when we run the vote again during the summer of 2012. See you then!

It's Chriiiiiiiiiiiiisssssstmaaaaaaaaaaas!

Sod the calendar. Time for this year's festive tale of misery and woe. With apologies (and two fingers up at) Dr Seuss...

The George Who Stole Christmas

Every Brit

Down in Brit-ville

Liked Christmas a lot...

But George Osborne,

Who lived in his ancestral pile,

Did NOT!

The prick hated people! No matter the season!

Now, please don't ask why. No one quite knows the reason.

It could be that his head wasn't screwed on quite right.

It could be, perhaps, that his arsehole’s too tight.

But I think that the most likely reason of all

May have been that his heart was two sizes too small.

But,

Whatever the reason,

His heart or his arse,

He stood there on Christmas, hating the lower class,

Staring down from his mansion with a sour, evil frown

At the warm lighted windows below in their town.

For he knew all the scum down outside of his gates

Were stinking and poor, the things that he hates.

"And they're hanging their stockings!" he snarled with a sneer.

"Poundland must be empty this time of the year!"

Then he growled, with his fat fingers nervously drumming,

"I MUST find a way to keep Christmas from coming!"

For, tomorrow, he knew...

...All the scummy girls and boys

Would wake up bright and early. They'd rush for their toys!

And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!

That's one thing he hated! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!

Then the bastards, young and old, would sit down to a feast.

And they'd feast! And they'd feast!

And they'd FEAST! FEAST! FEAST! FEAST!

With shoplifted chickens, potatoes and ducks,

The Tesco Value devouring fucks!

And THEN

They'd do something he liked least of all!

Every one of the scumbags, the tall and the small,

Would stand close together, with Christmas bells ringing.

They'd stand hand-in-hand. And the oiks would start singing!

They'd sing! And they'd sing!

AND they'd SING! SING! SING! SING!

And when George thought of the disgust the penniless bring

The more the shit thought, "I must stop this whole thing!

"Why for forty-some years I've put up with it now!

I MUST stop Christmas from coming!

...But HOW?"

Then he got an idea!

An awful idea!

THE CHANCELLOR

GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!

"I know just what to do!" The toff laughed in his throat.

And he made a quick Santy Claus hat and a coat.

And he chuckled, and clucked, "What a great posh trick!

"I’ll ruin their lives because they make me sick!"

"All I need is a reindeer..."

The twat looked around.

But since reindeer are scarce, there was none to be found.

Did that stop the old bastard...?

No! The evil Chancellor said,

"If I can't find a reindeer, I'll make one instead!"

So he stole Blunkett’s dog. Then he took some red thread

And he tied a big horn on top of his head.

THEN

He loaded some bags

With a huff and a tut

On a ramshakle sleigh

And he hitched up old the mutt.

Then the twat said, "Move it!"

And the sleigh started down

Toward the homes where the oiks

Lay a-snooze in their town.

All their windows were dark. Quiet snow filled the air.

All the oiks were all dreaming sweet dreams without care

When he came to the first house in the square.

"This is stop number one," The old fucker hissed

And he climbed to the roof, empty bags in his fist.

Then he slid down the chimney. It proved to be tight.

But he was determined to spread misery and blight.

He got stuck only once, for a moment or two.

Then he stuck his head out of the fireplace flue

Where the little oik stockings all hung in a row.

"These stockings," he grinned, "are the first things to go!"

Then he slithered and slunk, with a sneer most unpleasant,

Around the whole room, and he took every present!

Pokémon cards and a PSOne game!

Second-hand shit he stole without shame!

And he stuffed them in bags in a Christmassy farce,

Stuffed all the bags, the upper-class arse!

Then he slunk to the fridge. He took the oiks’ food!

Fish fingers and nuggets, how terribly rude!

He cleaned out that fridge as quick as a flash.

He didn’t want it or need it because of his cash!

Then he stuffed all the food up the chimney with glee.

"And NOW!" grinned the Chancellor, "I will stuff up the tree!"

And George grabbed the tree, and he started to shove

When he heard a small sound like the coo of a dove.

He turned around fast, and he saw a small brat!

A guttersnipe child in a Santy Claus hat.

George had been caught by this little oik child

And wondered if the police had been dialled.

She stared at the toff and said, "Santy Claus, why,

"Why are you taking our Christmas tree? WHY?"

But George did a thing he was good at, though sick,

He thought up a lie, and he thought it up quick!

"Why, my sweet little tot," the fake Santy Claus lied,

"There's a light on this tree that won't light on one side.

"So I'm taking it home to my workshop, my dear.

"I'll fix it up there. Then I'll bring it back here."

And his fib fooled the child. Then he patted her head

And he got her a drink and he sent her to bed.

And when the oik child went to bed with her cup,

HE went to the chimney and stuffed the tree up!

Then the last thing he took

Was the log for their fire.

Then he went up the chimney himself, the old liar.

On their walls he left nothing but hooks, and some wire.

And the one speck of food

That he left in the house

Was a crumb that was even too small for a mouse.

Then

He did the same thing

To the other oiks' houses

Leaving crumbs

Much too small

For the other Oiks' mouses!

It was quarter past dawn...

All the oiks, still a-bed

All the oiks, still a-snooze

When he packed up his sled,

Packed it up with their presents! The ribbons! The wrappings!

The tags! And the tinsel! The trimmings! The trappings!

He returned to his mansion, guffawing with glee!

“There’s no-one more evil or despicable than me!

"Fuck all the plebs!" he was poshly humming.

"They're finding out now that no Christmas is coming!

"They're just waking up! I know just what they'll do!

"Their mouths will hang open a minute or two

"They’ll weep at the theft and they’ll never know who!"

"That's a noise," grinned the cunt,

"That I simply must hear!"

So he paused. And Osborne put a hand to his ear.

And he did hear a sound rising over the snow.

It started in low. Then it started to grow...

It was the sound of a riot! The sound of looting!

The cost of the damage he was already computing!

He’d raise all their taxes! Then there was shooting!

He watched on the telly

The rioting folk!

Campaigning against Tories!

It wasn’t a joke!

Old London town burned, the houses, the slums,

The result of the folly of his banking chums!

More people were homeless, more shops were aflame!

He just didn’t care that he was to blame!

He sat in his armchair, drank his Bucks Fizz,

More jobs were now lost, but at least he had his!

He looked in his bags, and laughed at the fun,

The oiks’ horrid gifts, each and every one

Were lining the bottom, each worthless and shite!

A Gameboy Advance and a Mighty Max kite!

An Evel Knievel jigsaw! A Rainbow Brite!

The poor people’s presents were poor and dire,

Ugly and cheap and ripe for a pyre!

George threw them all on the fire!

Tucked up in bed, no tossing or turning,

George had the cash to never have yearning,

But now his old mansion was noisily burning!

The oiks had all gathered plenty of kindling

Placed ‘round his house, their patience was dwindling!

Sick of the poverty and having no money

And sick of old Osborne finding that funny!

His house now in flames and burning up fast,

Old Georgie was getting his comeuppance at last!

Everyone gathered with cocoa and beer!

And whisky! And rum! Such Christmas cheer!

The crowd grew and grew! It stretched back a mile!

Each of the people had a huge Christmas smile!

They chuckled with glee and couldn’t pretend

To be a-full of mirth that George had come to an end!

It’s a grim little story, but any excuse

To fuck around with Dr Seuss

MERRY CHRISTMAS!