Reform Reform!
Return of the Kneecap Brigade
What’s been happening in the North, where they’ve
got folks wrapping themselves in the Union Jack and acting in ways few Brits – ancient
or modern - could identify with, is your typical invasion scare. The whole island
suffers from these cultural race-religion obsessions and compulsions, and have
done so since Oliver Cromwell was a lad. Wasn’t it a century after their
political independence was cast aside, when, with Home Rule in the very palms
of their hands, they diddled themselves out of it - for what exactly? The likes
of Parnell, Childers, Collins and countless others destroyed because of anarchy
in the soul: adhering to and simultaneously denying the Holy Truth. While only a
toppling of the god-almighty British Empire would satisfy some, all the others wanted
was a bit of peace and quiet on a Sunday afternoon, three pints of black’n’tan,
no shame or the fear of going to bed in fear that men of the night would come
and put a bullet in the back of their wooly heads.
Not exactly Biafra (Who wanna buy a
fly?)
Kemi Badenoch had me in a half-Nelson for
a good hour the other day. God, She was irresistible and I had to stop what I
was doing and look Her up good & proper. People like That are annoying -
persuasive, not because of what They say – in Her case, She doesn’t have a thing
besides a playground told-you-so rhetoric quite devoid of serious content – except
for what She represents: a load of owl colonial booing & cooing coming home
to roost. It wasn’t until I read what She said about not identifying with Nigerian
that I was able to free myself from Her hideous alure. Gimme James Cleverly every
time (I think he’s well out of it. Too long in the Idris Elba to play James
Bond, anyway). Madame Kemi said She sides with the Yoruba (Her people) and
not those of the North, like the extremists of Boko Haram: Muslim militants She
describes as Their ethic enemies (doesn’t even have a proper collective name
for them). Yes, She is in fact a good old fashioned ethno-cultural warrior,
pretty much in the Thatcherite pseudo feminist mold. Phew! With Her it’s back
to Us and Them. Let’s just write Liverpool off kinda thing. Too much
Irish.
No State Solution
Yep, it’s official: you gotta give it up.
I don’t mean the struggle. I mean this capitulation to racist norms of
homogeneity. If the population hits ten billion - which could be its tipping
point: upwards to a hundred or downwards to Human Zero, a sort of Malthusian
Snakes & Ladders takes over. I mean, is Nigel going to pack in the fags and
booze? Would Popeye & Olive vote for him if he did? He’d be a laughing
stock. Sooner turn into a yoga guru or an agony ant. Stamp him out now, ye chicken
livered wets. Stick a Welsh dragon in the corner of the Union Flag and turn
half the reds green. Britannia Waives The Rules. Let’s have a trio of AI bots on
the throne and be done with it.
Phone Sex on Mars
The Musk Implant® has some extraordinary
stroke everyday uses. Take phone sex, for example. Now you can just have a
think-off with your loved one ensconced on the opposite side of the planet – or
on another world altogether. Further out, Man! Of course, you’ve gotta bring
your own hardware to the party if you really wanna get off the rock, some parting
with resources is called for. And that’s the beauty of this investment. Bitcoin
shares accepted.
Art of the Trump
New edition from the wise owl peanut, hardly
necessary to reiterate, but there you go at only two billion bucks the pop. Contains
a full pack of yer actual Trump Cards, no dice and a signed autograph.
Mercy
Everyone knows how to grovel in the mire
when their last ditch is looming but few will face up to the inevitable with a
crib sheet and a spot of role play under their belt. Religion is A-OK as far as
it goes, and those who carry the barrack room book of words might know what to
say on the great day. But buggars must, as the owl says, be losers. Take it
from the backside of one who knows the horse’s laugh when they hear it. Not so
much words as the sound a cement mixer makes emptying out.
Zonk Pifflesquaite is a banana that lives on two moons during three wars, when their nose falls off.
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| Not on Your Knees! |
