My stuff and your stuff: I write books, produce music, rant a bit, and in the meantime review things other people have done. With words.
Stick your breakfast up your arse
Brexit. A new laxative?
There’s some foxy bint on the TV, standing outside somewhere in London, giving me the news. A footballer has kissed a 15-year-old who the reporter keeps referring to as a schoolgirl. She’s a schoolgirl. Goes to school. Of school age. 15. But at school. A child. The law says she’s a child, so she’s a child. So I’m waiting for the bit where they report on arranged marriages in India, where it is revealed that children as young as eight are forced into unions and expected to get sexual right away.
But no... that’s India. And this is England. No, this is UK. No, this is Br. Like a chemical element, we are Br. Br wants to exit, potentially, the EU. Br (yes, it's cold here) wants to make an historic decision which will carry David Cameron to the history books. All the way in, shat onto a page with his prime ministrations splashing off the paper and into the face of you and your innocent little children.
See, every leader of any note has to make some kind of skidmark on the underpants of humanity. Tony Blair and George Dubya colluded to start a war. All the great leaders start a war. But Cameron doesn’t have the nuts, or any passable reason after Blair’s stunt, to start a war. He can carry on someone else’s war. He does, however, have the cojones to take on the EU. The EU – all those foreign, weird-accented hurdy-gurdy types who wear white socks and tell us how bendy our bananas should be.
The EU. In reality a bunch of bureaucrats no different from the bunch of bureaucrats below them, and the bunch below them, except they speak funny. It’s all ‘ooh la la’ and ‘le petit merde bonbon’. It’s just government, and history shows us that very few governments have anything positive to contribute beyond sex scandals and theft from the public purse. Governments are all about nothing happening between some fat bloke being outed as gay. Politics hasn’t moved on at all since the 1970s. All the good stuff seems to come when the public rise up with their middle finger and demand action. And so they have. Now that finger is firmly stuck up at the EU. For some reason. Doesn't matter what.
So it appears that, 122 days away from the vote, all media attention is focused on the vote that happens in 122 days. Hold on... what the…? The news, as I might have said far too many times, is not news at all. We're being fed a seriously unhealthy speculative muesli devoid of any fibre. Really, it’s 122 days away and someone has decided it’s the right time to start blanketing every channel and sheet of paper with this ridiculous circus.
What no one in government, EU or not, will tell you is the pointlessness of the whole exercise. EU or not, you still have David ’red balloon face’ Cameron in charge. You know what red balloons symbolise? Yeah, exactly.
All this is rounded off with other ’news’ items: talk of vandals knocking wing mirrors off cars, while someone has been beaten up or something and has ’shocking injuries’. I hope it isn’t a ’schoolgirl’ who has encountered a ‘pervert’ who preys on ’unborn, vulnerable foetuses’. Especially ones in ‘institutions’.
Someone needs to sue the news. It’s all bollocks. Or rather it’s a giant penis of propaganda trying to plunge every hole. Lies, lies, lies. With extra words that tell you how to feel about them, to make you scared, to make you believe that it’s all BAD or IMPORTANT and DESERVING OF YOUR ATTENTION.
My mate has breakfast with his mother fairly frequently. On a recent occasion, she told him to stick his breakfast up his arse. Precisely.
David Cameron: stick your breakfast up your arse.