SHORT: Never Date a Tory [2022]

NEVER DATE A TORY

This is the tale of my friend called Belinda
Who hit Google Play Store and downloaded Tinder
She loaded the app up before swiping right -
Her story will keep you awake in the night.

She siphons through the stack of men, in spite of her misgivings
Like the hick from Dr. Strangelove, it really is “Slim Pickens”
But she’s twenty-nine, and like Doc Brown, she knows the clock is ticking
Don’t wanna end up like Havisham: a spinster from Charles Dickens…

He’s not much of a catch, but she snags a match - this time on OkCupid
A smirking flirt in a pale pink shirt who goes by the name of Rupert
Despite her trying, there’s no denying: he looks like Laurence Fox
Includes a photo from a gig that states: “Maroon 5 rocks!”

They spend a week going back and forth, engaged in idle chat
He tries to show his sensitive side by posing with a cat
When it’s clear there’s no better choice, they migrate to WhatsApp
Then make a date for Friday night at a French joint called L’Etwat.

She heads to the wine bar that he has selected
Two minutes in, she’s already dejected
His picture’s outdated, just like she suspected
A faint whiff of something-not-right’s been detected…

Bickers with the barman as he orders up the vino
Insists upon the Sauvignon, but what the fuck does he know…?
Her date seems faintly comical, like something out The Beano
He doesn’t warrant much respect, just like Jose Mourinho…

Engages in light banter as he cracks out the Prosecco
Talks about his salary while quoting Gordon Gekko
Watched The Wolf of Wall Street, but couldn’t fathom why
The whole three hours should be devoured with a critical eye…

Considers her Classics degree prehistoric
He studied Business: the Uni of Warwick.
There are few things in this life that make him so hard
As driving to work every day at The Shard…

She questions his look: Alan Clark resurrected
He’s called her “m’lady” before she’s objected
Like the guy in The Shining, he must be “corrected”
Won’t somebody hack off this limb? It’s infected…!

His anecdotes are tiresome, overlong and boring
They’re like an 80s fantasy: The Never-Ending Story
She looks around for some way out, she’s taking inventory
As he tells her of a hiking trip he took with his friend Rory...

She grits her teeth and nods along as he starts talking bobbins
About how great “Auld England” was in the days of Mary Poppins
Asks about the Game of Thrones, does she believe in dragons…?
Tells her tales of Real Ale his mates consume in flagons…

“Yes, there’s much to admire about Jacob Rees-Mogg”,
He sighs as he contemplates country and God.
And when he does Movember, it’s just for the laughs -
’Cos there’s nothing funnier than a moustache…!

Room starts to spin, pretends that she’s listening
He parrots some shit about “raw fiscal discipline”
Doesn’t see why we should subsidise artists;
Thinks that the BBC’s run by the Marxists…

Stuffs £2 in the jukebox, and orders up a tune
‘Summer of 69’ appears, and winds up half the room
Fucking Chris de Burgh’s up next, followed by Chris Rea
‘Driving Home for Christmas’, to provide some festive cheer…

After showing off his music tastes with this impromptu disco
He opens an investment app to show her all his crypto.
No-one seems impressed by his evangelistic ravings;
He’s surely just two hours away from losing his life-savings…

Talks ’til he’s blue about Man U, and the merits of Paul Pogba
Calling liberals “snowflakes”, while spouting right-wing dogma
Says he fancies Alex Scott, and then corrects her grammar
Tries to rap ironically along to MC Hammer…

It’s right at this moment, her thoughts are snowballing
She wants to know why his perspective’s so galling
His retrograde outlook is less than enthralling
It’s duller than rocks, pal, just like dry-stone walling…!

Why is she finding this suitor so hideous?
His chit-chat’s abysmal, his manner fastidious
His every pronouncement is faintly insidious
She’s not entertained, Maximus D. Meridius…

She looks at her iPhone, for time now she’s stalling
She starts feeling weightless: Tom Petty, freefalling
It’s then that it clicks why the issue’s so thorny:
“Oh, God”, she thinks; “I’ve gone and swiped right on a Tory.”

And like an 80s beer ad, it’s time for a sharp exit
Right around the time he lists the benefits of Brexit
But just as she’s plotting her escape to the bogs
He fails to read the room, and moves in for a snog…

She retreats at the faint scent of bile on his breath
With latitude, his attitude is still a fate worse than death.
Balks at the stench of his rank aftershave:
A honk of Lynx Java she’ll take to her grave…

Backing away, she smiles politely
Plays it all coy, just like Keira Knightley.
“Sorry”, she tells him; “You’re just not my type.
But let’s not stop now, we’re having such a nice night…”

The mask has slipped, the gloves are off, as he begins his ranting
About “the feminocracy”, MeToo and Dirty Dancing
Like a defunct washer brand, he just goes Ariston
Says something slightly racist ’bout the casting of James Bond…

Gives her a look that’s decidedly leery
Then starts a tirade about Critical Race Theory
“Let children be children”, he says like a rotter
Defending the bastard who wrote Harry Potter…

Starts doing whole sketches from Monty Python
Says that he considers Thatcher his icon
Praises free markets from Moscow to Taiwan
Fuck global warming, let’s all leave the lights on…!

Points out a newsreader, slags off her diction
Says he considers the clitoris a fiction
Has a pop at “Cancel Culture”, even though it’s nonsense
Sings the praise of his new saint, the noble Boris Johnson…

Knocking back a glass of plonk, he’s feeling slightly mullered.
Mouthing off, he starts to scoff about people of colour.
“Why is it a sin today to be a white middle-aged bloke…?
Why can you not buy a car without it being ‘woke’…?”

Outlines his position: pronouns are fucking mayhem
Despite the fact it costs fuck-all to call somebody ‘they/them’…
The bastard son of Peterson, a screaming child of rage;
The kind of guy who’d rather die than call him Elliot Page…

Admits he hates “queers”, recoils from buggery
But truth be told, he gets a stiffy while he watches Rugby.
Smashes a rail strike by crossing the picket
“Got to get home, son, in time for the cricket…”

Sinks a pint of Spitfire ale, and bangs his glass for emphasis
“All them migrants coming ’ere and claiming all the benefits…”
Demands the state repatriate all those who are brown-coloured;
Outlines all his future plans to become a Local Councillor…

I put it to you that his worldview makes you want to commit arson
He’s stolen half his talking points from TV’s Jeremy Clarkson
’Cos underneath that bland veneer’s a psycho, like Ted Bundy
He gets his views from GB News, Farage and the Mail On Sunday…

Loading up Twitter, his manner now brusque
He starts quoting Darren Grimes and Elon Musk
Shares all his thoughts on the Women’s World Cup;
She wonders why he won’t shut the fuck up…

She’s had enough, she grabs her phone, and waves the thing with urgency
“Sorry”, she says , “I’ve got to dash, my friend’s had an emergency.”
Then she’s off with a shot, Alec Baldwin’s prop, as she bids the dolt goodnight
She’s reached the summit, can no longer stomach one more sorry glob of his shite…

He follows though, and jumps on her - like Mario on a goomba
He slaps him once then knees his groin, and dives into an Uber
His sorry flagpole stands half-mast as he bemoans his lust;
She’s done the good and righteous thing, and left him in the dust.

“Fucking Millennial, snowflake, libtard, PC, safe-space bitch…”

Back at his penthouse, he just doesn’t get it.
Sifts through the frog memes he’s posted on Reddit.
Pounding his laptop, he ponders his fate
As to why there’s no sex at the end of a date…

Whinges to no-one: “It’s ’cos I’m a Tory...!”
No it’s not, mate - it’s because you’re appalling.
The fact you’re a Tory is just ornamental
Though hardly irrelevant, let alone incidental…

As for Belinda, it’s a lucky escape
From a life of regret - and worse still, near-rape.
As she shivers and contemplates her dating fail,
I offer the moral of this cautionary tale:

I state my case now - pure conviction - with a strong affirmative
Whistles, hats and bells on, laden with superlatives
Listen to your conscience, ’cos there’s always an alternative:
No - sane – person should ever vote Conservative!

What’s more:

Their moral code is slacker than the O-rings on the Challenger
So never date a Tory, or you’ll have to Ask for Angela
Watch out, friends, their nihilistic charge is quite ferocious -
Marry one and you’re sadistic, ’cos they are atrocious!

“Um-diddle-iddle-iddle, um-diddle ay…
Um-diddle-iddle-iddle, um-diddle ay…”

C.C. 24/09/22

SHORT: R.I.P. (Rest in Piss) [2022]

 R.I.P. (REST IN PISS)

- A heartfelt tribute to Margaret Thatcher

on the 10th Anniversary of her untimely passing –

Met her on a Monday, her politics were shady
Her supporters called her the Iron Lady
But now Margaret Thatcher is ten years gone;
Da-doo ron ron ron, da-doo ron ron.

So let’s all raise a glass ’cos we’re told that we oughta
say a few words of praise for Grantham’s favourite daughter.
The toast of our nation; to privatisation!
…She’s a dismal pagan, who fucked Ronald Reagan.

I’m told: “Show some respect to those who have died…!”
But when you demand that, I just answer: “Why…?”

Why do we validate people in death who aren’t worth our spit while they’re living?
I struggle to summon a sliver of guilt, when not one shred of pity’s worth giving.

The Beatles once said: “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.”
That was never truer than when the old bag spluttered, and began turning bluer.

For so many of us, that day could not come too soon.
We hung on every second of the countdown:
“Duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh-duh-duh; boooom…!”

For years, she’d been propped up and wheeled out on gurneys -
A sad fucking parody of Weekend at Bernie’s.
So you can imagine my delight when her spokesperson said:
“We pronounce her condition stable… but dead.”

But then comes the ominous drum-beat of history
The “dignity of death” subsumes all her misery
Hear the rousing chant of the Eton boys
Sing: “Maggie, Maggie, Maggie! Oi, oi, oi...!”

To the misty-eyed mourners of Britain - oh, stop it
Or I’ll re-enact the prison murder scene from A Prophet.
I’m like Crocodile Dundee when I come for your life
I ain’t using no razorblade – “That’s not a knife…”

I can’t hack this reverence, though we should’ve expected it;
It makes my head spin like that girl from The Exorcist.
Drinking the Kool Aid like pure holy water:
“The power of shite compels you…!”

So crack out the bunting and shake the maracas;
We’re going fool-hunting, like B.A. Baracus.
The brightest of dawns breaks the stormiest weather -
I love it when a plan comes together….!

Consign her to history, like an old Roman Numeral
I pissed myself laughing while watching her funeral
George Osborne’s tears, a memory to treasure;
I replay it over and over for pleasure.

Yes, the ship left the dock when the old hag embarked it;
It gives me such joy that she’s finally carked it.
Her vandalised statue a monument to pain
I’d hoped we’d never see the likes of her again -

But the zombies are all springing up in her wake
It's Night of the Living Dead 2, for fuck’s sake.
And like a John McClane sequel, this time we die harder
May, Johnson, Truss: “They’re coming to get you, Barbara…”

They reanimate her corpse in Frankenstein’s dungeon
The floor starts to rumble, like PJ & Duncan
“It’s alive…!” - and like Elvis, we’re caught in a trap
...She’s back, like an unwelcome dose of the clap.

But now I have a machine gun – ho, ho, ho
My invective delivers the blow-by-blow
I won’t blithely salute when someone like her goes -
When told to be respectful, I say: “No! No! No…!”

No, I’m afraid there’s simply no gulfing that chasm;
“She died following a stroke”, they said. That must’ve been a hell of an orgasm.

Geri Halliwell referred to her as “the first Spice Girl”.
I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want: both of them off this fucking world.
We’ll strap ’em in a handcart, send ’em spiralling downstairs
At a terrifying speed that starts raising hairs
They’ll go white as a sheet, like pure alabaster -
Scream if you wanna go faster...!

Look, stop right now, thankyou very much,
with false equivalencies that give Thatcher the human touch.
Like Walter E. Kurtz in Apocalypse Now,
you’d have to be batshit to venerate the rancorous sow.
“I saw a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor...”
But true madness is proclaiming her a women’s trailblazer!

For proudly dismantling the welfare state, she’s about as much of a feminist as Andrew Tate.
On gay rights, she was somehow even worse: Section 28 alone deserves a ride in the hearse.

On Apartheid, not realising her fatal error is: calling Nelson Mandela a terrorist.
As for foreign policy, it’s mean and getting meaner: don’t cry for me, Argentina…!

No, we’re finding Jerusalem in England’s fair lands.
Won’t you have a pasty supper, Bobby Sands…?

So if you want a few reasons just why she’s so dead to me,
Let’s take a look at the awful trout’s legacy.

Entire communities rendered asunder
Our whole social fabric, pillaged and plundered

Infrastructure buckling like weakened Meccano
Our dignity sunken with the Belgrano

Smashed the Unions, sealed the miners’ fate
Turned the Met Police into the long arm of the state

Arms dealer son, still on the run
As the North-South divide grows ever wide…

It’s not too much of a stretch to call her a Nazi
Now that she sleeps with the fishes, just like Luca Brasi.
According to the doctrine she found so holy
The poor get the gun; the rich, the cannoli.

Fat cats more bloated than the first corpse in Se7en
No rich man ever entered the kingdom of heaven
Like Brad Pitt asking: “What’s in the box?”
If it’s a casket, I sincerely hope that you are, you cocks…!

When deregulation makes us free-market slaves,
It'd be a waste of good fluid to piss on her grave.

As a metaphor, the Iron Lady’s a start -
Like the Tin Man of Oz, she didn’t have a heart.

Frankly, Satan would balk at the like of her ilk –
even he lets the kids have a glass of free milk…!

Football membership cards…? “Unbelievable, Jeff…!”
Her witchcraft’s like Act 1, Scene 1 of Macbeth
A more sinister crone than Heggerty Haggerty
“Managed decline” of the North’s solidarity…

And right when the country’s facedown in the ring
Like Creed and Balboa, Round 2, ding ding
She says like Columbo: “Just one more thing…”
And unleashes the Poll Tax – what the hell’s happening…?!

But like Hepburn and Fonda on golden pond
I’ll ponder no longer all that went wrong.
For be you a pauper, or king, or a farmer
No-one escapes the cold hand of karma.

If you detect a whiff of sizzling flesh, it’s the smell of Thatcher burning
You’d think that she’d spin in her grave at all this – but the lady’s not for turning.

Yet, she roasts on a spit now in fieriest hell;
Kebab-meat for the minions. We all wish her well.

Send her down the river, like a twat in a boater
Or she’ll keep coming back, like a fucked toilet’s floater.

For as Mother Theresa might’ve once said:
“Ding dong, the witch is dead.”

Banished from our memory, like dementia on a pensioner.
Like the first rule of Fight Club, I can barely even mention her.

That’s “freedom of speech”, so no-one can jail me.
The depth of my loathing now such that words fail me.

But I do have to finish, I consider it my duty,
so I defer the last verse to the band Death Cab for Cutie
Who put it succinctly in their song ‘Styrofoam Plates’
the following definitive statement of hate.

They said, and I quote:

“You’re a disgrace to the concept of family
The priest won’t divulge the fact in his homily
But I’ll stand up and scream if the mourning remain quiet
You can deck out a lie in a suit, but I won’t buy it.

I won’t join the procession that’s speaking their peace,
Using five-dollar words while praising her integrity.
Just ’cos she’s gone, it doesn’t change the fact:
She was a bastard in life, thus a bastard in death.”

 

C.C. 22/09/22

SHORT: Thoughts and Prayers [2022]

 THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS

To the tune of The Star-Spangled Banner:

 “O say, can you see:
What’s that star burning bright?
It’s a former world power
Now reduced to a bin-fire.

Let’s all send thoughts and prayers
Because that always works
If your God is up there
It doesn’t seem like we’re being heard…

It’s enshrined in law
So let’s all do fuck-all -
If not to shoot kids,
What the hell are guns for…?

O, say does that blood-sodden banner yet wave
As the land of the free…
Becomes a mass grave.”

- God bless you all.
And God bless America…!

C.C. 30/08/22