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His picture’s outdated, just like she suspected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
No comments:
Post a Comment