MELT WIZARD
TELL YOUR CHILDREN
Tell your children, when they ask,
the true cause of their dismay this holiday season.
Tell them the truth about the last 14 years:
how it could so easily have been avoided
if the country they were born into
exhibited just a little more empathy,
self-awareness
or even basic intelligence.
Tell them about the Conservative Party,
and a project called Austerity.
A straight-up transfer of wealth from bottom to top
A policy whose architects were born into unimaginable wealth
and privilege
but who decided to use those advantages to entrench further economic
disparity.
Tell them the names George Osborne and David Cameron
Men apparently born to rule
who once torched banknotes in front of the homeless
and had the temerity to claim “we’re all in this together”
as if every last one of them is not isolated from the
effects of their actions.
Merrily ensconced in a web of parachutes and safety nets
they so casually deny to others;
all hail the awful, gilded world of action without
consequence.
Tell them about the 335,000 excess deaths attributed to this
policy decision,
as documented in a recent academic study
in the Journal of
Epidemiology and Community Health.
Tell them about millionaires in the Cabinet
who lecture us endlessly about “hard choices”
while signing away public services with the stroke of a pen.
A raft of “difficult decisions” which reveal so much about
the people making them
yet say still more via the road not taken:
Choosing instead to lift the cap on bankers’ bonuses
and protect the interests of the gambling industry
rather than help those in genuine need.
Tell them about the so-called “Big Society”
and its interminable proliferation of food bank use in a
nation of plenty.
Tell them how the Conservatives voted repeatedly to let children go hungry
and had to be shamed into corrective action by a Premier
League footballer.
Tell them why their local community hub is crumbling
and staffed by volunteers;
About how former Education Secretary Michael Gove insisted
that children should be reading 50 books a year
while his government engaged in a systematic mission
to close down every public library in the country.
Tell them about Iain Duncan-Smith and the Department for Work and Pensions.
About the systematic hounding of those unable to sell their labour
About continual sanctions, online forms and hoops that must
be jumped through:
the kind of bureaucratic labyrinth of which Kafka would be proud.
Tell them about a company called ATOS,
which turned the disabled into numbers on
a Spreadsheet for the sake of private profit;
About the Poundland scandal, and enforced volunteering for less
than the minimum wage.
Tell them about their co-option of the word “compassionate”
so late in the game:
About the sheer effrontery of the notion of a “Compassionate Conservative”
A term bandied around like some deranged badge of honour
As if being compassionate should not be the fucking default.
Tell them about a concept called “Brexit”:
an internal party-political squabble transposed to national nightmare.
About “lower energy bills”, “more cash for the NHS”;
all lies told brazenly and fake promises broken.
An eight-year farce with no end in sight
Economic isolationism
with precisely zero benefits;
Its adherents slinking quietly away
like so many shuttered storefronts.
National sovereignty restored: a label on a pint glass
A lovely blue passport like back in the old days
God save the fucking King.
A nation finally brought to its knees, too proud or
pig-headed to beg
for the teat of communal assistance;
Boy, we sure know how to stick it to those global elites.
Tell them about Theresa May and her “hostile environment”,
and about the 83 naturalised British citizens
wrongfully
deported as part of the Windrush Scandal.
Tell them about a “swarm” and “invasion” on our seas
About “vile people smugglers”
About boats found washed ashore with dozens of missing inhabitants
and an administration having to be actively dissuaded from
installing wave machines
in coastal areas
to beat back the tide.
As if we haven’t been telling refugees for years now that
our way of life is superior
or driven them slowly inwards towards our hallowed isle
through decades of armed conflict that we helped propagate.
But just remember who the real enemy is next time you go to
the polls:
a five-year-old girl from Syria
and a single mum from the Sudan.
Tell them, then, about Priti Patel and Suella Braverman:
Children born to immigrant families
who couldn’t summon the common decency to extend the same opportunities
to others.
People whose chronic lack of empathy was such that they made
it their “dream”
to deport those seeking a better life.
A finer example for your child’s aspirations, you never could hope to set;
Dream big, kids,
for one day you too could rank among the world’s most
irredeemable bastards.
Tell them about Awaab Ishak
A young boy in Rochdale whose short life lasted just 24 months
and who died of complications sustained from untreated mould
in his Council flat.
Tell them about how the Secretary of Housing had the temerity and the gall
to call this situation “unacceptable”
As if the party he is a proud, paid-up member of -
a party in which a full quarter of its MPs are private landlords -
hadn’t voted for years against making rental properties fit for human
habitation
or choked the social housing sector of vital funding.
Tell them, then, about a tower block in Grenfell
That seething, smouldering eyesore
A monument to corporate and legislative malfeasance
which is somehow still allowed to stand when 72 of its
former inhabitants cannot.
Tell them about the design flaw baked into the system
which allows its subcontractors to play an endless round of
pass-the-parcel,
one in which the music ultimately stops but there is no
responsibility,
accountability
or - more accurately –
liability
to be found gift-wrapped at the centre.
Tell them about Boris Johnson
That lovable, philandering rogue turned “Man of the People”.
This buffoon, this charlatan, this posturing circus clown
with whom the average citizen
shares about as much in common as they do with
a garden-variety hog.
Tell them about one rule for them and another for the rest of us:
about parties which raged in Downing Street while the nation sat obediently in
forced isolation
Merrily taken for the fools we are
for allowing ourselves to believe that this man could ever
be one of us.
Tell them names like Jacob Rees-Mogg and Nadine Dorries:
People who bemoaned the erosion of respect in public life
while blithely facilitating acts of state violence and
cultural vandalism.
Tell them about David Amess,
the stick to beat your hypocrisy with:
Martyred and sanctified
But whose voting record exists in perpetuity for all the
world to see.
A man who cared more for animals than he ever did about
welfare recipients
or the less able-bodied
But who smiled a lot at local events, so that’s okay.
A “nice man”, all things considered;
Beatified in death like Thatcher before him.
But be sure to tell them all how now is “not the moment” to
discuss these things
Because have you ever noticed
how now is never the moment.
Tell them about an imported “Culture War”
which saw those born into a gender which is not their own
used as a political punching-bag for the sake of scoring
cheap points.
Tell them about fusty poets removed from the syllabus
About manufactured outrage
About reading lists “hijacked” by black authors
About university speakers “cancelled”;
All stories wilfully misconstrued to inflame those with a
vested interest
in maintaining the status quo.
Tell them about how “freedom of speech” was supposedly under
attack from
Gen-Z snowflakes
And how “virtue-signalling” applies to every act of rudimentary social
conscience
bar, of course, the wearing of a poppy.
Tell them how all these measures
which, coincidentally, have a disproportionate effect on
people of colour
were summarised in a report that claimed – perhaps somewhat
audaciously -
that institutional racism is a myth.
Signed, sealed and delivered;
It’s life, Jim, but not as you know it
Hundreds upon thousands of citizens gaslit on a national
scale
as they’re told they need to “change the narrative”;
As if the concept of racism itself has somehow been
overstated
in spite of all lived experience
and basic evidence to the contrary.
Tory Blue, yet still white through and through.
Tell them about the ongoing criminalisation of protest
and the mindset of a government which hands out 10-year jail sentences
for vandalising statues of slave-owners
but refuses to prosecute or even sanction corporate tax
evasion.
Tell them about Jeremy Corbyn and anti-Semitism,
and how isn’t it strange that Conservatives only seem to give
a fuck about these issues
when it serves their own immediate political ends.
Tell them, then, about Prevent and Islamophobia
About the weaponisation of the term “woke”,
trotted out as a noun to belittle those who’ve finally
become wise to their bullshit.
“Wokie” the new “darkie” -
the ultimate modern-day dog-whistle;
the unsayable made palatable for mass consumption.
Then tell your children, in light of all this,
how you expect them now to grow up and become
functioning members of an increasingly-multicultural society
without having ever been taught anything meaningful about
history
or diversity
or tolerance.
Tell them about Liz Truss and Kwasi Kwarteng:
Farcical adherents to a 40-year-old discredited economic
theory
which insists the wealth will one day “trickle down”.
Neoliberal ideologues whose comedic antics wrought disaster
for millions
while delivering ridicule on a global scale.
The ultimate in bitter irony:
“Live by the markets, die by the markets”
A failed experiment turned national punchline
The final decimation of the dream of home ownership
The joke, as ever, merely on us
while predatory speculators grow ever-richer betting against
the pound
and we’re all left to ponder how the only thing that ever
“trickled down”
was the distinct feeling of getting pissed on from a great
height
and being told to pretend like it’s raining.
Tell them about the much-vaunted promise of “strength and
stability”
while delivering neither;
About refusing to allow ourselves to get “taken back to the
1970s” of high inflation,
strikes and social unrest
Before taking us right back to the 1970s of high inflation, strikes and social
unrest.
Tell them about a prolonged cost-of-living crisis
and how taxpayer money was handed to energy companies already generating
billions
in surplus revenue.
Tell them how they allowed essential commodities like water,
transport and energy
to be run for private gain ahead of the national interest;
About a health service in ruins
and a mental health crisis become national psychosis.
I just checked in to see what condition my condition was in:
Anxiety, depression, burnout and fatigue the “New Normal”
in a country where we’re told that “No-one wants to work
anymore”
Small wonder
in a world of zero-hours contracts, casualised labour and
demonised collective action
Worker pitted against worker
Sector against sector
Mick Lynch, the “Christmas Grinch” for having the audacity
to stand up and say:
“No more.”
Tell them about the myth of competence:
About names like Michael Gove, Grant Shapps and Jeremy Hunt
Men of infinite indistinction
Jacks-of-all-trades but masters of none
Shuffled from one cabinet post to another as a “safe pair of hands”
while everything they touch turns gradually to shit.
King Midas in reverse; a true emperor without clothing.
Tell them, then, about the Great Magic Trick:
the myth of “Levelling Up”
That infernal sleight-of-hand which deprives communities of basic sustenance
for the best part of a decade
That slashes funding
That starves vital services of the oxygen they so
desperately need to survive
and then claims to ride in on a white horse as our noble
saviour.
With one hand they taketh, and the other they give back:
bestowing so generously upon the grateful masses
that which was already theirs to begin with.
’Twas ever thus in the endless merry-go-round of a party
who do not believe in the idea of a State,
and whose figurehead and contemporary spiritual role-model
once said:
“There is no such thing as society”.
Tell them about a party which supposedly did “so much for women”
by electing three grotesque incompetents to the nation’s
highest office
Then tell them the names Zara Aleena, and Sabita Thanwani, and Sarah Everard
Victims of institutionalised assault, harassment and murder
and a police service perverted to the core by the perpetual
need to be “tough on crime”.
Tell them all about these “shocking tragedies”, which strangely remain neither
a shock
nor even much of a surprise
to the majority of women.
Tell them about the absence of consent education in your child’s classroom
and a wilful, singular failure to observe the basic
relationship between cause and effect
because we all just need to “let children be children”.
About how phrases like ‘toxic masculinity’ are considered
“unhelpful posturing”
rather than a vital social imperative.
Tell your children,
your sons in particular,
in the absence of meaningful government action
to respect and honour bodily autonomy and biological
difference
while embracing commonality.
I will say it once more but now shout it with force:
FEMINISM
HELPS
MEN
Tell them all this while showing them Andrew Tate’s array of shiny fucking cars
and explain how they’ll likely never be rich, despite their best
intentions.
Tell them about the myth of aspiration
The great lie of a meritocracy which seems to exist only for
those
with the requisite means, motives, opportunities
or accident of birthright.
Tell them how this was part of their grand scheme all along:
the stick that follows the carrot to direct us all
straight down the nearest rabbit-hole.
Tell them about just existing
Day-to-day and week-to-week
Paycheque to paycheque
One casual wrist-flick of circumstance away from joining the ranks of the
destitute.
It is exactly what they want
For they consider it a moral failing
to be poor and without means
in a system designed to keep us all locked firmly in our place.
Tell them, then, about a world in which the only art celebrated
is that with a proven commercial value.
About how anyone who belittles university degrees in “Mickey Mouse subjects”
should be stripped of the right to read a book, or listen to
music,
or enjoy any form of visual entertainment
Since it is so often conveniently forgotten that your daily
source of escape
represents another person’s dream, calling, or source of
employment.
Tell them, yes, about a global pandemic and an illegal war
waged by a lunatic dictator
But let them never be used as an excuse
- as they so often are nowadays –
for their own party’s political shortcomings.
Tell them about endless debates on BBC bias while an entire schedule is given
over for
ten whole days
to rolling coverage of a monarch’s death
The speed of accession validated with not one dissenting
voice allowed to speak in opposition
Because have you ever noticed
how now
is never
the moment.
Tell them all these things. Tell them that basic
numeracy is instilled at Primary School-age,
and how the majority of adults will never have a use for
GCSE Maths beyond the age of 16.
Tell them about the slashing of alternative energy programmes,
then seeming
somehow surprised
by the advent of a global energy crisis.
Tell them how they voted en masse to allow water companies
to dump thousands of gallons of shit into our rivers and
seas.
Tell them about tuition fees trebled and student debt multiplied;
About PPE procurement scandals and millions in missing taxpayer funds;
About peerages handed out like tombola prizes to cronies and oligarchs;
About endless attempts to force through boundary changes in a further bid to rig
the electoral map in their favour,
and the wholly superfluous introduction of voter ID to ensure just that.
Tell them about the distortion and sabotage of the referendum on voting reform
so that proportional representation remains off the table
for at least another three decades.
Tell them about their stupid fucking “power stance” at Tory Party Conference.
But above all else, tell them this:
Tell them what it felt like to barely survive this cold,
hard winter
To have lived freezing, broke and without hope
Tell them to remember this feeling
To hold it in their bones
and revisit it at the ballot-box for generations to come.
Tell them all these things, and remind them:
That
is what it felt like
to live
under a Conservative government.
C.C. Jan 2023
HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY
Roses are red;
Violets are blue;
J.K. Rowling is an appalling, transphobic witch who misappropriates the tenets
of Second-Wave Feminism in a bid to mask the hatred that lies within her cold,
dead heart;
Fuck her.
C.C. 14/02/24
THE PSEUDO-IRONIC SOPHIE ELLIS-BEXTOR REVIVAL
* * *
“So remember when we were driving, driving in your car
Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk;
City lights lay out before us,
And your arm felt nice wrapped round my shoulder…”
C.C. Jan 24
VIOLENT NIGHT
From: c.columbus@chicagohospitaltrust.org
To: profiling@fbi.gov
SUBJECT: Suspect profile
To whom it may concern,
I am writing in relation to a matter of grave urgency, concerning two patients admitted
to the A&E department of Chicago General Hospital earlier this evening. Despite
being brought in under police custody, the level of violence inflicted upon
these men is honestly among the most horrifying I have encountered within
several decades of working in the medical profession.
Detectives, consultants and diagnosticians alike are currently baffled as to
who – or what – could have caused such an appalling array of injuries. While
the patients themselves remain under strict police supervision, the full list
of impairments we have been able to document thus far includes the following:
* Multiple ribcage fractures and internal cartilage damage from beatings with a
crowbar;
* Innumerable
back and torso injuries caused by a variety of slips, trips and
falls;
*
Puncture wounds to the feet, inflicted by a range of items including glass
ornaments and a large household nail;
*
Air-rifle pellet wounds to the lower groin and forehead;
*
A branding mark to the outer palm, centred around the carpal bones;
* Notable
scorch-marks and bruising to the face in what seems to resemble the outline of
a regular household iron;
*
Third-degree burns to the parietal area of the scalp, evidently inflicted at
close-range by an object of considerable intensity - perhaps even a blow-torch;
*
Glue and feathers liberally applied to the upper body in an act of humiliation
akin to the retribution faced by sectarian terrorists of the 1970s;
*
Blunt-force cranial trauma caused by the sizeable impact of what appears to be a
paint can to the face.
While my colleagues and I continue to work tirelessly in a bid to aid their recovery,
we would greatly appreciate your input as to what kind of a sick-minded
individual would do such a thing, with an obvious view to prevent it from ever happening
again.
Regards,
Dr. Christopher Columbus, M.D.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
From: j.hughes@fbi.gov
To: c.columbus@chicagohospitaltrust.org
RE: Suspect profile
Hi Chris,
Thanks for your email – your message was passed to me by a member of our regional
Field team. I am Special Agent Hughes from the FBI’s profiling unit.
Somewhere in my memory, I seem to recall hearing about this incident on the office
teletype – it certainly does sound like the victims have been subject to a prolonged,
brutal and painful ordeal at the hands of a lone sociopath. I have therefore prepared
the following profile in the hope that it will prove useful to your colleagues
and partners in law enforcement.
It may surprise you to learn that your suspect is most likely an 8-year-old
boy. Severe abandonment issues coupled with an acute lack of parental
supervision will have caused him to act out in a number of highly specific ways,
most notably surrounding the sanctity of his family home. In short, it is his
house, and he has to defend it. (In mitigation, fair warning would
likely have been served upon any intruders, who I imagine would be given to the
count of ten to get their ugly, yella, no-good keisters off his property before
he pumps their guts full of lead. I cannot guarantee, however, that the full
count would have been honoured before hostilities commenced.)
It is highly probable that the suspect will be making the most of his new-found
independence by partaking in a range of activities usually denied to him – specifically,
by eating junk and watching rubbish. It may therefore be worth contacting the
local food delivery services to see if anyone has recently ordered “a lovely
cheese pizza, just for him”. You might also want to check whether staff members
at the local convenience stores have encountered a young man displaying an
evasive and belligerent attitude when questioned as to the whereabouts of his immediate
family. (Him, an eight-year-old? Here? Alone...? I don’t think so.)
It does sound suspiciously like the two gentlemen in question may have fallen victim
to a number of highly avoidable injuries, and indeed might have escaped largely
unscathed were they not prone to being scammed by a kindygartener. Perhaps they
are an example what the French might call “les incompetents”. Either
way, I sincerely hope you manage to identify and apprehend the sadistic little
bastard; God only knows what sort of damage he might be capable of
inflicting were he let loose at this time of year in a major metropolitan area.
Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal...
Sincerely,
John.
WE DIDN’T START THE FIRE
- "Celebrating" 13 years of disastrous Tory rule -
David Cameron on a mission,
has to form a coalition
Nicky Clegg: misplaced
ambition – ends up at Facebook.
George Osborne, austerity,
funding slashed to Nth degree
No NHS, no libraries - you all
can get to fuck.
Operation Yewtree, Queenie
Diamond Jubilee
Army drummer Lee Rigby,
Farage and UKIP.
Cameron fucked a pig’s head,
Georgie blarting, Thatcher dead
Record-buyers sing instead:
ding-dong to the witch.
Asylum policy mismanaged,
billboards touting racist language,
Milliband eats bacon sandwich,
Labour at a disadvantage,
Scottish pride has gained
momentum, Independence Referendum,
AV vote a rude addendum,
takes the piss and fucking then some…!
We didn’t start the fire
It was always burning
since the world’s been turning
We didn’t start the fire
No, we didn’t light it but
we’re trying to fight it…
Jo Cox murder, knife crime, BNP
on Question Time
David Cameron resigns after
Brexit stink.
Beast from East flies off the
handle, Amber Rudd and Windrush scandal
Churchill statue sprayed by
vandals: 10 years in the clink.
Hammond and Theresa May, governing
in shades in grey
Fields of wheat and naughty
japes, charisma of a goat.
Invoke Article 50, Grenfell public
inquiry
Waning May authority – take it
to a vote.
Puts faith in democracy,
loses her majority,
Corbyn internet for free, best
call in the DUP,
Boris rides in for the steal,
he knows how the country feels,
Oven-ready Brexit deal: plate
of shit for every meal…!
We didn’t start the fire
It was always burning
since the world’s been turning
We didn’t start the fire
No, we didn’t light it but
we’re trying to fight it…
Covid-19 lung pandemic,
inequality systemic
Partygate shows lies endemic –
stick that in yer pipe.
Government have lost control,
panic buying loo roll
Wankers topple 5G poles,
anti-vaccine tripe.
Captain Tom and Black Lives
Matter, FIFA chiefs indict Sepp Blatter
Public confidence in tatters –
country gone to shit.
Daily briefing, “Next slide
please”, Matt Hancock, no PPE
Cummings notes bluebells
lovely – gets away with it.
Boris takes us all for fools,
claims he never broke the rules,
Sewage spills and crumbling schools, irate workers downing tools,
Obfuscation and fake news,
Trump declares election coup,
Cranks the volume, turns the
screw, MAGA muppets storm the pews…!
We didn’t start the fire
It was always burning
since the world’s been turning
We didn’t start the fire
No, we didn’t light it but
we’re trying to fight it…
Boris exits in disgrace,
Lizzie Truss soon takes his place
Premiership lasts 40 days – hapless
twat rebuffed.
Did the maths and somehow
fudged it, Kwasi Kwarteng, silly budget
Middle-class will soon begrudge
it – mortgages are stuffed.
GDP not kept afloat, blame
the migrants, stop the boats
Rishi grabs it by the throat –
wife does not pay tax.
Syria conflict, Prevent,
ISIS, major cost of living crisis
Claims Ukraine war drove up
prices – notice the Dead Cat.
Braverman, Priti Patel, we’ve
entered Seventh Circle Hell
Rwanda flights? They might as
well – what a pair of pricks.
Nadine Dorries peerage row, fuck that fucking awful cow
How’s she get her damehood
now? Couldn’t give a fig.
Chris Pincher virility, Rees-Mogg no humility,
Massive instability, drowning
in futility,
Country laid out on the floor, don’t blame us if you’re now poor,
“It’s Putin’s illegal war” –
I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE…!
We didn’t start the fire
It was always burning
since the world’s been turning
We didn’t start the fire
No, we didn’t light it but
we’re trying to fight it…
We didn’t start the fire
It was always burning
since the world’s been turning
We didn’t start the fire
But when we are gone
It will just burn on and
on and on…
C.C. 30/6/23
(With thanks to Andy Sutton -
and apologies to Billy Joel)
TAYLOR
- To the tune and backing
music of Lemon Water by Guttermouth -
The deranged should be caged, what is wrong with
people
It must be them, can’t you see that it couldn't be me
Where their road ends, that’s where my day begins…”
I’ll tell you what really winds me up on a near-daily basis, is adult fans of Taylor Swift. When did it become acceptable discourse for the likes of Taylor, Kylie and Girls Aloud to be treated as highbrow musical concerns by broadsheet critics and readers alike? Honestly, Taylor Swift could fart on the toilet and the BBC would run a story about it. No-one asked for this situation, and yet we all seem to have been saddled with it anyway - a bit like salted caramel, cucumber shavings in the table-water at wedding receptions, or a slice of lemon added to your half-pint of Coke.
“Have you heard it though, Chris? Have you heard her latest album? Have you sat waiting patiently for 20 years in an online queue in a futile bid to obtain tickets for her upcoming stadium tour?” No, I haven’t, and I’ll tell you why – because I’m not a 14-year-old girl. I don’t need to listen to Taylor’s latest heartfelt entreaty to “be my besty” to understand that it isn’t meant for people like me - i.e. grown adults. Honestly, is there anything which makes your heart sink more than logging onto Tinder – or, as it should perhaps now be better known, ‘The Binfire of the Vanities’ – and seeing a grown woman claiming to be a “Disney fanatic” while listing ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’ as her own personal anthem. There is a reason why these people are still single, and it is just that. Literally the only thing I can imagine being more embarrassing is someone in their mid-40s claiming that ‘Bad Guy’ by Billie Eilish somehow speaks to them. I can absolutely assure you that when she grows out of it in a few years’ time, Billie Eilish is going to bitterly regret having ever put her name to the bit in that song that goes “Duh…”, and curse her misfortune at having to now regurgitate it every night to an audience who’ll then be pushing 60. In the meantime, Sandra from Lenton, you are 46 years old. Please have the dignity and intellectual wherewithal to acknowledge that the likes of Billie Eilish and Taylor Swift have precisely nothing to say about your life.
- No, before you ask, I haven’t had any matches
on dating apps recently. However, please don’t think I’m being sexist or reductive
when I say these things; I am an equal opportunities abuser when it comes to
matters of musical taste, or lack thereof. I once met a man who was also in his mid-40s
and who claimed, without the merest hint of irony, that his favourite record of
all-time was Jennifer Paige’s ‘Crush’. Just think about that for a second: you are
stranded on a desert island after the nuclear apocalypse, and can now only listen
to one song for the rest of your life. Having given it careful consideration in
the face of existential oblivion, you’ve decided that what lurks deepest within
the recesses of your soul is a mall-pop tween anthem from 1998.
It could be worse though, I suppose – you could
be one of those infernal men-children who still listens to American frathouse pop-punk
from the early-to-mid noughties as a matter of course. I mean, don’t get me
wrong, I liked Blink-182’s Take Off Your Pants and Jacket as much as the
next person back when I was a teenager, and am still able to locate a modicum
of nostalgic value in a song about Grandpa shitting his pants on Labour Day. However,
while you might think this is a bit rich coming from someone who still dresses
like they’re 15, I think it’s fair to suggest that doing synchronised chord-rips
and choreographed pogo routines while going about telling everyone how you
fucked their “Mom” last night - as the likes of Blink and Simple Plan still are
in 2023 - rather lacks a certain grace and sense of self-respect. I saw a video
recently from the Blink reunion tour in which they invited a 12-year-old boy onstage
and handed him the microphone. Evidently inspired by the terminally juvenile antics
of his suburban punk heroes, the best he could muster was to shout “FUCK YOU”
at the assembled masses, to much yukking and wild applause from singer Tom
DeLonge - a man who is now just two short years away from turning 50. I ask
you, in all seriousness: what kind of fucking rebellion is that.
I swear to God, I don’t know what I clicked on a
couple of weeks back that’s caused the Facebook algorithm to think I give
anything even approaching a glittery neon pink shit, but if I see another fucking
post in my News Feed about the Barbie movie, I am going to absolutely chin
someone. Congratulations to Greta Gerwig on navigating the testy waters of Hollywood
and turning out what is no doubt a sassy postmodern take on the contemporary
blockbuster that operates on a level which is at least 4-out-of-10 subversive. I
for one can certainly appreciate the merits of pissing off Ben Shapiro, Sarah
Vine and a bunch of other right-wing fucknuts who think that any film in which
a woman speaks onscreen is somehow “woke”. However, can we please all just try
to get a little bit of perspective here and see this for what it is, which is essentially
a 2-hour commercial for an existing toy property.
“Have you seen it yet, Chris? Have you been to see it yet?” No, I haven’t seen
it, but I’ll be sure to catch it on Blu Ray at some point in the future. I’m fairly
sure it’ll turn out to be distinctly bang-average, just like Oppenheimer
will be, having also been hyped beyond belief by people who think that Christopher
Nolan and his massive brain represent the pinnacle of cinematic achievement. Frankly,
listening to clueless internet movie bros talk up The Dark Knight and Inception,
blithely tossing around words like “masterpiece” when their only frame of
reference is Tarantino films and Guardians of the Galaxy 3, is a
bit like the moment when a 15-year-old boy tries to tell you that Muse are
really intelligent, simply because they’ve never actually encountered anything
intelligent and thus don’t have a clue what they’re talking about. But that’s where
we apparently are now in the modern media landscape, where having continual access
to everything, everywhere, all at once across a multitude of platforms has
meant that we’ve lost the ability to differentiate between what is actually good,
and what is merely talked about - just so long as it keeps unfolding before us in
an endless, unbroken stream of “content”. ‘Barbenheimer’, is it…? Fuck me sideways and
call me Margot. Let these massive corporations do their own fucking marketing,
rather than having you willingly step up to do it for them. I wouldn’t worry
too much about those idiots who’ve been body-shaming Florence Pugh for her nude
scene though – they’ve never seen a naked woman in real life, and likely never
will.
C.C. 1/8/2023
There’s a woman gone missing down by the canal;
I saw it on ITV News.
So I got out my smartphone and went to help out -
and now I’ve got 10 million views.
I’ve love to admit that my motives were pure,
and I want to discover the truth;
But the fact is, I watched some true-crime shit on Netflix
and now I’m an amateur sleuth.
“Do you think the Dad did it? Was it the dog?
The police now are under suspicion…!”
Of course, finding the answer’s the mootest of points;
To raise my own profile’s the mission.
So I pore over the details of Nicola’s life,
like whether she’s had HRT.
But when all’s turned to dust, I’m not really that fussed
’Cos it’s not about her - it’s about me.
“Now sound the alarm, ’cos I went to the barn,
and discovered an old piece of plywood…!”
I don’t care if it’s true – I’ve said it’s a clue;
and now my viewcount has rocketed skyward.
“The cops came and found me. Now I’ve been arrested!
It’s surely proof of conspiracy….!”
MATE. Your moronic pretence is disturbing forensics,
destroying the fucking crime scene…!
“Well, I’m not a professional, much less an expert;
I represent the curious majority.”
That being the case, shut the hole in your face -
there’s a reason you have no authority…!
It shouldn’t need to be mentioned, ’cos it defies comprehension
there are those making hay from her name.
And if your intervention is for ‘Likes’ or attention,
then you should be fucking ashamed.
When you trot theories out to enhance your own clout,
It’s an exercise in nothing but vanity.
Territorial pissing, while a person’s still missing –
and you’ve lost sight of your basic humanity.
Unable to contribute anything of worth,
and no chance that you’ll ever join MENSA…?
Then why not just sign up to Instagram?
You too could be an influencer!
So put on a bib, warm up a plate,
and devour the shit that they’re feeding ya
When idiot people with nothing to say
put it all out on their social media.
“My followers have gone to 6 million from zero,
And now I’m a legend on TikTok!”
I’ll tell you what, pal – that don’t make you a hero;
Just a sadcase, a pox, and a dick.
…Cock.
C.C. 22/2/23
HOWL
I
I saw the greatest minds of
my generation
co-opted to write back-end
coding for the likes of Google, Amazon and Facebook.
Starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through
line upon line of proprietary algorithms
then hauled before Congress and
told to explain themselves
Which of course they could
not.
Alexa: sell my data to the
Russians.
I sometimes wonder if any
moment in human history
can ever, or will ever be as
great
as that scene in Problem
Child 2
when Junior pisses in the
lemonade
and his obnoxious adult
neighbour drinks it.
Consider the conceptual
brilliance in an act of comedy so sublime:
a 10-year-old child urinating
into a glass pitcher
and handing it to the adult
who has previously insulted him;
while we, the audience, all
know that it’s actually a jugful of piss.
He chugs it down merrily,
smacking his lips at the end
and uttering the masterful
one-word synopsis:
“Tangy”.
What is the point of even going on
when the greatest artistic
endeavour in human history
has already been achieved.
I ask myself this daily while
contemplating life here on earth.
I once had a dream
that the lovely Hollywood
actress Anne Hathaway was my wife.
In this dream, we would awake each morning
and she would proceed to sit on
my face and disco dance.
It was a glorious dream
Vivid and stimulating
So you can only imagine how
upset I was
to awake and find
my actual wife lying beside
me instead.
Extremely upsetting,
and not at all how I wanted
to start my weekend.
I saw a piece of graffiti once
written on the cubicle wall
of a public toilet.
It said, in plaintive text
without punctuation:
“What is love
Baby don’t hurt me
Don’t hurt me
No more” – Haddaway, 1993.
That struck me as curiously
profound
for some reason.
On the subject of love, I
sometimes play a fun game
in which I substitute the
word ‘love’ in any given song title
for the word ‘muff’.
It brings me endless
amusement
giggling at the likes of
How Deep Is Your Muff
Make You Feel My Muff
Muff is a Battlefield
Need Your Muff So Bad
Muff in an Elevator
Can You Feel the Muff
Tonight
Bizarre Muff Triangle
and Can’t Get Enough of
Your Muff, Babe.
It is a childish game
Infantile, even
But it brings me comfort in
this world of pain.
Try it yourself sometime
and you too may know what
true spiritual fulfilment feels like.
II
Did you ever stop to consider how,
prior to the release of the
most recent Rambo movie,
The fifth in the franchise
That this would be, quite
literally,
Rambo Number 5.
A little bit of violence, all night long
A little bit of slaughter, in the sun
A little bit of massacre,
here I am
A little bit of gore makes me your man.
Aaaaaight.
As it turns out, the series
denouement was basically just
a really nasty version of Home
Alone set on a ranch,
though I certainly enjoyed
myself.
But to think, all this could
have been easily avoided
John Rambo’s 40-year orgy of
destruction across multiple continents and American states
If they’d just given him what
he asked for at the start of First Blood
and served him breakfast when
he wandered into town.
All this needless bloodshed, for want of a bacon sandwich.
It truly
beggars belief.
Can you imagine what it would
be like if the Go Compare Man was your Dad.
How would that conversation go at school during Show & Tell, I wonder
“And what about you, Timmy?
What does your Daddy do?”
“My father is Gio Comparo
He puts on a silly moustache and acts like a cunt on national television
Nobody likes him, least of all me;
My mother exists in a perpetual
state of loathing, embarrassment and shame
No longer able to show her
face in polite society for fear of violent recrimination
Now flush my head down the toilet, o willing tormentor
It is no less than I deserve
For being the son of a
national disgrace.”
The only thing worse is those
fucking meerkats
Aleksandr and Sergei
Twatting about in their
oligarch’s mansion
Doing the two-handed hoover
to MC Hammer.
What must it be like
to be one of those people
who collects limited edition
soft toys of the awful furry bastards
and their insufferable rodent
offspring?
Are they proud
to be someone
who goes onto comparethemarket.com
and enters into a commercial
dialogue with a price comparison search engine
simply for the purposes of
obtaining
a Sleepy Oleg toy.
These people must exist somewhere
There are millions of them
out there in the world
And yet I have never met one.
A bit like George Michael fans.
Speaking, though, of MC Hammer
I once bought a doll of him
from a knick-knack shopfront
in Singapore
for the princely sum of $10.
That’s £6.10 translated into
British currency
at the time of writing,
though obviously subject
to future market
fluctuations.
I’m sure you think that I am joking, but I can assure I am not -
Look, I have it here in this
orange carrier bag.
Behold the wonder of MC
Hammer in moulded plastic form
The craftsmanship is quite
exquisite
Right down to the sparkling
baggy Hammerpants.
Spare a thought for the
artist formerly known as Stanley Kirk Burrell
A man who once had everything:
Gold-plated toilet seat
Saturday-morning animated kids’ TV series
and, most importantly:
pumps and a bump.
Jamie Foxx got an Oscar for Ray
But where oh where was Romany
Malco’s award
for his scintillating
portrayal in the lead role
of the made-for-television
biopic Too Legit: The MC Hammer Story.
Again, I’m not making this up, I can assure you -
I own it on DVD.
Look, here it is.
Foxx gets all the plaudits
while Malco goes home
empty-handed from pretty much every awards show going.
I ask you,
a bit like Lemar off of Fame
Academy in that silly song of his,
where is the justice.
III
Why is it
that every fucking idiot you ever
went to High School with
insists on having three
children.
Not content with just one, or two,
they must continue their spree of aimless procreation
and shat out a third
just to make sure their appalling
gene-pool lives on in the collective consciousness.
As if the world weren’t
over-populated and headed for catastrophe enough already
They marry into their own
kind
The sort of women who cry at Ed
Sheeran and the John Lewis Christmas advert
I am so glad these people
find each other
So the rest of us don’t have
to.
Three, is the magic number
They give their progeny
Playstations 5s
Down another four-pack of
Stella with the lads
Then go back to being idiots
And we wonder why
The world is so fucked.
What will the aliens say
when they land on our
abandoned planet
centuries after the Climate
Emergency has washed us all away.
“Were they kind people?”, they will ask;
“Were they wise people?”
“Behold”, they exclaim as
they consult the historical record;
Behold, the Sistine Chapel
The collective works of
Swedish pop duo Roxette
And that bit in Marc Cohn’s Walking
in Memphis when he sings:
“Tell me, are you a Christian, child?
I said: Ma’am, I am tonight”.
Or will they say:
Behold, Cher Lloyd’s Swagger Jagger
A record so mind-meltingly, staggeringly awful in its sheer obnoxiousness
As to attain a sort of zen
perfection.
They were capable of so much
But they spuffed it all on Celebrity
Love Island, fast fashion and Business Studies textbooks
How will we explain to them
the enduring popularity of Spandau
Ballet
as evidenced in footage of full-time
accountants in dreadful hats having it large at a festival
to the risible strains of Gold
on Spandau Ballet’s
much-hyped 2010 reunion tour.
Tony Hadley! I am with you
in the pseudo-ironic 1980s Romo
revival
Tony Hadley! I am with you
in occasional news reports of
your latest solo offering
I am with you
in that god-awful chord which
follows the chorus in True
For if this is the sound of
your soul
It is truly akin to Donald
Duck farting in the bathtub
Hadley be playing on the
jukebox;
Worldwide, brute force, and
full of money
Worldwide, brute force, and
full of money
Tony Hadley, I am with you
For your inevitable appearance
in the I’m a Celebrity jungle
alongside coat-hanger-faced
90s songbird Sophie Ellis-Bextor
and no doubt also Keith from
Boyzone.
I am with you, you floppy-haired
fucking git
I have no choice, since the great British public
simply refuses to let you die
I am with you, Tony Hadley
As your simpering fucking
aspirational yuppie yacht-rock
Reverberates in perpetuity at
the end of time.
I am with you
in countless landfills full
of discarded Funko Pops
I am with you
for the 59-thousandth retrospective documentary about the making of Back to
the Future
I am with you
for the announcement of
LadBaby’s 537th consecutive Christmas #1
I am with you
as Salt Bae infiltrates NORAD
and brings about the end of
the world
by pushing the nuclear button
live on Instagram.
The ultimate viral moment:
Don’t forget to Like, Comment
and Subscribe
as nuclear fire
rains from the heavens.
For that is how humanity ends:
Not with a bang, but with a TikTok
3000-plus years of human
history
selfie’d into oblivion
for 10 seconds of internet fame.
I picture a dystopian future
in which literally every fucker has a podcast.
We’re basically already
halfway there.
C.C. January 2023
