A couple of weeks ago I watched coverage of the alleged bioterrorist, known only as Geronimo, being bravely led away for execution by Marvel’s Agents of D.E.F.R.A. I briefly glimpsed on his face an expression I’ve seen somewhere before. An expression that shouted, “PLEASE, THERE MUST BE SOME MISTAKE. THIS IS SHIT!”
As his eyes screamed, his feet managed to keep moving in a direction that was becoming increasingly clear was not in his best interests. Geronimo, like many other members of the immigrant alpaca and human communities, looked thoroughly fed up with the rudderless antics of the powers that be.
It’ll likely be months before a definitive post-mortem bovine TB test reveals whether G-Unit was whacked for good reason or not. Meanwhile the rest of us shuffle ever onwards with silently screaming eyes and the growing suspicion that our existence is more precarious than ever before. At any moment we could be deemed inconvenient or surplus. The governmental duty of care could be ditched, only for us to find ourselves being bundled into the back of a van and administered a fatal dose of barbiturates by Old Etonians.
This week the Tories, again, refused to budge on plans for the largest benefits cut in the history of the welfare state - the removal of the £20 uplift in Universal Credit. It seems their current plan is to shout the words “Levelling Up” and “Build Back Better” loud enough to drown out the cries of the estimated one third of all British children currently living in poverty. Make no mistake: when a party has been in power for two thirds of the last century, a shameful statistic like that is no accident; it’s a choice. A managed outcome.
It used to be mainly royals and aristocrats that treated the public like shit; now half the country’s at it. After 11 consecutive years of Conservative government (the power posing on stage, the dark money, the Brexit division and the pandemic cockups) cold-hearted abuse is so normalised, it’s practically an aspirational quality in today’s Global Britain.
Of course, wealth never did trickle down as promised, just distain. Distain for the truth, distain for transparency, distain for any last remaining semblance of honour and a total distain for empathy. Put on a proper suit, do up your tie and scream the national anthem so loud that trade deals are somehow shat out of thin air. This attitude, this unsubstantiated malevolent bravado bullshit comes from the top.
Boris Johnson is a peculiarly British creation. It’s as if scientists distilled all the most morally repugnant human traits and stirred in the darkest days of British history. Imperial attitudes, underlying racism, abject nihilism, untrustworthiness and incompetence; all injected into a Broadmoor-level sex case. If he wasn’t forged by the English public school system, he’d be most believable as a villain from one of Rick and Morty’s multiverses, and not even a recurring one.
Even as a pustulating alien walk-on part he’s unsustainable: a guffawing cul-de-sac of intellect and empathy. But hey! The people get the government they deserve. Don’t even look at Labour right now, they’re so shit they lose to Tories. Kier Starmer looks like he’s trying to sell Epstein’s jet and you’ve just asked to smell the upholstery.
Just like a movie franchise struggling for ever more extreme plots to hold the audience’s attention, Johnson’s government keeps pushing the boundaries of meanness in the hope that the UKIP side of the party doesn’t desert them, reach for the hair clippers and go full National Front.
Are the hopes and aspirations of the average Brit now so decimated that the only way they can feel powerful again is by living vicariously through a Cabinet seemingly locked in the final round of Who Wants To Be a Morally Bankrupt Shitcunt? You can hear Jeremy Clarkson now:
“Mob favourite Priti Patel’s surely snatching victory as she devours this live Syrian baby. Wait! Who’s this hovering above her wearing a jet pack? It’s Dominic Raab, masturbating slowly and listening to Keane!”.
Raab these days resembles a man who after years of self-help tapes finally believes he’s the hero of his own story… only to realise that unfortunately the story is A Serbian Film. And yet these harbingers of ambivalence still have their fanboys and fangirls.
In any sane world the only way you’d end up shagging Boris Johnson is if you applied to join the Illuminati and they made you do it for Kompromat. Even then you’d probably beg for something less abhorrent, like skinning a baby dolphin with a potato peeler. But this is no sane world and Boris Johnson’s on his third wife despite looking like a herd of elephants just came inside Gary Busey. Imagine that.
Now imagine weighing up all the wonderful options life has in store, all the privilege and potential that being born into a first world media family affords you, then still deciding the best option is to willingly and habitually ride a morbidly habitual liar to completion. Perhaps these character traits are attractive to her? Everyone has a type. I like confidence, for example, whereas Carrie’s just gutted that Dr Mengele never got to have an OnlyFans.
Johnson wants to stay in Number 10 for another decade, according to reports. In 2031, Tory party conference delegates who donate over £10,000 for Border Force’s new laser moat will be able to don a full body Oculus Rift suit and experience what it’s like to be literally fucked stupid by Boris Johnson. This technologically astounding, yet profoundly harrowing, immersive experience will allow the party faithful to swoon in their seats as they feel Johnson’s sweat ooze through his pallid flesh like buttery mash forced through a Margaret Thatcher tea towel.
Recoil in libertarian ecstasy as he heaves his vinegar strokes, dousing you with a scent last detected through a crack in Fred West’s patio. Rees-Mogg’s in your headphones now. He’s Johnson’s load-blow hype man, all Britney mic and clenched fists like a horny, Dickensian Tony Robbins: “TEN MORE YEARS! TEN MORE YEARS!”
Geronimo had it easy.
BRAVO!
Love the Rick and Morty reference