"Many families will lose loved ones..."
I stood in the Co-op in March reading this from the front page of whatever Rupert Murder owned toilet roll it was and fell into a pit of rage.
I know hardship, utter hopelessness and pain; most of us do. To think Alexander de Pfeffel Johnson jumped in there as the hand of death warning his helpless mortal audience slapped me hard. And I wore a stapled sadness. Sadness not at the approaching cloud of COVID19 but a sadness at how we as English people are so utterly fucking wank.
When the homeless man at the Co-op is talking like Nigel Farage, why bother with the pizza topping? The base is fucked anyway.
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The theatrical vision of death’s messenger, of all things unknown, dark and final certainly doesn’t manifest itself in Johnson. He’s not a leader. But here he is, loving it. Catastrophes and ensuing panic ridden reactions aside, he loves the duties bestowed mumbling the day’s proceedings to his partner on that first alcohol hit of the evening.
It’s clear that as much as you can now buy a Prada rip off in H&M, with the right information on an application form, you can also play Julius Caesar whilst talking like the spout from a 16th century tea vase.
The next few months were hard, the rasping short breaths of those carrying it, the death toll, an under paid and exhausted front line, that let’s face it, have always been there, being underpaid and exhausted. And then the division came. The clappers and the continued refusal to acknowledge the bigger picture mimicked the idiocy of the Leave vote. A perfect experiment in demonstrating the surface consciousness amongst the greater body of this country’s people. How anyone can think that clapping was the way to help the NHS is beyond, people are so far removed from the realities of oppression, but that doesn’t mean to say they can’t understand.
I don’t want to be a Georgian panelled wall thank you. It’s shit.
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Then the steadily growing wickedness seeping from the infantile mouths of the Conservative Party. The Tory in-crowd remind me of a group of newly acquainted freshers talking about their micro-nationalism around the college canteen table between bursts of young excitement.
The hysterical behaviour of a bunker confined Eva Braun reborn in Matt Hancock. Priti Patel showing that it is indeed possible to actually be narrowminded about Nationalism, employing dashing Royal Marine Dan O’Mahoney to guard the channel against escaping refugee children just because Nigel Farage started crying about it.
Sunak, the giggling child, putting a pound in the fruit machine and telling everyone it will fix their financial hell. Does this government care about re-election? Clearly not if Dominic Cummings was allowed to recruit multiple Paul Goldings. Britain First indeed.
And what of division? It’s splintered tenfold, a masterclass in Divide and Rule, an air attack when the ground lies weakened from ten years of austerity and misinformation. ‘Let’s smash the bastards with more dogshit.’ Who would think a vaccine would be so vehemently despised? Where do the newly formed anarchists appearing on my Twitter timeline think Philip Morris gets his nicotine? A health shop? It works though, the barrage of opinion changing data, everyone’s a victim.
I now think anti maskers are basically Leave voters. Anti vaxers too. Anyone giving it a discount ‘Anonymous’ vibe just gets lobbed under gammon.
And that in itself is bad isn’t it. Gammon is not helping, a term as bad as Chav perhaps. Or is it? I’m trying not to use it.
People need help in multiple forms currently and I guess in places that is happening, but I’m chained to my echo chamber.
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sleaford mods' new album 'Spare Ribs' is out now.
Words: Jason Williamson
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