Our occasional contributor Prick Knobinson reports in his own inimitable style the current situation on the state of fascism in the country today.
Be prepared for a telling off!
Transcript:-
Right then, open our ears, shall we? Because this isn’t a jolly jape down the pier, not by a fucking long chalk. This is about the slow bleed, the creeping rot that’s taken hold of our little patch of decency, like damp in a forgotten cellar. We’ve been caught sitting it out supping tea and watching reruns of It Ain’t Half Hot, Mum. Drop the lukewarm lattes and your virtue-signaling hashtags, because the beast is no longer at the gate – it’s kicked down the goddamn door, wearing jackboots that are, right now , stamping on human faces.
You recall the recent past, don’t you? All that chin-wagging about fairness and the common man having his say. A right load of old flannel, as it turns out. Because some voices, the nasty ones, the ones dripping with bile and prejudice, they’ve elbowed their way to the front of the queue, haven’t they? George Galloway wearing his common man outfit for cash… and now he openly orgies with the bigots, the homophobes, the ultra oligarchs. The “voice of the people” sounds suspiciously like a bloke down the pub after twelve pints shouting about foreigners and how things were better in his day (which, let’s be honest, probably involved rationing, being abused by teachers, rogered by Thatcher and her DOGE like strap-on for working class asses, and dodgy plumbing). I ended up in Soho to escape the degradation of the welfare state- the fucking aristocrats slowly steeling the lives of the workers below them… Soho, were Writers, painters, poets, amateur philosophers, and people talking about sex, which I’d never heard people discussing before. I sat there enraptured. There was no authority. That’s the thing I’ve wanted to escape from all my life, authority… and now those pubs and clubs are disturbed by confident tricksters, thugs, racists… People who want to drown scared people in the English Channel. People who confidently scream out insults and hatred against my beautiful LGBT comrades. England… the UK… has been invaded by the scum our boys died on the beaches of Normandy to protect us from.. and Scotland it’s coming for you.
And we, well, we’ve stood about like gutless, coked up lemons, haven’t we? The far right… the fas… the nazis are here, fuelled by a toxic cocktail of fear, Ket and ignorance, mainlined straight into the veins of a populace too lazy or too gutless to fight back. Get off your fucking arses!
It started subtly, mind you, like a morning cough you try to ignore. A bit of finger-pointing here, a bit of muttering about “them” over there. And the politicians, bless their grasping little hearts, those spineless slugs in tailored suits, they fanned the flames, saw the raw, ugly hunger in the eyes of the mob – the whiff of something nasty in the air and thought, “Ooh, a chance to climb the greasy pole, there’s my ticket.” So they stoked the fires, didn’t they? Played on the basest fears, played vulnerable bigots on social media like a cheap fiddle.
Then came the name-calling, the turning of folk into monsters. Suddenly, whole swathes of humanity were the villain in their grubby little melodrama. Trans people, brown people, Palestinians who have been dehumanised and murdered since 1948… It wasn’t about a fair shake, or making things better for everyone – it was about finding a scapegoat, someone to pin the blame on for all the muck and mire that we are in, that we have allowed master manipulators to feed us with. Follow the fucking money.
And the fear, it took root, a proper weed strangling any sense of reason. Toilets indeed. Jk Rowling indeed. Immigrants indeed. Fascism, indeed.
And the quiet, the fucking silence from those who should have known better. They wrung their delicate little hands, spoke of keeping things civil while the thugs marched down the high street waving their “jacks.” The BBC with its idiotic middle road between truth and falsehoods… They thought it was a bit of a storm in a teacup, didn’t they? Didn’t twig that bigotry’s a bloody plague, and you can’t politely ask a plague to bugger off. Roll with shit and you get covered in it. Libs NEVER learn that.
Now have a proper look around. The bunting’s different, the slogans are uglier, and the cunts in charge… well, they’ve always been there, lurking in the shadows, the ones who thrive on a good old-fashioned divide and conquer, from behind walls that keep them away from the riff-raff – coming out only for staged pints and walkabouts for the press and the mug who is made to believe, “they understand me!” The air’s thick with suspicion, and a knock on the door after dark isn’t likely to be the bloody milkman if you are brown, black, LGBT, disabled. Violence is just a toilet visit away.
This ain’t some cock-and-bull story, my friends. This is what happens when we sit on our fucking hands because the ire is aimed elsewhere. This is the sour taste of doing fuck all, the stinking fruit of a society that’s forgotten how to “democracy.” So yes, fucking tuck into your kippers. The hangover from this one’s going to be a long, puking pain wracked shiver fest. And mark my words, it’s a damn sight stronger than any hair of the dog you can find down the pub with Farij- his hair of the dog comes with jackboot on the side. The nasty fuckers are here. And they’re hungry to goosestep and seig heil for more.
To paraphrase the new Sinéad O’Connor’s- Kneecap: “Tiocfaidh ár lá, get the fash’ out lad!”
