The other day, on the pedestrianised bit of the High Street, an elderly, constipated gentleman whom I did not know dropped his trousers, and there, amidst the shoppers and the vape stores and the hordes of canvassing Evangelical Christians, he began to squat.
With a grimace on his face and perspiration on his brow the exertion was obvious, yet despite the splendour of his straining, still the days and weeks of backed-up anti-matter wouldn’t budge through the event horizon of his bumhole, and as I stood there watching, contemplating videoing events on my phone then selling the footage to some Romanians we’d soon be deporting, my over-riding thought was Christ! Is nothing beyond a Brexit metaphor? Can a guy not defecate in the street in peace?
Yet here we are. All of us, trousers round our ankles on the greasy paving slabs, huffing and puffing whilst excreta decides whether or not to happen. Some of us wish to give up, stand up and make ourselves decent before the rozzers appear. Others ache for nothing more than a Krakatoa of poopy proportions; an eruption in putrid brown, after which they’ll sit there outside Poundland with a beatific smile on their chops, like a toddler, or Andrew Neil. But still we all squat, and because no-one’s popping into to BHS to buy us an enema kit, so we must have a general election instead to decide if our Brexit turd is coming out.
Elections are great fun. Old and young alike tremble in anticipation as politicians in hi-vis are shown around warehouses where the staff are on zero-hour contracts – and this time round there’ll be tinsel in the background, too. And such is Brexit’s non-stop erotic cabaret – Mark Francois calling the Germans “a bunch of twats” on Politics Live; the expression of the BBC’s European Editor Katya Adler suggesting that Europe’s hot take on the Westminster paradigm is one of come-hither exacerbation – it almost doesn’t matter that we still don’t know when we’ll leave the EU, how we’ll leave the EU, our future relationship with the EU, nor how many children the Prime Minister has.
On the other hand, as a cuckolded, namby-pamby Remoaner, I don’t dig Brexit; unlike 17.4 million of mostly old, mostly dead racists, I prefer to toilet in private, behind a locked door (and neither do I daub UP YOURS, DELORS! across the bathroom walls in my own excrement – although I have been tempted to smear a poo-y LOVE YOU, BABES up the shower cubicle, because I suspect that would make my soon-to-be deported Bulgarian cleaner’s day).
Scatological references – the present state of political discourse, ladies and gentlemen (cue approval from toddlers, or Andrew Neil). ‘What did you do in the great climate change war, Grandad?’ ask the children of the future, from their moon caves. ‘I sent Anna Soubry’s 108-year-old mother a death threat. And a dick pic.’ The planet burns and the direction of a nation plus its speaking terms with the outside world hang in the balance, like Boris Johnson’s cock and balls swinging in the faces of Arlene Foster and the rest of those groovy cats in the Democratic Union of Pallbearers, and it’s Brexit, innit? The bad juju of a Brexit-themed election. One quite different from the last Brexit-themed election, which after all was nothing more than a cynical attempt to massage Theresa May’s majority, like those dirty men who make their willies grow big, only because her campaign was as flaccid as her personality things didn’t go as planned, and two years later we get Little Lord FauntleFuck as Prime Minster instead – a lying, priapic Toad of Toad Hall, for whom the expression “consequences of your own actions” is meaningless because it didn’t crop up during Latin class at Eton, and he wouldn’t have been listening even if it had.
In the 1969 comedy What’s Good for the Goose, Norman Wisdom plays against type as a bank manager who soothes his mid-life crisis by having a go on some dolly birds, although what’s supposed to be a gentle satire on the permissive society is somewhat tempered by the ending, during which Wisdom’s dowdy wife weans Norman off young totty by dressing like a dolly bird herself, and possibly giving Norman a handjob behind the bins at Asda, or something.
Maybe it’s less of a film than lifestyle advice to dowdy women: stop your husband cheating by acting like a slapper, perhaps. But I like to think that the movie was specifically made as political commentary for the here and now, and that we’re all Norman’s wife, desperately trying to make sense of the dolly birds of Brexit whilst we wipe Norman Wisdom’s ejaculate from our fingers.
What was it printed on the side of that bus? We send the EU £350 million a week. Let’s get our hands covered in Norman Wisdom’s sperm instead. Norman is sadly no longer with us, but that hasn’t stopped the Conservative Party from relentlessly milking him for his man juice then spinning it into lies. Listening to Tory Brexiteers clogging up the airwaves with their non sequitur bullshit is quite something. It’s a kind of post-fact quacking. Gaslighting by tautology, underlining the abusive relationship we’ve been in for the last 3+ years. Wave after wave of Conservative frontbenchers, backbenchers and shameless husbands, each peddling pathological absurdities, shilled sloganeering and lowest-common denominator soundbites that earn the Goebbels estate another royalty.
Like a knackered dry ice machine, Theresa’s May’s regime spent its time farting derisorily across the stage, each occasional puff of wind announcing how unfit for government it was. Johnson, being far more cavalier and pyrotechnically minded than his predecessor, erected a full-on, jet-powered smoke chamber – complete with flashing lights and American pole dancers – which he rigged up to fire every 12 seconds, each salvo a gleeful meditation upon how unfit for government he is.
Yet in inverse tribute to the size of its majority, the Tories soar ever higher in the polls. What the hell is going on there? Is Johnson banging every woman in Britain, promising to leave Carrie Symonds for them straight after a favourable vote? Has Sir Professor Sir John Curtice been nobbled by some bad Vivaldi? Do broken promises, overt trolling, petulant stunts, pretend-ironic trolling, blatant dead-catting, some more trolling and multiple mangled attempts to leave the EU turn the electorate on? Is singing ‘Oh, Jeremy Corbyn’ at an old, rubbish man not the answer to stuff?
(An aside: I once sat behind Sir Professor Sir John Curtice at a Vivaldi recital. He spent the entire performance playing his imaginary harpsichord, rather extravagantly. He is undoubtedly the finest exponent of the imaginary harpsichord I’ve ever seen play. He also gives good psephology).
Labour’s ills are not all manufactured in-house, but many have been, and they tend towards the attention-grabbing. Filling your party with anti-Semites is an unorthodox strategy. Casting your deputy as some sort of persona non grata, shit heel totem is an intriguing thought bubble. Bearing your behind at the Cenotaph whilst shouting “The Fallen are knobbers,” has pros but also cons.
Has Corbyn actually done any of these things? I don’t know; I get all my news from social media accounts that communicate exclusively by emoji. But he looks like the kind of scoundrel who would invite the Taliban round to join his Thursday afternoon Allotment Circle, what with his stoat-y eyes and quaint Bennite worldview, so he must be up to some kind of shit.
Oh, Labour, with your progressive notions and your petty factionalism and your inability to articulate a coherent position on the matter of the day for any longer than the twenty minutes it takes to get Seamus Milne off the call he’s on with that other shadow frontbencher who’s gone off-message. And because Brexit is nothing but white noise punctuated by people who live in indoor markets in depressed northern towns shouting ‘LEAVE MEANS LEAVE’ at passing news crews, so Labour’s position has had them clucking about in the dark, like a hen that’s scared of teacakes – they may still be laying eggs, but they’re rubbish eggs that don’t make any sense, and then they go and put Barry Gardiner on Newsnight. Barry Gardiner, with his gimp suited, BDSM club bedside manner. Barry Gardiner, who’s on loan to the party from a stupid, early Victorian novel, where he plays the role of a confuddled milkmaid.
Some of my best friends are confuddled milkmaids from stupid, early Victorian novels, but I try not to put them on the TV to articulate a nuanced position around leaving a trading bloc too often. Then again, they’ll allow anyone on telly nowadays. Nadhim Zahawi, ‘Spoons scarecrow Tim Martin, that woman who put the cat in the bin. Isabel Oakeshott’s haunted expression, piped down every wire; as the remaining dregs of her humanity tries in vain to alert the authorities of all that hate pouring out of her gob, I half expect her to start blinking TORTURE in Morse code at the cameras, like those American airman shot down over Hanoi. But that’s a joke – Isabel Oakeshott doesn’t have any humanity, and we can’t deport her after Brexit anyway because we don’t have an extradition treaty with the works of Ayn Rand.
Imagine the japery if the Brexit party actually won some seats in the next parliament, instead of splitting the Leave vote in all those dreary post-urban hellhole constituencies full of flabby arses and broken teeth (if, that is, they bother to stand at all). Apparently, folk are due to turn to all sorts of weird and atavistic political entities this time around (insert your own Liberal Democrat gag here). Laid-off welders voting Faragist. Laid-off welders voting Tory. Something called the Independent Group for Change. Barry Gardiner. Viewers in Scotland have their own programmes. Viewers in Northern Ireland can only watch in black and white.
And will FauntleFuck win his majority and get to deliver his special, sperm-y, Brexit casserole? As I’m not from the future I don’t know, and who can say what campaign trail tragedy we have in store. Will Boris try to do a sex on Laura Kuenssberg at a Chipping Sodbury hustings? Will one of Jo Swinson’s incredibly tight sweaters grow so restrictive that her breasts explode, propelling her nipples through the wall and into the faces of some Remain-supporting orphans? Will Jeremy Corbyn? No – he probably won’t…
And in the meantime there are sirens outside, the pavements covered in broken glass and the frozen bodies of the homeless that society doesn’t give a fuck about. Greenland has melted; there’s nothing there. Just a twig, floating where the city of Nuuk used to be. And police on the Isle of Man keep receiving reports of a strange, shambling figure, quite dead. Folk spot him in the shadows, shouting ‘Mr Grimsdale’ and chasing dolly birds and scrawling filth about Michel Barnier on walls in his dead man’s spunk. The creature was last spotted at Douglas harbour, boarding one of Chris Grayling’s ferries. He’s coming for you.
(Also: don’t vote Tory. Kthnxbai).