“Don’t call this a comeback, I’ve been here for years!” James Smith declared, before proclaiming, rather boldly, that his ‘momma’ said she was going to “knock you out”. I am sure Smith’s mater was overjoyed when he declared, uncontested, and in a supremely confident, heterosexual way, that the “ladies love” this particularly cool James, and that she had fists the size of hams. We may never know. But, like James himself, the somewhat pedestrian return of this page or piffle coincides with some returns that have raised your ever-(un)present scribe to tap away again, whilst not having been anywhere else.
We could begin with the nobody-fucking-voted-for-them-but-they-still-fucking-got-in Conservative ‘party’, whose insistence on a return to Thatcherite hate-policies compels us to be more extreme than Hitler playing for Lazio on the right wing. Unbelievably, that Clegg bloke in the yellow tie from that television electoral debate a few years back was The Man With The Golden Handbrake after all, instead of the golden shower we all thought he turned into after he compromised himself and his wiped out party. This chalkstriped mob are unleashing more hounds than Mr Burns with the keys to Crufts.
The most recent party conference was hosted in that famous, upper-class heartland of Torylove, Manchester, and ensured delegates entered the venue like a socio-political version of ‘Wipeout’. That it wasn’t soundtracked by Phoenix Nights’ fake folk band Half A Shilling and their cult classic ‘Send The Buggers Back’ was a huge disappointment and a missed opportunity. Perhaps Theresa May will use that as her background music in her constituent surgery from now on.
After all, with not even 10% of the United Kingdom landmass inhabited by human beings of any race, culture or religion, we’re apparently so overcrowded that another boat-load of scrounging bastards is going to push us all into the sea. Our government are starting to make Farage look like a reforming, moderate Tony Blair, with added Silk Cut and London Pride. Even Enoch Powell would have thought this lot are being a bit harsh.
But let’s not discriminate blindly here. After all, if we can’t hate the “bloody foreigners” for having the audacity to do things like come over here and invent our favourite national culinary dishes; or doing manual work we “proud Brits” can’t be arsed to do for a price that isn’t utterly unreasonable; or escaping from hateful, inhumane and vicious regimes that are hell-bent on the destruction of different cultures that don’t fit with their twisted religious ideology, we can always start on our own citizens, can’t we? The disabled, for example? Or the nurses? Or the teachers? Or normal, hard-working families? Or single parents? Take your pick, make a choice.
The reason they got in was there simply was no strong opposition. Or, more likely, the general population was concerned that we might end up being represented globally and domestically by Ed Miliband, a man that looks more like Mr Bean doing an impression of Gromet’s best mate Wallace than an international statesman of any stature.
Of course, your scribe shouldn’t be so shallow, and should gaze beyond the gormless gumpishness, the ever-increasingly wonking face, and understand the policies and manifesto he represented. We, as a democratic country, failed. The Labour party failed us by voting for the wrong brother, Ed instead of David, and we all end up being ritually fucked like a pig’s head.
However, the new Labour leader, Jeremy Corbyn has already made a bigger impact in three weeks than Old Big Ed did in years. Why? No, not because he looks like he presented Jackanory or Pebble Mill in the early 80’s. Well, for a start, he has principles that have already polarised voters. He answers questions rather than avoiding them, which the British media cannot stand, or even understand. The scaremongering and distribution of misinformation and untruths has begun, by painting him as a caricature of a Young Ones-esque, Looney Leftie. His crime? He puts people at the front of his manifesto instead of cash, the selfish bastard! That makes him “dangerous” and a sympathiser for all the wrongs in the world, according to the Etonian Pig Pleaser.
Of course, your host here realises that there are national fiscal budgets to balance, blatantly ignored by the previous Labour regime, but Corbyn has got us talking about politics rather than groaning about it. Would you rather have the NHS with some remaining hospitals, nurses and doctors, schools for your children, some relief with tax credits, or an outdated ballistic defence program that wouldn’t stop a computer hacker or a backpacking fundamentalist on a Tube train? Ask any Londoner what they are more worried about: a missile striking Number 10 Downing Street, or a suicide bomber on the number 10 bus? WANT TO BE SCARED, BRITISH PUBLIC?
This stuff is important because, unlike the rugby World Cup, politics and policies affect all of us, every day. Perhaps politicians will actually be forced to begin to actually listen to the electorate they purport to represent, rather than pander to the corporations that avoid paying large amounts of tax because otherwise they would leave the country. Maybe we should send those buggers back to where they came from, after they’d coughed up half a shilling themselves.
Unfortunately, being the host country of the aforementioned Rugby World Cup, we cannot send our own team back to another country. But we can at least celebrate another return: that of English sporting disappointment.
In a way, as unpatriotic as this may sound, I’m a little relieved that England are playing no further part in this tournament. And as harsh as it sounds, for a start, we’re not good enough, so stop crying. We haven’t been for a while, and being put back in our over-expectant box occasionally is no bad thing. Perhaps it will spark a change in selection policy, or keep the players hungry to develop and become better?
Or perhaps it will shut up every armchair arsehole that thinks they know about the game having an opinion on a subject they simply don’t know anything about? Tournaments like this become ‘Strictly Watch Rugby’: all of a sudden, because it is on prime time television, people who do not understand the difference between a ruck and a maul start to shout at their televisions like they were brought up with Nigel Starmer-Smith, Dusty Hare and the Barbarians.
I am glad that the public-come-lately will now stop ruining it for those that genuinely care about rugby and dedicate their time to it. Of course we all want our nation to succeed, but I very much doubt that many viewers flicking between the rugby and the dancing on Saturday night will be up coaching or cheering their kids on a cold touchline on the following Sunday morning or looking at the club results in the paper to see who might be the next crop coming through or who is in form.
I can only imagine the same of dedicated ballroom dancers up and down this overcrowded land, exhaling knowledgeable sighs of disgust when they hear people who can only dance around handbags with a bottle of WKD in their pizza-perfumed fists booing the judges on ‘Strictly’. These judges are experts who have spent many years dancing, competing, choreographing.
Like me talking about manifestos I haven’t read, it is patronising and insulting to those that are knowledgeable and genuinely care about rugby, politics or dancing to spout such half-baked notions in the name of ‘entertainment’. If you were in a hospital, would you boo a nurse because of the way she dresses a wound, in the same way you boo a referee or judge, because you’ve watched Holby City for two series?
What is the difference between having to choose between the Conservative and Labour parties at an election, or between ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ or ‘X Factor’ on a Saturday night? Like being presented with a plate of raw cow’s bollocks and raw lamb bollocks, and having to choose which one you’d rather eat.
Well, guess what? Now, finally, we have choices. You don’t have to watch the rugby now that England aren’t competing anymore. You don’t have to vote for smarmy, self-serving, unaccountable politicians. You don’t have to watch either of the panel-driven, mob-hungry, formulaic ‘talent’ shows on a Saturday night. You don’t have to eat raw testicles. But if you choose to, do not complain to anyone else about it. Or you’re sure to get a very different sort of comeback from me.