Now that Nigel Farage, the official spokesman for the terminally thick, has been unceremoniously kicked off the commercial radio station LBC, he will no doubt be able to spend more quality time with his ‘family’. We saw the images of the tattooed geniuses of what they no doubt class as the alt-right, parading their shirtless credentials at a cancelled BLM demonstration at Westminster and showing their respect for a protectively clad statue of Winston Churchill by performing sieg heil salutes and abusing the police. One man-boy has been arrested for inciting public disorder by urinating on the memorial for a murdered police officer. This is Nigel Farage’s modus operandi and these are his constituents, a ragtag army of steroid-inflated lager-yobs spoiling for imagined revenge, hiding behind the false flag of patriotism. That this should alarm all of us is self-evident, but Farage, the poisonous, weasel-faced would-be dictator now stalks an Arcadia in lockdown and in dire economic straits, the perfect conditions for a sociopath. Now that he has been freed from the shackles of broadcast regulations, I’m betting he is already negotiating a return to freefall politics, assisted by the likes of Arron Banks. Any guesses on what his new party might be called? 


As satire slowly gets overtaken by reality and truth becomes little more than a blurred memory, it is more and more difficult to comment on events with any certainty. When I saw this splendid poem by Robert Cunliffe I got in touch, and he kindly gave his permission to publish: 


By Robert Cunliffe

I’m a walking cliché,
A parody of myself,
An anachronism,
A shit left on a shelf.

A looming, leering legacy
Lurching up the lane,
A pot-bellied pestilence
On the move again.

Middle-aged munchkins,
Masquerades of men,
Half-boy half-biscuits
Marching past Big Ben.

Who looks down upon them
In fear and in shame,
Fear of what they’re capable
And shame of the same.

Troops of old boy soldiers
With Muslims on the brain,
Afghanistan, Iran, Oman,
It all just means the same.

Another barmy army
Conscripted to cause pain,
Heading up to London,
It’s Hastings once again. 

Fight them on the beaches,
Fight them in the fields,
Then back home to Bedlam
For cans and Happy Meals®.

Football Lads Alliance,
United round a ball,
Terrace temper tantrums,
Veterans of f**k all.

Nice one Robert!

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