Sunny Day

Sweepin’ the (nuclear) clouds away.

On my way to where the fallout is sweet

Can you tell me how to get,

How to get to Downing Street?


The front cover of yesterday’s Mail was all about the French.

Naturally then, it is useless to us and should be ignored. Who cares if those baguette munching, onion infested, ‘Allo ‘Allo fetishists perform a FREXIT or not? It’s irresponsible of the Mail to even report it, so let’s move on shall we? Let’s get some UK politics up in this bitch!

The real meat of today’s conversation can be found on pages 10 & 11. A loving double page spread gently entitled ‘CORBYN’S DEFENCE DEBACLE’.


Open your eyes skin sacks! Jeremy Corbyn, raggedy leftie Jesus, is coming for you, he’s coming in the dead of night to destroy you and there’s nothing you can do about it. You can try to run, but he’ll wobble towards you relentlessly like the early onset of bowel cancer, threatening to vomit his diplomacy all over your crumpled face. Cry out in terror and stare into the cold dead eyes of horror, knowing that this is the face of your destruction, this is the face of WAR!!!!

At least that is…according to the DAILY MAIL.

Welcome, dear friends, to the Corbynocolypse.

You see, Jeremy Corbyn is the single greatest threat to mankind that has ever existed. His utter refusal to let his hand hover over the big red button, his reluctance to fuck Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi in the skull with millions of drone penises, and his un-want to write anything but a lovely birthday card to the commanders of the UK’s four Trident submarines spell only one thing: F-U-C-K-S-A-S-T-E-R.

And that Fucksaster, dear friends, has Quentin Letts, the Daily Mail’s premiere TV reporter, shitting into the pillow he normally saves for screaming into.

But don’t just take my word for it, listen to this fuck nugget with a gun for a nose:

“Quite literally if Jeremy Corbyn as prime minister enacted the policies he describes, he would have blood on his hands”.

Yes, on Sunday Jeremy Corbyn ‘languidly’ admitted in an interview with Andrew Marr that he would, where ever and whenever possible, advocate the creation of a nuclear-free world, and in the eyes of Quentin Letts, and a number of men who like to rub nuclear weapons up against their genitals in a sexual frenzy akin to that of a badger who’s blood has been replaced with liquid viagra, that stance is simply not good enough.

You see, the abolition of England’s nuclear arsenal would directly result in the good old U of K becoming the bitch crack baby of North Korea, interspersed with the country’s complete and utter dominance by the friendly chaps in the Islamic State. It’s just one small step before Blighty nationals have to take Sharia Driving Tests and are limited to using only Halal opticians. And in response to this threat, Quentin Letts spat on his cutlass, slapped an eye patch on his cat and triumphantly cried ‘THIS. SHALL. NOT. PASS!!!’  before running off into the weeds like a flatulent girl.

If anything, we need more nuclear weapons, just to show that we simply aren’t fucking around. Let’s stop pretending we’re friends with everyone and put the zen in xenophobia by strapping Corbyn to the front of a missile and bombing the fuck out of the Chinese. All it takes is one simple, strong show of force and the empire is back baby!

Bring a gun to a knife fight

All joking aside, one thing that continues to confuse me about the British establishment is our attitude towards nuclear weapons, coupled with our attitudes to carrying guns. When it comes to gun crime and the idea of making sure that all babies are given AK47s in the womb in case someone goes Columbine in the day care center we seem to be able to think on a much more rational level than our American ‘cousins’. The argument being this:

America: “Give everyone a gun! If everyone has a gun, then any would be spree shooter would be less likely to go off because they’ll be shot to fuck by all of the many good honest citizens carrying guns!”

England: “Fuck off. Twattard”.

The fallacy here is that America seems to think that if there are more guns in circulation, fewer people are going to be killed by them.

In England, we can see this for the oxymoron that it truly is, and have opted time and again not to hand out guns on the street like kids with some lemons and a bit of hope in their hearts. However, as soon as you replace the word gun with ‘nuclear missile’ everyone here goes all goey eyed and insists that the more of them we have, the fewer people will be killed by them.

Let’s get this straight. If a nuclear missile were to strike the UK tomorrow, and by some stroke of luck, before dying, one of our leaders were able to give the order to strike back, that WOULD NOT un-nuke the UK, the flowers wouldn’t all suddenly grow back, Big Ben wouldn’t stand up again on its own volition, we wouldn’t all hold hands and sing like unwashed hippies glistening after a campfire orgy soundtracked by Blind Melon, WE’D STILL ALL BE FUCKED BEYOND ALL RECOGNITION. You’ve seen Threads right? Cause that’s what it’ll be, just less 70s.

And here’s the crux, as long as they exist, we can be assured that nuclear weapons will destroy the world. The one and only way to stop that happening is to make sure there are no nuclear weapons in the world. Don’t give America more guns and hope fewer people die, take them all away and ensure nobody does.

 If you’re interested in seeing the Corbyn/Marr interview in full, here it is:




Yesterday as ELECTION FEVER struck the nation like a sudden and unwelcome stroke, I was reminded, horrifically, that the DAILY MAIL relentlessly continues to be published.

Yes, like two bare bark woven hands coming to strangle England in the night, it continues to proliferate its papery hate throughout this green and pleasant land. Immediately, I thought of my once sacred vow to read every word printed across the malignant and cursory face of the MAIL and so with grace and speed I rose up in righteous anger, popped on down to Waitrose and bought myself a goddamn copy of the goddamn DAILY MAIL.

I picked up the first MAIL to grace mine eyes in well over a year and was swiftly knocked out by the realisation that said paper is the UK’s only proponent of CUBIST NEWS. News that looks like news from afar, but once up close it quickly becomes apparent that it’s just a collection of badly drawn cubes vaguely resembling a NEWS.

Let’s dive in!

Mail on Sunday 23.04.17


Like wearing the inside of a goat draped over a Christmas tree as a hat, fake news is all the rage right now. And never to be outdone by the information equivalent of Kanye West blinking; TRES INTERNET, the MAILY DAIL is here today to remind us that it’s been anally birthing fake news for the entirety of its sordid publishing history.

So here, printed on the front page (and pages 4-7 no less) is the “Paul Dacre Masterclass Guide To Creating Fake News For All You Millenial Bitches That were Born After Women Were Legalised”©.  

  1. Create a completely biased poll full of leading questions that promote your own political agenda.
  2. Perform said poll on a small number of actual people, but only those that almost definitely share your political viewpoint.
  3. Report on said poll as if it was a completely natural occurrence; a news turd shat out the sphincter of a fact pigeon floating past the DAILY MAIL offices that landed haphazardly on the desk of Simon Walters.

So it came to be that, completely on their own steam, with no prompting whatsoever, residents of the UK compared our prospective leaders to cars, finding unequivocally that while Theresa May was best represented as a Jaguar, Jeremy Corbyn’s most accurate vehicular avatar was that of a Reliant Robin.


Theresa May = Jaguar

Close your eyes for a moment, consider a Jaguar. Sleek, shiny, buffed, elegant, an oligarch’s wet dream, pure technological exuberance, the thing that horses hope to become when they die.

Now push that aside, consider Theresa May, Prime Minister, picture her wizened old face, the glass eye, the whisper of hair moving along her top lip, always moving, always scurrying. Now, once that image is nice and clear in your mind, instead of a neck imagine that this floating witches head is supported by four tiny wheels.

Got that image? Imagined the hell out of it?

Now tell me, honestly, does it look like a fucking Jag? Or does it look like an old hag’s head on stupid fucking wheels? It’s freakish, it’s ugly and it should be killed.


The Jaguar, a car so elitist it comes complete with an electroshock field that only targets those that earn less than 100K per annum. A car whose leather interior not only exudes exuberance but also fucking hates Europe and will gladly walk away from any shitty deal, even if that means that its wheels will be sold to rich Russians to comb their teeth with. With its shiny metallic exterior, The Jaguar is the only car on the market today that revels in the dismantling of the NHS and the privatisation of its own fucking dashboard.

Yes, when put like this it’s clear that the Jaguar is the only option for Theresa “step back pauper, you’re standing on my dick” May.

Meanwhile, we have the Robin Reliant, the everycar, an English made car for English made people. Throughout popular culture, the Reliant has been mocked, derided, and roundly shat upon, but somehow, someway, it keeps on going. An affordable car for everyone, this little “engine that could” actually did, and kept telling everyone that nuclear weapons were ridiculous, even though it meant that Andrew Marr pissed in its oil shaft. Affable, welcoming and an out and out socialist, Delboy’s vehicle of choice, famous for its three-wheeled design only becomes more and more like Jeremy Corbyn when you realise those aren’t actually wheels but labour Unions propping it up.

Fuck. I think the Mail might have actually got it right this time.

Jeremy Corbyn = Albert Steptoe

Elsewhere in this completely fair poll, Poll-ies (??) were asked which celebrities they most closely associated our potential leaders with. For Theresa May, the multiple choice answers were restricted to gray-haired old ladies filled with poise, grace and distinction. The offered choices being Helen Mirren, Margo (from To the Manor Born) and Cruella De Vil. All three, to a fault, being the wank material of choice in the MAILY DAIL offices. Old women with an air of posh and vaginas that smell like dying poor people get Quentin? Lets! standing to attention like a baby with a freakishly long arm holding a veiny apple so they are the only natural choice. The only way this could be more erotic to him would be if they were holding a swan and stuffing roast potatoes down their own gullets.

On the other side of the coin, however, Jeremy Corbyn’s chosen avatars were Albert Steptoe, Uncle Albert from only Fools & Horses and Sergent Wilson (from Dad’s Army). I barely understand who any of these people are, but Wikipedia tells me that all three are like poor versions of Jimmy Saville, Hospital key holding radiophiles that hate war but love the skirts of comatose girls. The subtext here being that Corbyn will wait until the UK is in a coma and then whisk it away in his Rolls to his mums grave to ”ll FIX IT’.


I could go on for hours talking about how these biased polls work piling example upon example upon example, but it seems the best thing to do is to follow Paul Dacre in his limping Kafka-esque footprints and create my own completely unbiased, naturally occurring super insightful poll, in order to re-balance the universe. You should find it below. Please do take the time to fill it in.

Corbyn’s week off

David Cameron. Prime Minister. Pig fucker.

This is big news. The biggest news. News so fucking big it’s taken five copies of The Mail to tell it.

It’s worth pointing out here that in addition to printing Lord Richard Ashcroft’s book ‘Call Me Dave’, The Mail is also reporting on said book as well as providing comment on it. David Cameron’s various misdemeanors ricochet throughout The Mail like some sort of hammered home metaphor about lost innocence. This creates a surreal stereo like effect in the reader as news is imputed into the brain in the 1st person, then in the 3rd person, before finally moving onto the Quentin Letts personas. the disorienting effect is similar to that generated by stage one MK Ultra programming. Said user plummets through stages of nausea and vomiting, wild shitting and nosebleeds before moving onto complete loss of sense of self, enhanced obedience and complete dependence on The Mail. 

Monday 21st: Cameron Confidential 1 – Pig Fucker


Lord Richard Ashcroft is a man you don’t fuck with. He’s not the kind of man who will confront you about your transgressions, nor is he the kind of man who breaks out a flamethrower and then punches your burning meaty corpse to death when you piss him off. No, when Lord Richard Ashcroft has ‘personal beef’ with you he researches your entire life, waits six years and then publishes a book about you fucking a pig. That’s 100% more painful than any drive by shooting. The serialization of Lord Richard Ashcroft’s Call Me Dave is a word bullet shot straight at the heart of the conservative voter, fired by a sexy future love gun called The Daily Mail

Lord Richard Ashcroft has ‘personal beef’ with Davy C, that’s a phrase I kept coming back to as I read about the revelations of Davy Dave Dave Dave’s secret life. ‘personal beef’.

“A normal university experience”

“When Cameron arrived at Oxford, it was in the wake of the huge success of Brideshead Revisited…It featured the handsome and decadent Lord Sebastian Flyte, who wore a cricket pullover and over indulged in alcohol. Did Cameron take this Edwardian fop as his inspiration? James Dellingpole, an Oxford friend, certainly recalls the Future PM being fond of wearing a cricket sweater.”

The whole thing reads like a massive fuck you to Ravy Davy Gravy Davy, all of it written in the same sneering, accusatory tone as the paragraph above. You can palpably feel Lord Richard Ashcroft’s spindly little hands embodied in the page flicking the Vs at D.C. He even makes wearing a cricket sweater sound as bad as throwing acid in a kitten’s face. Everything about this is firmly designed to out Mr.C.M.Ron as the stereotypical Tory Bad Guy that he actually is. The decadent, unhinged, wobble faced pig fucker that he actually is.

The only real difference between this and any other hatchet job is that David Cameron actually did fuck a pig (in the mouth).

Yes as part of his Brideshead Revisited re-enactment Dave smoked some dope while listening to Supertramp, looked at some cocaine from across the room, burnt a £50 in front of a homeless person, and put his winky in a ikkle dead pig. But as Dav Dav himself has admitted, he had a “normal university experience”. We can assume from that, that this sort of activity is a common occurrence in Oxford.

Boris Johnson: “I once cut an emu in half and attached the bottom legs to the top half of a homeless man. I called it the Mer-Emu. But then of course, I had to fuck it to death. Eddie fisted a budgie, Mark had to ingest a guinea fowl and shit it out without breaking its bones.” 

David Cameron mouth fucked a pig, but worse than that, worse than any of this, was that he didn’t do it out of love. This wasn’t some torrid affair one summer rock climbing in the Andes, he didn’t fall in love with a tropical mountain pig and bring it back home to meet ma and pa in some beautiful grand gesture about man pig interspecies love. No, he fucked a dead pig so he could get into a posh diner club.

That pig must feel so cheap right now.

This is when it hit me.‘Personal beef’ isn’t a colloquialism, Lord Richard Ashcroft and David Cameron must have once spit roasted a dead cow, there was literally ‘personal beef’ between them

Admit it, there’s nothing more personal than watching someone fuck something you are also fucking.

Tuesday 22nd: Cameron Confidential 2 – Drugged out on Supertramp


Have you ever actually fucking listened to Supertramp? I’m doing it right now. It’s like smashing yourself to pieces and rebuilding a fucking hippy with the bits. It reminds me of that time I was locked in a tiny box and forced to watch That 70’s Show over and over again while my family were outside being shot.  I dare you to listen to Supertramp. Go on.

Meanwhile, the destruction of Dave’s life continue…

After the Supertramp gateway drug M.C Pig Fucker soon found himself in need of harder activities. So he upgraded to hanging out with Alex from Blur and Jeremy Clarkson, the heroin combo of celebrity, all of them scoffing their faces on cheese jam tarts with oil in them. It was here, as part of the creme de le creme of the Cotswolds, the ‘Chipping Snorton Set’, that he was introduced to cheese, cars and c-c-c-cocaine.

But who doesn’t take a bit of cocaine to get them fired up to go and strangle a mangled fox to death with their bare hands?

The book is determined to paint Old Came’O-roon as the regular party boy, flipping his eyes out on medical grade drug bastards while simultaneously ‘not giving a fuck’ and can’t stop whipping out examples of Druggy Dave as if the book where a cock and there was a pig in the room with an exceptionally nice mouth. I’ll leave you with this passage:

All hocked up on a drug binge with Alex from Blur at the Chipping Norton 2008 new years party Dave took part in a gnawing contest. A former newspaper executive said: “It was incredible to see all these people letting their hair down. There were just biting at these bits of wood, just whittling them down with their teeth. But something felt wrong…I remember saying: This will end in tears…” Daddy Dave, having lost the contest, grabbed his wood and started beating Alex from Blur around the hands and face, screaming ‘Whoo-Hoo”. It took Jeremy Clarkson’s best dead prostitute jokes to calm him down. 

Meanwhile over at the bar Samantha (drunk again) shouts at passers-by as if they were friends, telling them stories of that time her and David were so drunk that set an orphan on fire, or that time they photoshopped pictures of Diana’s head onto porn and sent them to Windsor Castle, or that time they vomited, or that time they ate salmon, or that time they used Margaret Thatcher’s corpse as a horse, or that time she mistyped ‘bum’, or that time she listened to Supertramp, or that time she washed John Majors tie by accident. She paused only to gulp at the bottle of wine in her hand breathlessly like an otter that’s been starved of love.

By this point Dave was vomiting from both mouth and bum and crying about a pig for some reason, I tried to tell him the drugs don’t work, like I said in my hit 1997 song with The Verve, The Drugs Don’t Work. But he wouldn’t listen. 

Dave and Sam are turning out to be quite the party couple.


Sit now in a place where everyone’s in love with the Honey Monster.

Be inside a thing that breastfeeds second-hand wine to a million babies.

Run now to the world in which everybody points at each other’s genitalia and says “Oooh that’s different“.

Enter The Mail…


In a shockingly bold move that could finally render gender differences obsolete, The Mail ask: “If different coloured people can now use the same bathrooms, why can’t men and women?”

Nah, I’m just fucking with you. The Mail loves segregation. The Mail loves segregation so much so that staff are made to wash their right hands in different sinks to their left hands. The Mail loves segregation so much that a good wall gets it aroused. The Mail loves segregation so much…yeah, you get it.

But seriously, the Mail loves segregation so much that on Thursday,the paper had been split into two separate and completely distinct parts. Two parts that had no real bearing on or relationship to each other, I couldn’t help thinking it was like one part was from Mars, while the other was from Venus…

Yes, on Thursday The Mail came with its own fully formed pieces of genitalia. Two of them.

FEMAIL Magazine: Papery genitalia

In including the vaginal news shape of FEMAIL magazine The Daily Mail has signified two things:

  1. That everything outside of FEMAIL magazine is Man News, and should not be read by the soft emotional eyes of a women.
  2. That the Daily Mail has both a penis and a vagina, The Daily Mail is a massive hermaphrodite.

Let’s double fist some news.

Male Mail – News with balls

Standing erect throughout the entirety of the paper like a penis shaped monolith from 2001, is Man News. Man News features gun carriers, boob holders, quiff mongers and cock pinchers. All of these people do things, all of these things are news worthy.


Alexander Blackman is a gun carrier. He’s also the only British Serviceman to be have been jailed for murder on the battlefield due to his shooting of a wounded, unarmed Taliban insurgent, a direct consequence of him being one of those people who carry a gun all around the place. The Mail don’t mind that he definitely killed some people, The Mail want him free and have launched a massive campaign to protest for his freedom, presumably so he can shoot up a mosque or something.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been away from it for so long, but this really feels like the Daily Mail has snapped. Like the Daily Mail is the kind of person you’d find wandering around a park shitting into a plastic bag muttering about “west eyed cats”. The latest evidence in the case, the evidence that The Mail believe should absolutely get this man finally successfully freed isn’t ‘that he didn’t do it’, because everyone knows he definitely, definitely did. No, the Mail are trying to get Alexander Blackman freed because he was angry when he shot an unarmed man in the head, he was angry and there was nobody else around to tell him that shooting unarmed people isn’t a good thing – this is the entirety of The Mail’s reasoning, it’s actually pretty scary.

In reality I can only see two reasons The Mail believes that Alexander Blackman should be free, 1. Alexander Blackman is white, 2. the person he shot was brown.

Prince Furry

Prince Harry, the lizard man who would be king – but only if he isn’t killed and eaten in the fighting pits by his mega nephew George, has hair on his face. This is news. Harry both carries guns and penises quite regularly, so this qualifies as mega news. Headline News.

The one thing no one noticed amid all of this fucking gushing (Quentin? Lets! was heard crying: “The moustache, its amazing, like wanking onto the cover of a Mozart CD”) is that the Daily Mail accidentally posted an image of the Honey Monster on its front page to illustrate the Prince’s new hair.


FEMAIL – The quimy bit

Dribbling down your legs like an overactive period, FEMAIL comes but once a week. This, the blissful injection of hormone replacements in the form of paper floats over your soul like the smell of your nan’s potpourri, casually dumping a wet kiss on the cheek of any lost children in the vicinity.

FEMAIL endeavours to cover all the topics that women find interesting, like dogs on the internet, kissing and smells. What follows are seven pages made up of articles about stuff that old men think women like next to pictures of the women who wrote it, as if to prove this dross actually came from a place with a vagina. It’s like the reverse of ‘What Women Want’, that classic Mel Gibson joint, but instead of men hearing women’s thoughts, men get to hear what women would think if all of them had the brain of Mel Gibson – FEMAIL is the psychological equivalent of an Escher painting, but it’s Sarah Vine morphing into Richard Littlejohn rather than lots of stairs. Let’s take a look at the content shall we?

The big story for FEMAIL this week is ‘What time’s your wine O’clock?’ because naturally women are just a bunch of drunk harlots who only stop chugging on a wine bottle to shit out a kid or two. The article itself features the real life confessions of vicious, slurring mothers that can’t survive a 20 minute period without injecting Smirnoff straight into their ageing middle class veins before flouncing around their house screaming until someone puts Googlebox on. Women who hide Super T in nappy packaging and disguise their bottle of prosseco as their new-born child. Here are a couple of  choice quotes from these ‘real life’ functioning alcoholics.

“The second I’m back from the school run at 4pm, I start to think about that first stiff drink”

“You can always tell what time it is in my house by the drink in my hand”

“I would really like to have a drink at lunch time, but if I do it’s the end of work for the day”

“My heart is longing for a drink, but my head says ‘resist, resist'”.

The most juvenile part of my brain can’t resist reading the article while replacing the word drink with the word cock.

Here’s some of the other FEMAIL headlines this week:

·         Harry the hairy hunk

·         What’s your style tribe?

·         High flyers who are far happier being stay at home mums

·         The Troubling truth about tampons

·         What sort of madwomen spends hours taking pics of her food? Me!

·         Rubber globes that do MUCH more than the washing up!

The scary part about all of this is I didn’t make a single one of those headlines up.

Hi, I’m the Daily Mail, fuck you!

The front cover of today’s Mail is a glorious gift from the heavens. A meataphorical straight punch in the face from the metaphorical god of metaphorical face punches, Metafistopheles. The frontage of this papery hate factory is an almighty and magnificent statement of intent so pure in its articulation and so unswerving in its arrogance that it destroys the concept of the Holy Trinity, replacing it with something faster, sleeker, more productive: the Holy Oblong. This Holy Oblong demands your attention as it tattoos its message across your limp soul, knifing its opinion into your mind. Fiends, I am here to translate that message for you. Simply put, that message is: ‘Hi, I’m the Daily Mail, fuck you!’

Feast ye eyes, plebs.


Statement 1: Migrants + Ewan McGregor = NO!

The first place you’re bound to look is the HEADLINE, so let’s start with that. Classic Mail. The Mail believes that the tsunami of migrants that are flooding our streets must be stopped before they make a film about it staring Ewan McGregor,  like they do with all the other tsunamis. The mail hates Ewan McGregor movies as much as they hate migrants and wants less of them everywhere. So do the Germans, and in order to signify that yesterday they held a gigantic door closing ceremony, they found the biggest doors they could, lit some candles and then closed them slowly. The message is clear: Trainspotting 2 is not welcome here.

Statement 2: Health Bullshit = Gardens give children whooping-cough

After that, your eye can’t help but fall upwards towards the stark white of “Can going to the dentist give you Alzheimers?”, naturally moving away from the start black of the headline. You find yourself here, stranded and naked, alone in the GOOD HEALTH headline section.

The GOOD HEALTH news burst seem to be ordered by plausibility from left to right. Starting with “Why exercise won’t make up for that extra glass of wine”, which is plausible but boring, and finishing on the absolute classic “Cream that rubs away skin cancer” which is absolute horse vomit.

But taking centre stage, sitting in the golden realm of ‘just plausible enough to sell a newspaper’ (in the eyes of The Mail) is “Can going to the dentist give you Alzheimers?” , a wank magnet of a headline if ever I heard one. It’s like saying “being at the zoo can make you spindly” or “Ferrys cause rickets”.

Statement 3: The Left = people who kiss terrorists.

Then we move over to the right of the page, drinking in ‘COMRADE CORBYN’S ACCESS TO SECURITY SECRETS’. As I understand it, this covers the launch of ITV’s latest much maligned late night comedy, the premise of which involves the UK accidentally voting in the corpse of Osama Bin Laden as leader of the opposition: “OSAMinister! starring Martin Freeman as Osama’s body. Get ready for six episodes of hi-jinx as newly elected dead terrorist Osama fights off Rigor Mortis, both figuratively and literally (as well as crippling his decaying body, it’s also the name of his back bencher arch nemesis), all the while trying to escape Downing Street with the Queen’s security secrets”. 


Yes, the Mail still remain absolutely fukergasted at the idea that a left leaning party have voted in a left leaning man, even worse then that, they’ve just realised Corbyn is A LEFTIE. Who the fuck do Labour think they are, voting in a leftie? Twat shaped bastards that they are, why don’t they all just get on a ship and fuck off.

Apparently Corbyn is also a ‘Taliban sympathiser‘ which means he hates toast and will definitely, definitely post nuclear missiles to IS if left unattended for even a single parsec. Yes, sympathising is now a bad thing, it’s tantamount to locking someone in a plane and throwing it at a closed down branch of the Post Office. It’s like it got swapped around with bastard in the dictionary when no-one was looking. The next time someone leaves their husband, don’t make them tea, glass them up with Nana’s china cups. If you come to me looking for sympathy I’ll just bash your knees in with a dog’s face.

“Small, my kids have just died”


Bam! Unsympathetic.

This entire article is a bit like what 24 would be if it starred old white men…oh wait.

Statement 4: Taliban + boobs = nice!

The final story squatting like a shitting dog on the front cover of today’s Mail is that of Claire Blackman, Claire’s husband, who’s Facebook bio reads: Franz Ferdinand for life!!, was unfairly jailed for the murder of Taliban soldiers. He definitely, definitely did it, he definitely, definitely murdered two men. No-one’s disputing that, The Mail just think it’s unfair he had to go to prison for it.

“Why the hell is this on the front page?” You scream, quite rightly, “The Taliban haven’t sold newspapers since 2013”. It’s on the front page because it seems in Mail land, there’s only one thing that sells more newspapers than Migrants, lefties or bullshit, and that my friends is a little bit of cleave. Claire, like any self respecting distraught army wife is showing off a little bit of cleave. Admit it, it’s not often you get to report on the war on terror while showing off a fistful of titties.

Sum it up

In one glorious oblong the Mail has stated that it hates the left, hates foreigners, likes killing the Taliban, enjoys bullshit health news and loves a little bit of boob.

I was not ready for this.

The Daily Mail: A ship full of twits

Go hard or go home right?



Just for a change. Let’s talk about me. 

People often ask me how reading the Daily Mail has changed me, the most common questions being:

  • Are you a racist now?
  • Have you started sealing yourself in some sort of cancer proof tube at night to stop the onslaught of cancerous material from all the white bread and poor people in and around your house?
  • I’ve heard it changes the shape of your penis, can you confirm?

The sad truth is that none of these things are true, apart from the penis thing, which now looks like Richard Littlejohn and Quentin Letts kissing. Three months in and The Daily Mail has mainly changed my life in so much as my time spent thinking about the Daily Mail has gone up by over 400%. Just have a click on the life pie if you don’t believe me:

the life pie

Here are some other hilarious and unforeseen ways that reading the Daily Mail has started to affect me.

1) The work thing

Work relationships are souring. It goes either one of two ways:

  • Someone who themselves is an avid Daily Mail reader sparks up a conversation upon seeing the artefact under my arm and everything goes swimmingly until they suggest I ‘smash a polack in the face to loosen up‘ while I visibly recoil.
  • In the middle of a conversation about how the slaughter of Dolphins absolutely cannot continue while I still breathe I shuffle and drop the contents of my arms, as I hurriedly bend down to pick them up my eyes meet with those of my talk partner, we both look down to see ‘Dolphins cause cancer’ on the front cover of the Mail.

Either way I’m fucked. As someone who doesn’t like football and regularly pulls people up for making sexist comments, I already exist in a very shaky work space. Add this to proceedings and I’m segregating myself dangerously. My career is in serious peril.

2) ‘Droppings’

I’ve become easy to track. I’m like some radioactive rabbit from an 80’s B-movie running around the inner city shitting right wing hate words on every flat surface I find. All any would be assassin has to do to smash me up is follow the trail of droppings:

photo 4 (1)
At home…
photo 1 (1)
At work…
photo 3 (1)
At play…

I always have at least eight copies of the damn thing with me wherever I go and I can’t get rid of them. They seem to be replicating at an unbelievable rate, like racist Gremlins who got wet. I find myself trying to get rid of them by surreptitiously leaving 2 day old issues on top of the stands they give out the Metro from like I’m in that shit prison movie with Michael Caine that dads like. I’ve taken to wandering the train tracks leaving pages here and there to slowly get rid of issues, but I hate littering so this makes me feel really bad. My only hope is that some illiterate hobo is following me picking them up because he’s mistakenly assumed I’m leaving behind porn.

3) The clothes don’t make the man, the Daily Mail does 

On a more positive note, it’s been stated that reading the Mail has made me dress better. An odd outcome, but not one I find unwelcome. Embiggen the picture below to decide for yourselves.


Yes those are Mallards on the polo shirt.

For Realsies though

In reality reading The Daily Mail is like doing a surreal logic puzzle on a daily basis. It’s exactly the same as Dr. Kawashima’s Brian Training, if Dr. Kawashima was a flagrantly sociopathic nazi. Because it comes dressed in the costume of one, even after three months, it still fools me into believing it’s a real newspaper. It pretends to have facts and contains pictures of people I vaguely remember from somewhere, so it seems like all the other papery news mongers, but really it’s not. It’s the newspaper equivalent of a stick insect, it looks like a stick, but it hates you and everything you stand for. The trick is to work out it’s not real and nothing printed in it can be taken seriously before you believe it and accidentally say something horribly racist in a business meeting. It’s russian roulette with opinions.

Over the last three months I’ve found that there is always one point in every issue, one story which pushes its dark misanthropic nonsense that little bit too far and snaps me back to reality. Suddenly, as I re-evaluate everything I’ve just read in light of this new knowledge the paper unravels in front of me into the drivelling, incoherent flat pack dross house it really is.  It’s at about this time that my arms always instinctively recoil in terror.

I’d like to take you through the process using today’s paper as an example:

1) Fat People 2: Back in the habit

Decorating the front cover is an interesting story concerning sugar legislation. Oh interesting! After scrupulous investigation the Daily Mail have discovered that McDonalds, Tesco, Nandos and every other lard shoveller in the land have unprecedented access to our government; they force them to pump sugar into our very eyes as we sleep. WOW! I am outraged! Those wanky companies!

2) War weary wankers

Inside said paper lies the lamentable ballad of Phillip Hammond. Sad Phillip can’t sleep at night because the UK public are ‘War weary’. AHHHHHH! Apparently nobody in the UK wants long drawn out wars anymore, we’ve all got fatigue from the last one, what we want are short snappy wars, straight in and out, bish bash bosh fish and chips. This makes Phillip hold the tip of his penis with nervousness, there’s nothing he likes more than a long drawn out war. Phillip! I feel so bad. I’m going to tell everyone I know that we should have nice long wars instead. It’ll be alright mate. 

At this point, I’m on board. This seems like real news, I can get down with this.

3) What my stepfather saw when he was dead

Fuck off.

Here, in the middle of the Mail, lies the turning point for me. The story of Sir Alfred Ayer, philosopher, thinker and extremely smart man. Billed as the Richard Dawkins of his day, he completely denounced the idea of, and even the word, God, as nonsense. Yet this is not what the Mail is interested in. The Daily Mail today report on an incident at the latter end of Ayer’s life in which he choked on some salmon. While his brain was deprived oxygen and his body lay convulsing, slowly shutting down, Ayer’s had a vision of heaven, of ‘a divine being’.

This vision, created in the oxygen deprived brain of a frail and dying man, is enough for The Daily Mail, not only to claim that Ayer’s life was a complete fucking joke, but also to prove the existence of heaven.

Absolute dross.

It’s here that I feverishly turn back the pages. Upon re-looking at the story about sugar I realise that the only people the Mail spoke to was the National Obesity Forum (AGAIN!) and even they don’t even know how much access McDonalds really have, they just assume it must be more then them. They’re guessing! I turn the page to Phillip Hammond’s sad story, the one that moved me so much, upon closer inspection I realise that Hammond is the Defence Secretary for the UK, of course he wants a nice long war, he needs a fucking paycheck!

The whole thing is a big mess of wobbling bollocks! They messed with my fragile emotions! They made me care! They tricked me.


London 2050: A wobbling mess of massive dead eyed lard monsters


When someone finds out I’m reading the Daily Mail their reaction is normally ‘are you a racist yet?’ Which, as far as questions go, is a pretty shitty icebreaker. However, the tacit racism that I’ve chosen to rub all over my face on a daily basis isn’t the thing that’s getting me down the most, the one thing that’s really starting to tattoo itself across my soul is the ‘shock fatigue’.

Every day I’m faced with another ‘shock report‘, a hot slice of ‘doomsday scenario‘, or a fresh pan of ‘nightmares of causality‘. Regardless of whether it’s the white bread brand that’s trying to turn England into a Muslim paradise or the French sneaking bad donkeys into UK horse skins, everyday The Daily Mail wheels out another banal, dead eyed 90’s RnB style threat to Cricket and Bruce Forsyth and everything England holds dear.

It’s exhausting.

My jaw is ageing at twice the speed of the rest of my body due to hanging agape so fucking often.

Daily_Mail_newspaper_front_page (1)

Hey Fatty. Put down that Jaffa Cake and read this!

Today’s ‘doomsday scenario’ has come about from the simple fact that you people won’t stop bloody eating. You won’t stop bloody eating and it’s killing you, killing you and everyone around you. By 2050 over half of the UK population will be obese and it’s all your fault because you’re one of them. But you don’t care that do you? You’re hungry aren’t you? I bet you’ve got a pasty on the go right now, just to ‘give you the energy to use the keyboard’. Just microwaving a chicken to ‘tide you over till breakfast’ are you?

You people make me sick.

A shock report published today by the National Obesity Forum simply repeated the words ‘The UK is crazy fat’ 500 times. Edwin Middlemannn of Croydon, as if trying to prove the report’s point, spent four hours rolling around on his back in the Whitgift Centre because he’d fallen and couldn’t raise his ubiquitous girth from the crisp sodden floor, while women in Thanington Whithout reported being bloated ALL DAY. Things are at crisis point.

It’s official, Great Britain is a lard sodden flesh hole. In fact, the only thing only thing ‘Great’ about Great Britain is its population’s BMI (zing!). Yes, according to today’s Mail, the grand old U of K is filled to bursting with waddling pig skins who breastfeed their children KFC mega buckets and are confused about how to eat properly, meat shapes who spend their days relentlessly shovelling margarine into the gaping chasms in their faces thinking they’ve taken the ‘healthy option’ by removing the wrapper. And according to the experts, it’s only going to get worse, Alabaster Lessfat, a cardiologist, stated today that this is ‘the greatest threat to health worldwide, as the population of the UK get too fat for our tiny Island they’ll simply start choking other nations with their girth’. In short, we’re all fucked.

The situation is so bad that Jamie Oliver is constantly vomiting: ‘Everywhere I look, all I can see is people who have stuffed balloons into their skin, I’m so sad I can’t play the drums anymore’. 

The only problem with all of this is that the report isn’t in any way based in fact. This is the only report of its kind that takes into account people who will be fat in the future.  The report states that people get fatter as they age, therefore, it can be said that everybody in the UK that is skinny now will be obese in the future. Therefore everybody in England is obese.

Using this same logic we can say that everybody in the world was, at one point, a child. Therefore if you’ve ever had sex on, with or near another human being you’re a pedophile. That’s not me calling you a pedophile, that’s the National Obesity Forum. The National Obesity Forum is calling you an obese pedophile. You gonna let that happen?

mail and me

Daily Mail says “Channel 4 treat the poor like Watkins treats kids”

Well-come to the new year.

Yesterday I was smashed in the face with a realisation. It cut out my eyes and ran to the back of the bus with them to sit with the cool kids. This realisation shook me to my very core, emptying me and leaving only a hollow depressed husk in my place, a husk filled with bones that are weak and full of rickets.

As I sat on the bus reading my Daily Mail (I’ve now reached a point in which I’m fine with reading it in public) I realised two things:

  • A) That I am about to enter my third month on this project. I’m now past the point of no return, my first trimester is over, the Daily Mail cannot legally abort me.
  • B) That I hadn’t blogged in quite a while but I was still reading the Daily Mail. If I’m not blogging about it I’m really just reading the Daily Mail. In public.

The existential horror of the realisation that I am now just a reader of the Daily Mail literally stole the stinking commie liberal breath directly from my mouth. Needless to say I’ll be re-devoting myself to the blog in the coming months.


Channel 4uck!

Monday nights airing of Channel 4’s new documentary, Benefits Street, finds the Daily Mail rearing its muscular neck mane like a racist Aslan ready to bite. The programme, which not only featured a twats guide to shoplifting but also seemed to pull an ‘Ian Watkins’ on the participants (it exploited them, this isn’t a Skype rape thing), has given the Daily Mail the perfect chainsaw on a stick with which to beat Channel 4 around the head with. But in order to do so, it had to join forces with its most hated enemy: The poor.

To understand why the Daily Mail would go to such unprecedented lengths as to actually try to take a poor person seriously, we have to first understand the reason for its hatred for Channel 4.

 The conflict, which at one point almost cost the UK the entirety of GodManchester and claimed Neil Kinnock’s first set of legs, has been in a ‘cold’ phase for the last 30 years. But its origins stretch back to the beginnings of both organisations. It’s said that the two West African tribes from which the Daily Mail and Channel 4 originated from were once very close. The Tribes lived together in a wasteland on the edge of a lush forest and one day, with both tribes suffering from a lack of food, the people of Channel 4 tried to venture into the woods to find sustenance and wanted to take the Daily Mails with them. The Mail refused and so Channel 4 went alone. Some months later the last of the Daily Mail tribe were forced into the forest by predators. While wandering through the vegetation they came upon a clearing in which Channel 4 where having a pool party, all around them was food, liberal sex, midgets, drugs, people holding small birds, the misunderstood and the original Countdown presenter. John Snow’s great grandfather x15 wore a makeshift silly tie while telling people bad news. This revelry and frivolousness disgusted The Daily Mail and before turning their backs on Channel 4 forever they pissed in the pool, also jizzing a little bit. There has been blood on the hands of both houses ever since.


Channel 4 have a mandate to consistently break new ground, to diversify and bring new things to the table, which in the hands of  anything else would be a pretty powerful ideology, however in the hands of Channel 4 it just results in shows like “The Secrets Of Repairmen Who Are Constantly Vomiting” or “Doggers Learning to be DJs”.  But as shit as they are at following through with it, this set of rules does put them at the polar opposite of the spectrum to the Daily Mail. This is fundamentally why the two tribes are at war and why the Mail will stretch to any length to make Channel 4 look bad and finally, why it has aligned itself with the poor.

The residents of Benefits Street have stated that Channel 4 abused and duped them while filing the documentary. Claiming that the show was to be about a community that works together in times of need, the documentary team instead made the residents of said street ‘look like tramps’, most notably by rubbing dirt on their faces and adding KFC buckets and cans of lager into the background with special effects.   The two most vocal proponents of this are of the family Dee, which consists of a mother and daughter combo who’s first names seem to be White and Black respectively, having made statements that Channel 4 “don’ duped and abused me, don’ make me look like de scum, I will cram myself inside dere tree blood  jam jam jam, I am gonna Wicker Man that shit”.

Irrespective of the absolute tit bait coming out of their mouths, the Daily Mail have printed every word these malformed idiots care to utter, at one point wasting over a paragraph on street resident ‘Fungi’s’ constant repeated muttering of the opening lines of the Golden Girls theme tune. All the while thinly veiling their utter contempt for everyone involved; introducing victims by listing their criminal record, using statements like ‘raking in £900 in benefits’, ‘fucktard’ and ‘awful drunk trash bastard’. All this in an effort to make Channel 4 look slightly bad, not realising that all they really have to do is point at an episode of Hollyoaks.


Quick, someone throw a brick. It’s only the bloody Chinese.

Hello world

Welcome me back with open arms. Wide arms.

I think a cuddle might be just the thing to make me feel less stabby.

Hands up who volunteers to cuddle the guy with a copy of the Daily Mail in one hand and a knife in the other?


Step back China, you’re standing on my dick.

Who here remembers the Chinese? I have to admit that I’m the kind of person that always forgets they exist until someone hands me a plastic car or an alkaline battery, then it all comes flooding back.

Unlike me The Daily Mail remembers the Chinese, they remember the chinese like a bitch. I mean, how could they forget them? they pull a face like a cat getting ‘its pump on’ just thinking about those little meat faces, tonal based language sets and all the politeness. Yes, Chinese people are both foreign and communist and, to The Mail, that’s akin to accidentally having a sexual relationship with someone who works at Eddie Stobart.

Hot allegations made today claim that the UK are wasting money by giving millions of pounds to China in aid that they don’t need. The Chinese, for their part, just laugh and carry on swimming around in a giant vat of pounds like an ethnic Scrooge McDuck,  while we stupidly throw money at them like it’s someone we hate with a disease that we’re scared to touch.

While giving money to foreigners alone is normally enough to start a metaphorical teenage hormonal fire in the belly of The Daily Mail, these fresh stats have then thrown a metaphorical can of gas on said fire by showing it a metaphorical One Direction video causing the teenage aspect of the aforementioned fire to build into a frenzy and start smashing the metaphorical place up. Metaphorical people died while the building burned down, while cats and kids made of metaphor were badly hurt. But who cares about them? they aren’t real.

The Chinese just aren’t third world-y enough to deserve our money. When was the last time a Chinese person died of dysentery? Did George Michael ever make a charity single for Beijing? Fuck No!  These people don’t need our aid, they make batteries. China is a superpower, the Chinese people are surrounded by Ipods, they make the goddamn things. Have you ever seen a charity advert where the little starving kid is rocking some Limp Bizkit on his Beats headphones? No. There’s a reason for that.

Littlejohn had this to say: It’s the geographical equivalent of one of those buskers you see with £16,000 guitars. I’m not giving those Chinese twits any money until they sell that Fender Strat they’ve been hiding under that sleeping bag. It should be written in law that if you have Itunes in your country then you can’t be on the aid list. Screw ’em, just wait for a Tsunami.

Just days before The Daily Mail ask ‘Why are we giving money to the Chinese?’ it was revealed that, in a massive display of wealth, the Chinese government have just landed a rocket on the moon. The Mail can today reveal the contents of said rocket: Pound coins. In a massive fuck you to Old Blighty, the Chinese government have been storing the 27m pound coins donated by the UK taxpayers in aid money over the last year and have just blasted them to the moon in a shitting rocket. Apparently they were aiming for the sun.

A government official was quoted in saying: Fuck you whitey!


Wel-come in Littlejohn


Richard Littlejohn

Richard Littlejohn, whose Linkdin profile states: ‘I’ve never been to Brixton, it’s a fuckhole’, is an angry guy. His anger is literally astounding, like a small dog that looks like Hitler. He is made of fury, casual hate shaped into an ugly crabish human form. Anything and everything he sees can instantly send him into a rage fuelled Jaffa Cake binge, only to be found in a lay-by three hours later smashing orangey chocolatey cake mess into his face over and over again and moaning about ‘immigrants’ or ‘not getting breast in KFC’. When not writing columns for The Daily Mail he roams the UK in a beige van with a trowel and a tiny cat, ready to jump out from behind a tree screaming and waving his arms whenever he sees human rights being respected, cause he hates that shit.

Imagine a Buddist whose entire belief system is based on hate who is using a blurred computer printout of a picture of a chubby face as a face, in a suit. That’s Littlejohn.

In short, he’s a volatile, racist, mad brained twit. If his wife has any sense she’s covered all of the knives in the house with cotton wool just in case he sees a brown person on the way home and flips out. He’s a naked fucktard screaming in the streets about ‘polish cancer’ while cutting little swastikas into bits of paper. But look a little bit closer and you’ll notice something about this mentalist pie face, he isn’t screaming because he’s mental, those aren’t swastikas he’s cutting into those bits of paper…they’re Union Jacks. This isn’t some crazy Nazi nobody. This is a patriot! He doesn’t hate everything, he just loves England so bloody much he wants to stab everything in it and piss on the remains while crying.

Richard Littlejohn loves Britain, he loves it like a swan loves another swan, like lesbians love other lesbians, like Paul Flowers loves flowers that are covered in crack. Littlejohn loves Britain so much that he’ll do everything in his power to stop anything from slashing up its lovely little face.

Today, Theresa May threatens to mess with the UK’s face with the twin implements of cracking down on domestic violence and modern-day slavery and Littlejohn is just chomping at the bit to fuck her up. In light of the recent Workers Institute of Marxism-Leninism-Mao Zedong Thought slavery fiasco (an Ealing comedy just waiting for the right writer), May has spoken up about her feelings that more needs to be done by the government to seek out and stop the secretive abuse of people by impotent meatpuppets, spoken up about it everywhere she can. She’s currently patrolling the country in a beige van with a trowel and a tiny cat on a garage forecourt tour entitled ‘You MAY stop hitting her now’.

Upon hearing this news Littlejohn punched a nearby clown in the tit and quickly ran off like a mentalist with a handful of Jaffa Cakes. He’s since been seen sighted Jaffa from Co-ops and painting penises on every picture of Theresa May he can find. His wife says he only turns violent when he runs out of orangey biscuity cake things so it’s fine, but unfortunately the north of England are currently reporting a shortage of the mass produced cake like biscuity chocolate orange food stuffs, so it’s not fine. Needless to say police have moved Theresa to a secure location…

The country awaits his reaction with bated breath…