- Tue Oct 11, 2022 10:13 am
#33491
This was posted just now on the Fleecebook by Atilla the Stockbroker. It is quite brilliant .
I Met A Bloke At A Party Who Writes For The Daily Mail
Alright mate how's it going?
Are you having a good time?
I've had better he said as he swiggged his
Paper cup of mid range red wine
And looked over my shoulder at a woman
Who looked a bit like Michael Heseltine
I pressed on, persevered
Although it was clearly getting weird.
I looked him squarely in his ginger beard.
What do you do?
I asked,
As you do in these
Situations
I'm a journalist
My name is John,
He said as he met my gaze
With a look of pride
And unnerving, fetid celebration.
Before I asked more he told me anyway, About his life,
His car,
And his regular swollen pay day.
Pupils dilated, and tiny bubbles of foam in the corners of his mouth
Unstoppable,
He juggernauted
Until I could take no more and butted in. Which paper do you write for? I retorted.
The Mail, he said and looked for a reaction.
I gave him none
Nothing,
Not a fucking fraction.
I wanted him to carry on.
I wanted him to show me his hand.
Tell me why he's pouring petrol
And throwing a lit rag to this land.
I know you, I lied.
I read your stuff.
You say it how it is.
So rare these days with the PC brigade,
And hid my bared teeth
In my vodka and lemonade.
Over 200k Twitter followers he said
And growing every day.
That's right, this dickhead said K
Because that's what dickheads say.
I bet every one of them
Is white, I thought,
And I bet they lap up his racist shite
As he shoulders them further and further
To the right.
With poorly worded screams
About Gipsys
And Muslims
And Poles
Stealing our houses,
Our jobs,
Our dreams.
And Roger from Sutton Colefield,
And Jane from Staines
Will read this in their new-build semis,
Sitting in their habitat chairs
And clench their fists
And pull their hair.
And shout to their partners in the kitchen
That it's all so unfair.
This is our land.
We were here first they say
As they swallow the bait, hooked on hate. And for them it is too late.
They have passed the duchy
On the right hand side.
And for them there will be
No turning of the tide
And now im angry at John,
But I Kept Calm, and Carried On.
Until finally his ego was exhausted,
He'd emptied his hubris and his pride,
And I had endured the ride.
And what do you do? he finally enquired
Whilst feeling at the plastic wrap in his pocket
As he became increasingly unwired.
At this juncture I felt it best to be up front. To be blunt.
I finished my drink
Made to leave,
Leaned in and whispered;
Not much, mate,
But at least I'm not a cunt.
"The opportunity to serve our country: that is all we ask.” John Smith, May 11, 1994.
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