Poetry, repositioning Mrs May, the DWP’s aversion to daylight, cunning stunts & Ed Miliband’s relaunch


In honour of this being World Poetry Day, I offer this as an example of why I am the most undiscovered poet of the 21st century:

As I sit here entre deux merdes

I care not for John Logie Baird

for all I have is Canal Plus.

Was any of it worth the fuss

if all I get is Channels such

As France Vingt-Quatre and Red Hot Dutch?

My longstanding colleague Saul Bollocks and I have been asked to come up with a credible rebranding strategy for Theresa May. So far, we both feel that the most challenging part of the brief is ‘credible’. We’ve considered the project long and hard, and even at times in the context of Laurel and Hardy, but the flag going up our pole and being flown thence as a kite at this moment in time remains a flat rejection of the ‘credible’ dimension of the brief. Rather, we see the task as being one of positioning the Prime Minister as Any Port in a Storm.

Luckily, given the current econo-financial ongoing Horlicks in the neoliberal multinationalism space, we have a choice of storms from which to choose:

  • Bonkers US Fed rates policy
  • Collapse in the Dow
  • Implosion in the eurozone
  • Rebellion in Scotland
  • Chaos in Ulster
  • Anarchy in Italy
  • War in Lebanon
  • Nerve gas leaks in Salisbury

The next step will probably be to change the brand name. There is an obvious uncertainty in the surname ‘May’: it suggests an indecisiveness tragically close to the truth. ‘Theresa’ is in turn far too posh – a name for the few rather than the many. We need something more quintessentially British that might raise her appeal in the provinces. Like Gwendolin.

Thus we suggest a relaunch of Mrs May as Gwendolin August. We used to go to the Welsh port of Gwendol for our holidays when I was a child. Gwendol in August is, as it happens, a warm and sunny place.

People keep asking me how the bloodsuckers at the DWP sleep at nights. This always seems to me a silly question: obviously, they sleep in coffins.

Think of it this way: have you ever seen a private supplier to the DWP caught on camera during the daylight?

Of course you haven’t. Crucifixes at the ready, that’s what I say.

‘Vue Cinema-goer who DIED after he got his head stuck under the footrest of a VIP seat as he tried to retrieve his phone and had a heart attack is identified as 24-year-old father’

  Daily Mail

EverettBPTI do accept that this segment is going to be seen as in the worst possible taste, but then the whole point of Daily Wail headlines is to drag the reader in via the use of sociopathically lachrymose headline details. So while I am genuinely sorry for what happened to the victim in this instance, it does seem to me that such gratuitous media distraction is fair game for ridicule.

In case you’re confused, the Vue Cinema is a venue in Birmingham where one can choose seats with adjustable positions altered electronically, and thus counts at the Mail as worthy of the soubriquet ‘VIP’. The seat adjusts to almost horizontal, hence the falling out of pocket of phone, and the bloke’s attempt to retrieve it. The seat then took on a life of it’s own and, as he searched for his phone, his head got trapped.

This is not news to be splashed nationally. It is a freak, personal tragedy, and as such the worst kind of tabloid voyeurism.

Had the Dacre Mail treated this incident as a way to ask whether Artificial Intelligence technology is really worth it (one is after all going to watch a movie, not relax as if on a long-haul flight) I would’ve applauded it. But the mail doesn’t give a flyingF about anything beyond hits and advertising sales.

And now, following that seriously uncommercial break, we return to the generally hilarious madness. This is what Owen Jones is now reduced to retweeting:


Yes, Labour supporters are in shock about a serially failed and desperate former Leader holding his nose to travel all that way down to South of the River to address Wandsworth comrades about “how young people can change politics for the better”….given that middle-aged Metrofarts in the Party failed so miserably, and the new Leader wants to reverse the date to 1926.

In shock? I’m in fits. I’m in stitches. I’m in France.

Lucky me.