Category: Satire

Sometimes satire is appropriate. Calling it ‘fake news’ isn’t

My last article was a lampoon of a real vigilante group that was established to hunt out ‘fake’ beggars and homeless people, taking photos of them to use on posters that name and shame them. The group have already ‘outed’ one genuinely homeless person, and have drawn much criticism from the police, charities and councils for their ill-conceived aims and methods. 

The characters I portrayed have made up names like ‘Mr Vinnie Dicktive’ and so on. The reference to phrenology and character divination is also a sideswipe at the government, as is the reference to ‘no causal link between ‘the homeless and homelessness’, but it also serves to highlight the bigotry, hypocrisy and downright irrationality of the vigilante group.

Image result for satire disgust at homelessness

Some people have expressed concern that my satire may be mistaken for ‘fake news’. However, I expect that most people can recognise a parody of a group and distinguish it from ‘fake news’. I occasionally write satire because sometimes, the best thing to do when confronted with those who are nasty, irrational, prejudiced and ridiculous is to ridicule them. I’m certainly not going to apologise for that.

My friend, Hubert Huzzah, has this to say about satire and ‘fake news’:

1) Fake News is bought, paid for and advances against the interests of the people it is aimed at.

2) Satire is created by [and for] the people who Fake News is aimed at. 

For those who don’t know me, my occasional bouts of satire fall into the latter category.

However, what really angers and upsets me about some of the responses to the latest article is this. The article I wrote just previously to the satirical piece was absolutely heartbreaking. It was so harrowing to write that I wept while I wrote it. The article was about two ill and vulnerable homeless citizens who died in sub-zero temperatures last week. Ben had been discharged from hospital, forced to return to a tent as his only shelter from the elements, after being treated for pneumonia. Rob had throat cancer, and was sleeping behind the shutters of an Argos store.

People expressed their ‘shock and surprise’ that these two poor and ill homeless citizens hadn’t survived Siberian weather conditions. I felt that those comments reflected a general public numbness and detachment to the terrible circumstances of homeless people, which horrified, appalled and disgusted me. And also made me very angry.

There is something really horrifically wrong with a so-called civilised, democratic society in a very wealthy country that abandons sick and disabled people, leaving them with no effective shelter or money on the streets in sub-zero temperatures. And there must be something missing from people who then express ‘shock’ and ‘surprise’ that their fellow citizens have died in those conditions.

I was accused of having ‘bad taste’, by one person. I pointed out that I am not part of the vigilante group going around harassing and photographing homeless people and making posters that claim they are somehow faking their homelessness. This group says that they will not invade the privacy of other citizens, by ensuring they aren’t captured on any of the photos, indicating clearly that they think homeless people have less right to respect and privacy than others. The point of my satirical article was to highlight the ‘bad taste’ , spite and prejudice of the ‘Killing with Kindness’ campaign. If it made you feel uncomfortable, well good, it was intended to.

Remarkably, my satirical piece has drawn more attention, response and anger than the previous very serious article about real people, in very real and unforgiving circumstances within the context of inhumane political and public indifference to the plight of our poor fellow citizens in this country.

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Please don’t just walk on by, we are better than this

From the abstract to the concrete: urban design as a mechanism of behaviour change and social exclusion

Two very vulnerable homeless men left to die in sub-zero temperatures

People are faking their homelessness and poverty for money, says petty urban bourgeousie



I’m disabled through an illness called lupus. I don’t make any money from my work. However, I do what I can, when I can, and in my own way. You can support Politics and Insights and contribute by making a donation which will help me continue to research and write informative, insightful and independent articles, and to provide support to others. The smallest amount is much appreciated, and helps to keep my articles free and accessible to all – thank you. 


People are faking their homelessness and poverty for money, says petty urban bourgeousie

A group of privileged vigilantes have called for councils across the nation to see off homeless people in order to protect the Tory-voting urban bourgeoisie from offense. Armed with posh Nikon cameras, a book on phrenology and a crystal ball, they have taken to the streets to try and catch out the millionaires who are scamming the public by dressing up in pauper rags and begging. 

“Some of these homeless people are rubbish at living in houses and are being incompetently hungry in full view of everyone,” says Mr Harris Mint.

“But we know a large number of them are Marxists and some are millionaires. Some of them are faking malnutrition and thinness. There are some even faking disabilities. Whatever next. They should go and take their fake pauperism with them.

Mr Vinnie Dicktive, the group gossip and lead curtain twitcher, said Everyone here knows these people are really trying to make everyone else miserable. One man went to great lengths to get a stay in hospital after conning the paramedics into saying he had pneumonia, but we know he was faking it, and we took photos of the fake resuscitation. They even conned us by sticking a drip into his arm. He must have paid them.

“The hospital said the fake tramp was in intensive care, but we know he sneaked into the canteen for some soup, really. We know the paramedics and hospital staff are Momentum supporters, so we took their photos and told them we would cross-reference them to deter them. We also got a good shot of the security guards who escorted us off the premises. Name and shame them, that’s what I say.” 

Another member of the vigilante group, Miss Dos Gowon, said: “One thing these people don’t like is being photographed or filmed, so we’ve gone and done that. These anarchy- commie woke Marxist types, languishing in doorways and lolling brazenly on park benches are a real menace to one’s view. They’re driving property prices down by pretending to be hoboes. 

“We have identified who is genuine with the relevant charities and their names and if they are homeless or not. We’ve ask them their names, we then translate them into runic symbols then use the crystal ball and a phrenology book. Everyone knows these charities are scaremongers and that homeless people can’t be causally linked with homelessness.

“Five of the paupers we photographed have told us they won’t go begging anymore if we don’t put their wanted photo up around town. Or give out their names, which are Getty Stoffed, Doo Won, Lemmie Bee, Goa Way and his brother, Noah Way. Most of them sound like nasty foreigners. 

Mr Lemmie Attem, the group strategist and phrenologist said “Not a single one of them sang the national anthem or denounced terrorism while they dossed around town. And they all have commie beards. And they’re Marxists. I know because I felt their bumps.

“Of the 17 hoboes we photographed, only two were genuine street homeless. Our sophisticated scientific character divination methods worked a treat. Not a single one could prove that they didn’t have a house or some money and clean clothes stashed somewhere.” 

Many great philosophers have come unstuck trying to prove the existence of nothing, however.

“See, we said they weren’t real homeless people. I could tell straight away by the shape of their heads. These philosophers are all Corbyn supporters and are just playing smart because they just want to make the government look bad as can be,” said Mr Noah Hoomaniti, the charismatic leader, rune writer of the group and lifelong Conservative supporter.

Newest member of the character and lifestyle divination vigilante group, Mr Lou Smorals said “The solution is to send homeless people to live in landfills. That way, they can sort through the rubbish for decent cardboard boxes, no-one has to see them and people get to feel charitable every time they throw food away. It’s the most humanitarian thing to do all round.”  

I asked the group what they thought genuinely homeless people would do when the ‘beast from the east’ struck. 

“Well, we will have to barricade ourselves in”, said Mr Willie Eckerslike, the group’s chief phrenologist and clairvoyant.

“I personally voted leave, and I’m annoyed we still have to put up with these foreigners coming over here. And foreign weather. It’s bad enough dealing with the fake homeless criminals without worrying about migrant sex offenders.”


‘Nasty’ campaign to out fake beggars will ‘not be welcome’ in Liverpool

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The Financial Times are having a laugh

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I’m doing a little light reading about behavioural economics for my next article.  After following what was clearly a broken link, I had to laugh at this irregular 404 page error notification from the Financial Times:

The page you are trying to access does not exist.

Why wasn’t this page found?

We asked some leading economists.

The cost of pages rose drastically, while the page production rate slowed down.

General economics
There was no market for it.

Liquidity traps
We injected some extra money into the technology team but there was little or no interest so they simply kept it, thus failing to stimulate the page economy.

Pareto inefficiency
There exists another page that will make everyone better off without making anyone worse off.

Supply and demand 
Demand increased and a shortage occurred.

Classical economics
There is no such page. We are not going to interfere.

Keynesian economics
Aggregate demand for this page did not necessarily equal the productive capacity of the website.

Unchecked, exponential page growth outstripped the pixel supply. There was a catastrophe, and now the population is at a lower, more sustainable level.

To avoid unchecked, exponential page growth outstripping the pixel supply and leading to an inevitable catastrophe, we prevented this page from being conceived.

The failure of this page to load is a consequence of the inherent contradictions in the capitalist mode of production.

Laissez Faire Capitalism
We know this page is needed, but we can’t force anyone to make it.

The government has limited the number of pages in circulation.

Efficient Markets Hypothesis 
If you had paid enough for the page, it would have appeared.

Moral Hazard 
Showing you this page would only encourage you to want more pages.

Tragedy of the Commons 
Everyone wanted to view this page, but no-one was willing to maintain it.

Game theory 
By not viewing this page you help everyone else get better pages.

The page is hosted by a foreign web server and is therefore banned to ensure the supremacy of our own software.

High taxes on content publishers prevented them hiring the person who would have written this page.

Speculative bubble
The page never actually existed and was fundamentally impossible, but everyone bought into it in a frenzy and it’s all now ending in tears.

If you were to get the page you wanted you might get a better page than someone else, which would be unfair. This way at least everyone gets the same.

Behavioural economics 
The influence of psychological factors caused you to act in a manner that would not be expected of a purely rational actor.

Theory of the second best 
The best outcome was unachievable, so you have arrived here instead.


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I don’t make any money from my work. But you can help by making a donation to help me continue to research and write informative, insightful and independent articles, and to provide support to others. The smallest amount is much appreciated – thank you.


Bedroom Max – Rupert Dreyfus


An introduction to Rupert Dreyfus

My friend Rupert writes pretty spectacular, sardonic and transgressive fiction, (a genre of literature that centres on characters who feel oppressed by the norms and expectations of society, and who rebel against those imposed confines. Usually written from a first person perspective, too), which he uses to make insightful observation and incisive social and political commentary, blended with a distinctive brand of iconoclasm and sharp, dark wit.  

No-one at the moment is doing more to break down the artificial divisions in writing – between the arts, literature, social sciences; realism, surrealism, social and political satire, commentary, alternative narratives and dissidence – than Rupert.

He also writes for the arts and culture section of Scisco Media and the occasional polemic for Consented.

He says: “Prior to the rise of the internet, artists of all stripes have previously been locked out of a nepotic creative industry, unable to reach their intended audience. The barrier is rooted in neoliberalism where a handful of businesspeople decided what the rest of us should read, watch, listen to and generally consume as entertainment. Everything else wasn’t permitted to enter the creative landscape.

This antidemocratic model would encourage creatives to follow market trends in order to increase their profitability and in turn their likelihood of getting corporate backing. Meanwhile originality would be pushed to the fringes where people rarely look.

Yet we don’t have to be art critics to know that being profitable and creating good art aren’t necessarily the same thing. Neither is the amount of sales a yardstick for authenticity.”

Rupert speaks to us about the soul-diminishing absurdity of the times we live in. It’s an era of omnipresent multimedia and we are inundated with executive memos from the establishment. Yet we are becoming increasingly unanchored, precarious, isolated and lonely – our society is unraveling; solidarity is being unpicked. Neoliberalism is individualistic, competitive and adversarial, not cooperative and collective.

Rupert pushes at boundaries to expose the fragile illusion of consensus and a facade democracy. He tells us about the tragedy of mediocrity and the outrage of blandly prepackaged dehumanisation and discloses strategies for maintaining a sense of identity and resisting the soul death of conformity in the concrete theatre of society, where there is little safety, solace and very few enclaves.

He describes the precariousness of our lived experiences in highly entropic, post industrial, very corporate, vulture capitalist, authoritarian urban contexts and the ritualistic planet-consuming preposterousness and utter claustrophobia of a toxic, cloying, overarching, totalising neoliberal ideology. 

As US punk band Anti-Flag say in their 2012 track “The Neoliberal Anthem”: Strap in and watch the world decay!  

However, even counterculture and contemporary agitprop are being mainstreamed, prepackaged, reduced and pre-rationalised by the ever devouring neoliberal profit culture, as Joe Strummer once observed: “They got Burton suits, ha, you think it’s funny, turning rebellion into money.” 

The X Factor was one bastard child of the facile mass market mentality – a neoliberal conspiracy of the bland; we are damned to forever aspire only to the condition of muzak. Unless we recognise that we must rebel. 

And democracy is not something we have: it’s something we always have to do.

Thinking about it, the same can be said of intelligence.

Power corrupts, so it must be ordinary citizens that change the world. And to do so, we must be the change we want to see. Firstly, we have to participate. We have to be responsible and we have to collaborate and cooperate. We have to promote and practice mutual aid. We have to share. We have to rebuild the spirit of social solidarity from the wreckage of competitive individualism. 

If we don’t want hierarchies of wealth and power, we must be egalitarians. If we don’t want scapegoats, outgroups and stigma, we must regard everyone’s life as having equal worth, and adopt a genuinely democratic, dialogic approach built on mutual respect and grace – a transfigurative approach. Authoritarian movements don’t tend to result in democratic and equal societies, you see. 

Rupert is a comrade in arms, shooting from the lip (well, from the mind, heart and keyboard) and we share a very similar philosophical anarchist perspective, so we read each other’s work and have some interesting, enjoyable and pretty inspiring chats. 

I think that Rupert’s brilliant, blackly comedic and deftly written works provide us with a powerful antidote for the asininity of neoliberalism. 

So, without further ado, here is an excellent short story which highlights the incoherence and irrationality of Conservatism and the neoliberal “small state”, kind courtesy of the wonderfully talented Rupester.




All images courtesy of Rupert Dreyfus

 Bedroom Max

If you really must know, it all went downhill for me and the campaign one freezing cold Monday morning back in early February. Like every other Monday morning I woke up bright and early, sat in total silence, spooned salted porridge down my throat and spent a good three hours studying the financial news in great detail. I remember being saddened to learn that a once popular chain of stationery shops called Paper Cuts had gone into liquidation over the weekend resulting in nearly two thousand scheduled redundancies.

‘It breaks your heart,’ I whispered, tears building in my eyes. ‘Those poor businessmen; will this pain never end for them?’

Determined to do all that I could for the economy I headed off to Harts Close with my placard and flask of tea, ready for another day of campaigning. You may already know, but Harts Close is one of the poorest estates in the north-west which is charmingly poor when you think how poor the north-west is in general. Even some of the affluent parts of the north-west look not unlike shantytowns in the developing world so imagine what one of the poorest estates looks like. But it’s all justified when you think how shiny our capital is. We mustn’t forget that spending hardworking taxpayers’ money outside of London is like putting banknotes through a paper shredder.

That particular morning I was the first to arrive at Harts Close, beating my fellow campaigners by a good ten minutes. I began to set up the campaign stall for our Spare Bedrooms Are a Crime Against the Economy petition, hoping to recruit some new members to the cause although I wasn’t holding out on this.

As I prepped the stall and waited for the other campaigners to join me, I was taken aback when I saw one of those appalling creatures leaving his home. With such high levels of unemployment at Harts Close he clearly wasn’t off to work hard and get along; he was off to, and it punishes my gag reflex having to say it, sign on.

With a leaflet outlining all of the key information of our campaign, I approached him though being extra careful not to get too close in case he was contagious.

‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I wonder if you’d be interested in signing our petition.’

‘I would do but I’ve got to be on the shop floor in less than half an hour. I’m afraid I haven’t got time-’

‘Haven’t got time to learn what you can do for your country?’ I said, cutting him off.

‘Sorry,’ he replied, dropping the attitude. ‘I didn’t realise you were collecting for combat wounded veterans.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Then who are you with?’

‘My name is Maxwell Bashmore,’ I told him. ‘And I’m with the Taxpayers’ Battalion.’

‘The who?’

‘The Taxpayers’ Battalion. We’re a charity which represents all taxpayers in the United Kingdom; even those who disagree with us.’

‘I’ve never heard of you.’

I proceeded to explain that the Taxpayers’ Battalion has been on Question Time forty-nine times in the last three years and that we have a website which receives no fewer than seventy-five individual hits per quarter. But none of this seemed to impress him. He just gawped at me as if I was speaking in some obscure unga-bunga jungle language.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘That’s all very well, but what do you actually campaign for?’

‘Our main objective is to raise awareness that everybody is a taxpayer first, human being second. But once you realise that all you ever are and all you ever will be is a taxpayer, the human being in you quite rightly dies.’

‘And what about this petition?’ the panhandler asked. ‘What’s it actually for?’

‘If you really must know we are campaigning to strengthen the laws of the so-called bedroom tax so that we, the taxpayers, don’t have to subsidise you, the unemployed, with any more absurdly unfair spare bedrooms when a sleeping bag and a park bench meets the minimum requirement for a night’s sleep.’

‘But I’m not unemployed.’

‘Of course you are; you all are. And once this petition has enough signatures we’re campaigning to make sure that you’re no longer able to receive anything other than dried pasta and tins of spam after the next election. We think it’s only fair considering that we are taxpayers and you’re not, and therefore we should get to decide where every last penny is allocated which should only be towards strengthening the economy rather than funding the lifestyles of the unemployed. As non-tax paying subjects you should just be thankful that you’re allowed to breathe the same air as the rest of us although we are presently thinking of ways that we can tax oxygen for the unemployed, too. I’ve actually got some ideas which I’m going to run by our local member of parliament this afternoon. And he’s a member of the Conservative Party so there’s a good chance he’ll be on board.’

‘I’m not interested,’ this monstrosity told me while he started to walk away.

‘Not interested in saving the British economy?’ I yelped. ‘Not interested in helping your government to cut the deficit?’

‘Nope,’ he said as he continued to walk in the direction of the dole queue. ‘Not interested at all.’

‘That’s right!’ I told him as I shook my fist at his shrinking silhouette. ‘Go and hang around the job centre all day, getting free work experience at the taxpayers’ expense! It’s because of people like you that Paper Cuts went into administration over the weekend. How you all sleep at night…!’

‘Get beeped!’ he shouted while holding up his middle finger.

It probably comes as no surprise that this was a typical exchange with the residents of Harts Close. They just don’t want to listen to common sense politics. They are overwhelmingly joyous with the thought of dousing taxpayers’ money in gasoline and then setting it on fire. Every last one of them.

Before long the other campaigners arrived slightly later than usual. Well I say others; I actually mean Trevor and George. The campaign had consisted of only three members since its inception, but back then we were utterly convinced that the rest of the taxpaying community would slowly grow to accept that we were speaking for all taxpayers. I suppose we had the producers of Question Time to thank for helping us with this. And before you say it: no the BBC doesn’t disproportionately represent members of the far right as to reinforce the impression that the whole of Britain longs to live under a dictatorship. They’re quite clearly part of the biased liberal media brigade dreamed up by Trotskyists in an effort to covertly support the red menace during the interwar period.

‘Morning, gentlemen.’

‘Sorry we’re late,’ Trevor said. ‘We were delayed by a car crash on the dual carriageway. An ambulance held us up for about ten minutes.’

‘Were there any injuries?’

‘I don’t think so,’ George said with his whiny voice. ‘The driver looked a bit shook up, but she was able to use her mobile phone.’

‘And did you get out of your car and protest?’

‘Why would we do that?’

‘Because it’s quite clearly a waste of taxpayers’ money. If this selfish crow had suffered a compound fracture or whiplash then an ambulance, at a push, might be warranted. But if she was capable of using her mobile phone then she was blinking well capable of either driving to the hospital for a check-up or not using any tax funded medical facilities whatsoever thus saving hardworking taxpayers’ money. And clearly the latter scenario would’ve been the preferred outcome for the hardworking British taxpayer who we tirelessly represent through our working hard and getting along. And I bet she wore trousers, too, which is an absolute disgrace to women everywhere. She really is the worst person I’ve ever met in my life.’

‘Of course,’ Trevor said.

‘And don’t you remember the report I wrote last summer?’ I continued. ‘The average ambulance call-out costs the taxpayer exactly three thousand and fifty-six pounds and twenty-seven pence. Which is why we need to privatise the NHS – and fast. Poor people get a headache for five minutes these days and they think they’ve got a brain tumour; it’s a complete waste of taxpayers’ money. Not to mention all those lives which they save; day in, day out. And research suggests that five percent of those survivors haven’t ever paid taxes so it’s an absurdly unfair system we have. The Americans have got it spot on: if you can’t afford healthcare then you should learn to live with your illnesses and, if necessary, die quietly. Anyway; let’s get on with helping the economy back to good health so our hypothetical children’s children don’t have to spend their entire lives cutting the deficit. The unemployed are going to be leaving their homes any minute now and I’ve only managed to set up half of the leaflets. Well I say their homes, but we all know who picks up the tab at the end of the month.’

We proceeded to spend the morning like any other Monday morning; drinking from our flasks and campaigning against the unemployed. Every time one of these spongers walked passed the stall we would wave our placards and ask them to sign our petition to strengthen the laws of the bedroom tax. But they never did; they just kept on living their economically inactive lives without a care where our money was being spent. Some of them would tell us to beep! off while others would make rude hand gestures when they walked on by. And whenever they actually tried to express their uninformed opinions, we would put our fingers in our ears and drown out their voices by repeating our motto over and over. And if you really must know, our motto goes like this: let’s all face the facts; life would be better if we didn’t support the weak with our tax!

One day very soon it’ll be the national anthem.

It was close to midday when things went from bad to worse. We hadn’t obtained a single signature, and I could tell that Trevor and George weren’t happy with my earlier comments regarding their failure to protest on behalf of all British taxpayers. But truth be told the three of us had been on bad terms for at least a month. During our last meeting it had come to light that Trevor’s eldest niece was a member of the same local library we tried to close down last year while George admitted that he’s recently had to cancel his private medical insurance. This means they both might as well be placing taxpayers’ money in a space shuttle and sending it to the moon so that future alien visitors can place it inside a museum and laugh at it at our expense. Of course I had let them both know how disappointed I was at the situation and it had been straining our campaign for some time.

‘Shall we take a break, gentlemen?’ I said. Trevor and George looked at each other and then swung their heads back to me. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m afraid we’re retiring from the Taxpayers’ Battalion,’ Trevor told me.

‘You mean you’re giving up?’


‘Both of you?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘But why?’

‘To be honest,’ George said. ‘We think you’re just a little too obsessed with paying taxes.’

‘What do you expect?’ I snapped. ‘I’m treasurer of the Taxpayers’ Battalion! Of course I’m just a little too obsessed with paying taxes. And I won’t stop being just a little too obsessed until the welfare state is nothing more than a lump of rock and everyone has insurance for everything – even those who can’t afford it. In fact especially those who can’t afford it. It is all of our duty to see that this something-for-nothing-culture-of-entitlement someday comes to an end. But not including the monarchy, of course, because they’re good for the economy and are rightly exempt from the bedroom tax.’

But there was no convincing the pair of them. I could only watch as George and Trevor placed down their placards and walked away from our campaign stall, leaving me all alone at Harts Close.

‘Blinking traitors!’

Right there I knew that I had to campaign harder than ever. I had to do everything I could to strengthen the British economy…

…but first it was time to visit my local member of parliament. You probably know the chap; he’s called Montgomery ‘Monty’ Pyeman-Hondo-Basildon-Skrog III. He’s a decent gentleman who understands that the only thing which is wrong with the free markets are those people who aren’t working hard enough and getting along like all decent people were born to do. They think this world is for having fun or something.

So I went to Monty’s surgery at around about lunchtime. I walked straight to the receptionist’s desk and introduced myself.

The receptionist looked up at me. ‘Hello, Mister Bashmore,’ she said while combing her mousey hair with her fingers. ‘Glad you could make it. Monty is expecting you. If you’d like to follow me.’

I trailed behind the receptionist who led me down a labyrinth of corridors. Meanwhile I told her all about my love for this green and pleasant land. I also explained how immigration is technically responsible for every crime ever committed and that the European Union headquarters is an exact replica of Stalin’s moustache if you turn it upside down so it’s a ruddy good job we got out before they made us all speak Russian. I was reassured to see that she agreed with me wholeheartedly. However, she seemed quietly offended when I told her that her job was a complete waste of taxpayers’ money.

When we finally reached Monty’s office she knocked on the door three times and waited.

From the other side of the door we heard: ‘You may enter!’

The receptionist pushed her way inside. ‘This is the one o’clock appointment,’ she said to Monty before disappearing the way she’d come.

I found Monty sitting at a Victorian writing table in his office, a quill pen in his right hand. He had a spectacular handlebar moustache and was wearing an old leather aviator hat. He was sitting beneath a large oil painting of the handsome Baroness Thatcher. Now there’s a remarkable lady! She knew the true meaning of democracy. If you really must know democracy has absolutely nothing to do with people taking control of their communities and everything to do with supporting the free markets. Every single democratic decision must strengthen the economy; no matter how many people suffer as a consequence. The economy must come first. If you don’t agree with this elementary fact of life then you’ve been brainwashed by cultural Marxism which, by the way, is a serious academic study.

‘Isn’t she a lovely piece of skirt?’ Monty said.

‘Margret Thatcher?’

‘I mean the receptionist.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘She might be a lovely piece of skirt, Mister Pyeman-Hondo-Basildon-Skrog III, but she’s also a complete waste of taxpayers’ money.’

‘Please,’ Monty said while fixing his Union Jack dickie bow tie and making his way over to the fridge. ‘Call me Monty. I’m one of the lads really and this is why I understand exactly what the average working man wants which is to work hard and get along. Would you like a bottle of ME, ME, ME?’

‘And what’s that exactly?’


‘Is it British?’

‘Brewed in Middle England hence the name ME, ME, ME.’

‘Then don’t mind if I do.’

I watched as my best friend Monty opened up the fridge door and grabbed two bottles of beer. As he walked back to the table he cracked them open with a bottle opener. ‘I can’t wait for the big game at the weekend. I hope they play Johnson up front again and stick with the four-four-two formation. That seemed to work marvellously for them last weekend.’

‘You’re just like a normal person.’

‘Of course I am. I smoke cigarettes; I fancy women; I studied military history at university and I go to watch football matches at the weekend. Sometimes I even hunt defenceless wild animals with my specially trained pack of wolves and then watch as they get ripped to bits. It’s what real men do. So what can I do for you, Mister Bashmore?’

As Monty handed me a beer I proceeded to reel off my shopping list of policy ideas. These included things like no votes for the unemployed, introducing the whip for unskilled workers, banning all technology which has been invented since nineteen fifty-nine, giving the vote to small to medium sized businesses, competitive Morris dancing the new national sport.

Monty looked genuinely interested, nodding his head and twiddling the ends of his moustache. ‘Sounds like common sense politics to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll certainly put some of this forward at the coming Prime Minister’s questions. Especially the policy advocating compulsory business studies at infant schools. I’m surprised we didn’t include that in our last manifesto. Or perhaps we did. I must confess I haven’t had the time to read it properly. I just liked the title: Making People Work Hard and Get Along.’

‘So how are you finding your first week as Shaftsborough’s new member of parliament even though you’re from the opposite end of the country and have never even been here before in your life?’

‘It’s been a whirl. We have the corporate media on our side so nothing can possibly go wrong. They basically tell people who to blame which is never the people in charge and always those who have minimal influence on the political process, and the little people fall for it every time. This country really is a flock of sheep and we hate them all.’


‘It really is. And at any given moment there’s approximately thirty percent of the electorate which bought into this hilarious joke that we’re on their side if only they follow our instructions. We’re struggling to work out who this thirty percent of the electorate actually are because our policies quite clearly only benefit about six people in the entire country and they’re all worth more money than sense – hence the massive donations.’

‘That’s incredible.’

‘But do you want to know what the clincher is?’

‘Please tell me.’

‘Every time somebody writes a protest song or a ridiculous short story which is attempting to be clever but is actually a load of fluffy hippy nonsense, another fifty people join our club.’ Monty paused and then looked over at me. ‘We’re like Medusa; try to cut one of our heads off and six more will grow back in its place. And we turn people to stone.’ He then looked at me. ‘So tell me again, old boy. What is it you do?’

‘I’m treasurer of the Taxpayers’ Battalion,’ I told him. ‘A charity which campaigns against the unemployed.’

‘Fantastic. You’re a true patriot.’

‘I love my country’s economy.’

‘Me too. Perhaps I’ll make a donation. I take it you could make good use of five thousand English pounds? I say, old boy; have you heard the one about the Belgian plumber?’

‘I don’t believe I have.’

So as Monty told this hilarious joke that insults women, environmentalists, wheelchair users and Islam he wrote out a cheque. Afterwards I thanked him and left his office.

I then made my way to my only job that day. I should explain that before I ended up here I used to be a self-employed children’s entertainer. I used my profession as an opportunity to teach children how to be a true patriot. That afternoon I was performing for a room full of six year olds. I can’t remember the occasion; perhaps it was one of their birthdays.

I started with my usual puppet routine where English Bob would demonstrate the failings of multiculturalism by having to speak Punjabi whenever he visited his local corner shop because the brown-skinned non-British subject behind the till couldn’t speak a single word of English. I then went on to the next lesson.

‘Right, children,’ I said. ‘Put your hands up if you want to answer a question.’

Immediately there were thirty-something little hands waving at me and a chorus of: ‘I do! I do!’

I pointed at this one little girl. ‘What’s your name?’

My name is Holly.’

‘That’s a fine British name, Holly. Why don’t you tell everybody what you want to be when you grow up?’

‘I want to be a nurse.’

This is a typical example of our lefty nation gone absolutely mental. Children nearly always want to work in the public sector; policemen, firemen, doctors. It’s as if they have this innate desire to want to help others. It was my mission to make sure that they all left Maxwell’s Laissez-Faire Circus Show wanting to pursue a career in corporate management.

‘No you don’t.’

‘I do.’

‘No you don’t, Holly. Do you know what taxes are?’ Holly shook her head and furrowed her eyebrows. I then spent several minutes explaining to Holly the horrors of paying taxes only to see your hard-earned money being turned into hamster bedding by drug addicts and benefit cheats. Afterwards she agreed to show an interest in the retail sector. Another life saved from the rampant red menace.

Finally I taught them the most important lesson of all; the lesson which all true patriots learn way before they learn how to tie their own shoelaces.

‘Right, children,’ I said. ‘Who wants a sweetie?’ Predictably all the children began to scream with excitement. ‘There is just one problem. I only have this one packet of sweeties. Admittedly there are enough sweeties for everybody in the room, but that’s not how the real world works. So I’m going to give this packet of sweeties to just one of you and then I want you to eat them all. Even if you feel fat and greedy, and the other children go hungry; just eat them all and don’t share them with anybody else. Laugh in their faces and tell them that they’re not getting any sweeties. Can you do this for me?’

‘But I share with my friends all the time,’ came this squeaky voice.

‘Well you’re definitely not getting any sweeties then. Anybody else here likes to share?’

A few other children admitted to sharing so I told them that they’ve got no chance either. I then gave the sweeties to a child who promised not to pass them on to anybody else.

‘Sharing isn’t caring,’ I told them all. ‘Sharing is weakness. Be greedy, children, for this world is a wretched place and everybody is thy enemy.’

And that was the end of the show. You really have to get them while they’re young and beat out any niceness from their little hearts so they’re ready to step in to the boring world of doing business.

As I walked the streets in the direction of home I began to feel deflated. This was, of course, everything to do with Trevor and George’s sudden exit from the campaign. I told myself that the only way I could pick myself up was by going back to Harts Close with a megaphone and campaigning against the unemployed harder than ever.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon when I arrived for the second time that day. Most of the unemployed had been out on their shopping sprees and were now taking hard drugs in their mansions.

I put the speaker to my lips and began to yelp: ‘This is a message for the residents of Harts Close! We all know that you’re a complete waste of taxpayers’ money, but it’s not too late! You can turn your lives of dependency around and be free; free to work long hours and wear corporate uniforms! Free to buy things like televisions and computer games and legal drugs like alcohol if you really must; just make sure it’s British by checking the label. And everything in moderation because the British economy must come first!’

It was round about here that this little imp, dressed head to toe in cheap sportswear, tapped me on the shoulder and started to hurl abuse at me. ‘What the beep! are you going on about?’

I lowered my megaphone. ‘Would you like to sign the petition?’

‘What petition?’

‘The petition to strengthen the laws of the bedroom tax.’

‘My auntie died because of the bedroom tax.’

‘No she didn’t.’

‘Yes she did.’

‘No she didn’t. You’ve clearly read that in the biased liberal media.’

‘The biased liberal what?’

‘The biased liberal media. I’ll give you a lesson about life, little fellow; the biased liberal media is propaganda written by people who long for the days of the Soviet Union; days when everybody had to wear military clothes that didn’t fit properly and went to work on horseback even though the West had long invented the automobile because we’re far superior. And just so you know; loads of people starved to death under Stalin, too. Unlike here in Britain where nobody goes without. Is that what you really want to see happen to our green and pleasant land, little fellow? Is it?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ this misguided little scamp said to me, becoming increasingly hostile. ‘All I know is that my disabled auntie died because the government stopped paying for her home. My mum found her dead in the kitchen shortly afterwards. Apparently the stress of having to move out had caused her to have a stroke.’

‘You should be careful what you read in the biased liberal newspapers or before you know it you’ll be wearing Che Guevara T-shirts and joining a union for champagne socialists.’

‘Champagne who?’

‘Champagne socialists. Listen, basically anybody in employment who criticizes the status quo is a champagne socialist. And, yes, the concept of a champagne socialist is a logical fallacy but I’m not interested in logic; I’m interested in common sense politics.’

‘Well, I didn’t read it in the papers,’ he said. ‘I learned it from my family.’

‘But that’s how good the biased liberal media are at lying to people; they can make you believe anything. It’s almost like hypnosis. The only news we can trust these days is the financial news written by patriotic corporations that love our country. Everything else is a big, fat lie told by champagne socialists who wear red socks and hate our freedom to buy things.’

To my surprise and disgust a policeman approached us. ‘Is everything alright?’

‘This little fellow here needs his mother,’ I told the officer. ‘Although I’m presuming she’s probably long overdosed on wacky tobacky reefer spliffs or whatever they call them. Can you see that he gets home safely, officer?’

‘Actually,’ the policeman said. ‘We’ve had a complaint about you, sir.’

‘What a complete waste of taxpayers’ money,’ I muttered. ‘What’s the complaint regarding?’

‘We’ve had numerous calls from local residents who are concerned about a gentleman disrupting the local community with a megaphone. He won’t listen when they tell him to move along.’

‘That’s preposterous!’

‘Apparently it’s like talking to a sculpture made out of human excrement. They’ve all been out on the street, asking you to move along, but you won’t listen. You just parade around the estate, telling people that they’re a waste of taxpayers’ money. I’ve actually been shown the evidence on several mobile phone devices. It’s as if you’re wearing industrial headphones the way you refuse to listen to anybody. They’re asking you to go away, but you just won’t listen. So I’m asking you kindly, sir, please will you put the megaphone away and move along.’

This, of course, was an outrageous lie. Nobody had been out to talk to me; they were all too busy smoking crack heroin drug pipes and watching repeats of Jeremy Springle to worry about what I was up to.

‘This is a scandal!’ I yelped. ‘I am Maxwell Bashmore; an upstanding, taxpaying member of the taxpaying community. I work hard and I get along more than anybody in the world! In fact I technically pay your wages so you should be doing exactly what I tell you to. Officer, I demand that you carry out a thorough investigation into these slanderous comments and make the necessary arrests.’

‘You’re not my boss and that’s not how slander works. Now I’ve asked you politely to move along, but it appears that you don’t want to listen to the law either.’

‘Blinking traitor!’

But it was no use; this officer proceeded to read me my rights and then he took me to the police station. All the while I calculated how much this terrible mistake was costing the hardworking British taxpayer and kept everybody present updated.

When I arrived at the station I got one free telephone call which turned out to be a complete waste of taxpayers’ money. I made the call to my best friend Monty. It was the receptionist who picked up. When I told her who I was, she put me straight through.

‘Who is this?’ Monty said.

‘It’s Maxwell Bashmore.’


‘Maxwell Bashmore. We had an appointment earlier this afternoon. You really liked my policy idea about using homeless people for military target practice.’

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I remember now. The true patriot. Have you heard the joke about the Polish hairdresser?’

‘I haven’t got time for jokes and I never find them genuinely funny anyway.’

‘But this one offends transgenders, donkeys and children under the age of five all in one fell swoop. It’s hilarious.’

‘Please listen to me.’

‘What is it, Maxwell? You sound a little crabby.’

‘I’m at the station.’

‘Which station?’

‘The police station.’

‘What happened?’

‘I’ve been arrested for breaching the peace, but it’s a wild conspiracy theory invented by the entire political left who want to silence any kind of sensible debate with their political correctness gone stark raving bonkers.’

‘Don’t call here again.’

And with that the phone went down.

I should probably tell you that I haven’t spoken to Monty since that call although I know that deep down we’re the best of friends. He’s just like a normal person and he thinks about me every day. He really cares about the future of the British economy.

But it’s what happened next that really hurt: using taxpayers’ money I was taken to court and was found guilty of breaching the peace. It was, of course, lie after lie after lie. All of them lying out of their backsides; including the judge and the jury. All of them blinking traitors. Regardless I was sentenced to fourteen days in prison.

But the misery doesn’t end there either! A criminal record meant that once I’d been released from prison I could no longer work with children. After using Monty’s donation to cover my legal expenses I was immediately faced with the predicament of having to either, and I loathe to have to say it again, sign on or go homeless. Like a true patriot I chose to go homeless which is how I ended up under this motorway bridge, drinking turps and huddling round this burning metal skip with you lot.

And if you really must know I’ve worked out that if I remain homeless for the next five years, three months and five days I will have technically paid back everything I have taken from the hardworking British taxpayer by refusing to receive any benefits. Then, when my life is finally back on track, I’ll be back to campaign until the welfare state is no more.

Rupert Dreyfus, 2016.

Rupert Dreyfus has been causing mischief in the literary world since 2014 by taking swipes at the establishment, those nightmarish corporations which seem hell-bent on turning our world into one giant supermarket and the arse end of the status quo. His first novel, Spark, was released in 2014 and his first collection of short stories, The Rebel’s Sketchbook, was released the year after, receiving widespread acclaim.

Links to Rupert’s books – guerrilla fiction for the Digital Age 

Spark: Rupert Dreyfus/

The Rebel’s Sketchbook: Rebel’s Sketchbook. –Mr Rupert Dreyfus/


Universal discontent with Tory government triggers intergalactic referendum


England to go from infinity to beyond.

As the pound reaches its lowest value since 1985, and Moody’s lower our credit ratings yet again, many Remain campaigners are saying stuff like “There goes the neighbourhood and the economy.” However, those in the Out camp announce they are pushing for a new referendum next year. The slogan “We’re takin’ our earth back” trended across all social media platforms yesterday and today. The Leave campaigners are gathering momentum again. They claim that it’s only by exiting the universe that we will make things better, redistribute wealth and power, have social justice and stop Tories from being Tories. They say that maybe we will even get some of them to resign and prevent other people from doing stupid things in England. However, the campaign has already gained support from some Tory MPs.

Meanwhile England First launched a petition in the wake of the EU referendum to ask the government to immediately deport all of the “Macks” in England. The far-right organisation have called for anyone with “Mc” , “Mac” or “Mack” in their surname and those who like haggis and tossing their cabers in public to be sent home.

Dickie Richardhead the foreign affairs spokesperson for England First said: “Quite properly so. They come over here wearing kilts and swinging their big sporruns at our weddings and it ain’t on. It’s unhygienic because they don’t wear any underpants. English culture and Calvin Kleins in english churches, that’s what I say. It’s about time we put them out of our misery.” 

Due to a slightly catastrophic typo on the petition, however, the government have subsequently agreed to deport everyone from Sunderland. A spokesperson for England First said that predictive text was to blame, and added: “Bugger, Mackems make up half of our membership.”  

A statement released yesterday from the E exit campaign said: “The universe’s powers that be are also do-gooders, screaming virtue signallers, bloody Guardian readers and wishy washy liberals. And multicultural. They’re all the same, which is probably self-serving, out of touch, anti-democratic and like, really disempowering for England. 

It’s not even the case that they were democratically elected and we don’t get a say in how things are run. It’s a diabolical bloody mystery, in fact. No-one seems to know what happened before the big bang for example, but we demand accountability and transparency. We deserve justifications for our existence, we deserve answers about all of that dark matter stuff and about gravity and we will demand that democratic right for english citizens from our english government. 

Being in the universe costs us billions of pounds every year. The universe imposes laws on us that we don’t want, like the second law of thermodynamics. English laws for english people is what I say. It’s about time the imposed restrictions on the speed of light were lifted, too. And vacuum cleaners. And banannas.

Then there’s the millions of illegal invisible aliens who sneak through space wormholes to swamp our country’s public services, take our houses and women. And they steal our jobs. They persuade employers to pay them much less than us because they just don’t care, they really like being poor and exploited by the capital class, even though they know that means we will end up getting less wages too. And they don’t speak any english. 

We also disagree with the moon, it wasn’t in any manifesto, we didn’t vote for it, it ain’t democratic and we will definitely organise a protest and vote against it. A scientist once tried to con us all, saying the moon disappears when you look away, but we know he’s a bloody liar, because it would take everyone’s willpower not to look at it to make it go away. That’s just a fob-off because no-one has that much willpower or attention span these days. Quantum physics proves it. Sod’s law, isn’t it? 

We have to have our sovereignty, the queen and the final say in our own laws, our own cultural identity and whatnot. English things for english people, that’s what we say. Though we don’t like them much, some of the left-wing E exiters say that a universe exit could topple the government, well, it might, anyway, and it will definitely let ’em know what we think, as we are very angry with just about everything except England, which is great. The government should all resign and go off with their power, money, raunchy birds, big houses, chums and additional leisure time to really think about what they’ve done, I say make them suffer, that’s the best punishment for ’em. 

So we want the new referendum to be held next year.” 

The Remain campaigners have already started a fresh crusade of scaremongering, claiming that if we left the universe, we would all die a horrible death.

But the opposition say “We know they are just telling fibs, representing bankers, private tycoons and that this is an elitist agenda. No-one really knows for certain what would happen if we left, many Conservative MPs have reassured us that we will still negotiate and strike up robust trading deals in the nothingness.”

We should all have faith that England will be great again. There’s nothing like a good protest vote to give the Establishment two fingers.

A feeding black hole (quasar). The ultimate Brexit and E exit plan involves passing through the accretion disc, sneaking past the event horizon and then going through an economic process of spaghettification through the eye of a subatomic sized needle. 

You know, it could work...

I got this response on Facebook:-

Joan Dematas:  No. Your wrong. The referendum is over. Period. Who announced a referendum?


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Health officials and sociologists voice concerns about the effects of tabloids on the general public

Image result for tabloids


Research has consistently shown that reading tabloid newspapers such as the Sun, Express and Daily Mail causes an obsession with borders, contagious fatalism, addictive irritable incoherence syndrome, an anxiety-inducing paranoia, a pre-occupation with foreigners and other people stealing tax payer’s money. It’s thought to be the fault of vagabonds, migrants, the EU and scrounging poor, everyone knows offshore banks and tax avoidance are run by the EU. A highly suggestible state results, presenting with swollen spite, distended misery guts, clinical resentment retention, rash folk devils and suppurating moral panic.

These symptoms usually precede the completely incapacitating open mouth of closed-mind syndrome, leading to premature, ejaculated brain death.

Sociologists have discovered that many unfortunate tabloid addicts have nasty outbreaks of brazen neighbours, usually from other countries, or with very dodgy disabilities. Some poor and self-rightously outraged readers even have suspiciously lazy single mothers, layabout, loutish students, suspected illegal foreigners wearing cunning disguises or daring unemployed bad sorts living right next door or just down the street. This is usually preceded by a malignant disdain that is difficult to contain.

Although there has been fierce debate about the aetiology of this condition, sociologists believe that it’s psycho-semantic. The cause also precedes the effects. In other words, it is the victims of these nasty epidemics of dodgy bad sorts that actually manifest those symptomatic phenomena, during fits of psycho-enigmatic, convulsive curtain twitching, whilst presenting further shocking symptoms of frank, febrile tutting. 

Health officials carried out research over many years, which revealed  that during the early stages of chronic tabloiditis, acute, screaming headlines bind to the victim’s brain and dopamine receptors, releasing a surge of bile and some other unidentifiable, free-floating, profuse bitter stuff. This has the unfortunate effect of oxidising the part of the brain ordinarily used to rationalise and the nubbin in the noggin that usually facilitates discernment. The deadly process also affects the vocal chords, leaving the poor patient with an over-developed sense of indignance and a hyper-reactive moral outrage. This culminates in excessive sweating, incoherent shrieking and convulsive knee-jerk responses.

The most alarming health survey reports have revealed that the process involves rapid shrinkage and withering of the gland that regulates reality uptake – the part of the body that scientists call the “getagrippe.”  This reduces the reader to thinking in unsound soundbites, leading to a terminal condition called “end-stage pernicious gullibility.” Once patients reach this stage, there is little hope for them. They tend to rapidly succumb to the malignant “cuttingyournoseofftospiteyourface” syndrome.

For example, many patients suffer a dreadful condition involving hallucinations that it’s better to have no welfare, human rights or NHS rather than have other people using them. In particular, patients tend to stipulate that unless they alone need to use tax-funded public services, they should be blown up or demolished, so no-one else can use them. Some have resorted to self-lobotomising, whilst other hopeless cases mimic end-stage Rumplestiltskinism.

Another symptom is that patients become clinically cynical. These poor victims become increasingly intolerant of everyone else, especially anyone claiming benefits, who chaf their considerably swollen sensibilities. This common reaction is a severe allergic response to others, along with a strong dose of feverish outrage manifested in the obsessive compulsive thought that anyone else should be punished regularly with public floggings, being hung, drawn and quartered and no supper. Or anything. 

Once a person is in a super state of autoimmunity to others, (a condition that some in the government Nudge Unit call “Pavlov’s delight”) the body rejects the spleen, which exits the body through the bile duct and vents. Transplants have been unsuccessful, with issues around host and grafting and NHS tourism, leading to further rejection, atrophic anomie and gonadotrophic adenoids, empathy deficiency heart failure syndrome, brought on by persistent exposure to viral epidemics of the protestant work ethic.

The patient becomes fixated on what they think everyone else has, particularly the poor, and it’s always thought to be a lot more than what the patient has, though this is usually fueled by short bursts of media stereotypes, acute delusions of impacted resentment with profuse sub-arachnoid diarrhoea, spasms of inferiority complexes and feverish exaggerations, culminating in the fatal vomited outcry of “they’ve got a flat-screened TV, an iPhone, and two scruffy kids and a packet of fags that I paid for, the cheeky scrounging b*stards.”

It’s a pernicious, humourless disease that leads to rapid degeneration and further distress through pustular outbreaks of inflamatory comments, extensive diversionary metastases, profound rectal aphasia and ultimately, to a terminal and toxic irrelevance leaking like pus from the brain and mouth. The patient is usually unaware that he/she is mortally offensive to other people at this stage. Painful class envy and terminal false consciousness follow, inevitably.

The contamination was believed to have originated from 2010, when an acute case of Murdochitis broke out and spread to other media. Some sociologists pin-pointed David Cameron’s government as the main source of the outbreak, though many public health officials have argued that Cameron’s lot were merely the original carrier of the deadly bug.

Evidence suggests that even some of the working class on the left of the political spectrum are succumbing rapidly to chronic, deteriorating narksism. This is usually characterised by a pitiful and repetitive cry of “Blair blah blah red Tory. That Nigel Farage speaks his mind.” Unfortunately, Nigel Farrage’s mind causes further contamination, which requires radical treatment in cultural isolation units, but there is currently no cure for having associated symptoms like phobias of God’s wrath and gay rain flooding.

Many narksists have succumbed to the terrible agony of massively enlarged bolsheviks. There’s been a reported number of tragic suicides associated with the condition, and so far, thirty people have been found hung by the baubles on christmas trees after their extreme state of delirium had inexplicably led them to vote for turkeys. What a terrible way to go.

There is no cure for these epidemics, and officials don’t think there is any hope for sufferers in sight until at least 2020. Then there’s a small chance of putting them out of our misery.

Iain Duncan Smith has denied that there is any cause for concern, and today, determined to demonstrate tabloid safety, he ate a full Daily Mail in front of cameras in a public place. Despite growing contrary evidence from experts in their field, government advice, meanwhile, is to keep taking the tabloids.

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The Department of Whopping Porkies is rebuked as claimants suddenly develop mysterious superpowers after being sanctioned



Courtesy of Robert Livingstone

We all know that the Tory welfare “reforms” are the gift that just keeps on giving. Various people from an alternative universe where benefit sanctions and starvation actually work to motivate have told us so. I think in that universe you can see Skinner and Pavlov’s house.

I digress.

My recent benefit sanction really worked wonders. I was so delighted to be chosen for this special treatment by the government, and for no reason in particular. I really don’t deserve it. I have now developed spectacular superpowers as a result, and a special liking for hospital food. Every time I have a hypoglycemic attack coz I have no food, and a bout of Raynaud’s because I’ve no electricity or gas, hey presto, I get rushed into hospital where I can eat and eat until my belly is full. And there’s even heating! I couldn’t manage that with my benefit. And no worries about becoming homeless now I have a near-permanent bed. My life is transformed!

I thought I’d developed a superpower for seeing around corners as well, but it turns out that I’ve just developed a squint because I can’t afford new spectacles.

Here are some more lucky people who have been touched by extraordinary life-changing experiences through the multi-dimensional DWP:

Simon John Duffy I just wanted to share my testimony and thank the DWP for helping me to understand the true meaning of social justice. For so long I’ve simply not understood the wisdom of their policies. But now I see the light.

[You couldn’t make it up! Oh, wait, it’s the DWP, that’s what exactly they do – just make things up.]

Aug 18  Here’s the s best case study by far…. Meet Iain….


  Aug 18  More amazing case studies from the . Bill & Ben, their story is a real example to us all!   Aug 19 Shame on the government for using . Perhaps they should try featuring , like Steven’s.

Aug 18  Poor old Walter’s story is even more heart breaking

  Since sanctions forced me to go on the game, I have gained new confidence in my naked body! IDS is Gok Wan for povs!

Aug 18 Wargrave, England After the DWP convinced me my brain damage was “all in my head” I have learnt to apply germoline up my nose to fix my brain.

Aug 21 Who News: Benefit breakthrough on an intergalactic scale!

Aug 21  And now the REAL fictional characters are speaking out…

Aug 18  Without my non-intrusive Work Capability Assessment I would never have known my Parkinson’s diagnosis was merely a cold.

And a favourite tribute to the great innovator:

Of course, Iain Duncan Smith tells a great success story. Somewhere in the multi-verse of infinite possibilities. For example, there’s the lie account of his education and qualifications, as stated in his biography on the Conservative Party website, his entry in Who’s Who, and various other places, which make the claim that he went to the Universita di Perugia in Italy. In an alternative universe, unfortunately, Mr Duncan Smith’s office has been forced to explain to Newsnight researchers investigating his academic background that he didn’t get any qualifications in Perugia, or even finish his exams. His statements about the qualifications are simply examples of his remarkable superpowers. And his multi-lives and mega-talent of trans-dimensional travel.

It was also claimed that he was “educated at Dunchurch College of Management”. In fact, in this universe, Dunchurch was the former staff college for GEC Marconi, for whom he worked in the 1980s. Mr Duncan Smith’s office was forced to admit said that that he did not get any qualifications there either, in this universe, but that he completed six separate courses lasting a few days each, adding up to about a month in total.

See what I mean? Extraordinary  superpowers! (See Newsnight reveals ‘inaccuracies’ in Iain Duncan Smith’s CV ). It’s easy to see why Mr Duncan Smith has made it his very own superpower campaign to “monitor” the BBC forleft-wing bias.”

Poor people are rubbish at being poor, says Iain Duncan Smith and Conservative Baroness Jenkin of Kennington


It’s truly remarkable that whenever we have a Conservative government, we suddenly witness media coverage of an unprecedented rise in the numbers of poor people who suddenly seem to develop a considerable range of baffling personal ineptitudes and immediately dysfunctional lives.

We see a proliferation of  “skivers” and “scroungers”, an uprising of “fecklessness”, a whole sneaky “culture of entitlement”, “drug addicts”, a riot of general all-round bad sorts, and apparently, the numbers of poor people who suddenly can’t cook a nutritious meal has climbed dramatically, too. We are told that starvation is not because of a lack of money and access to food, but rather, it’s because people don’t know how to budget and cook, that’s according to the Conservative Baroness Jenkin of Kennington.

She recommends that poor people stop avoiding porridge, since it only costs 4 pence a bowl.

The alarming rise in numbers of adults who have suddenly forgotten how to cook and eat porridge since David Cameron took Office, up to last year.

The very fact that people suddenly and worryingly forget these crucial life-skills under every single Conservative government, but most particularly under this one, provides a darn good reason to vote them out on May 7th, 2015, I should say.

Iain Duncan Smith added: “People are going to food banks because they get divorced, ill or addicted to drugs,  it is “ridiculous” to blame the Government.

It is really rather ridiculous to assume that that every single reason that someone is going to a food bank is down to what the Department for Work and Pensions does.

The report itself today and other reports are also clear and they show there are often people with very dysfunctional lives, people who have been caught in drug addiction, family breakdown, people who have gone into serious illness that aren’t claiming benefits and come into difficulty.”

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Gosh, such a massive rise in “dysfunctional lives”, divorce, family breakdown, serious illness and drug addiction, and all since 2010 – even more reasons to vote them out. This Government has clearly created a tide of social problems, as very few people were incompetently hungry and desperately silly enough to need food banks under the last government. In fact I didn’t even know they existed back then. But that’s the “Big Society” for you. What a bright idea to replace welfare with charity. It’s just like the good old Victorian days. Hurrah!

I mean it’s not as if wealthy people ever suffer from messy divorce, serious illness, family breakdown and drug addiction. That must be why we never see them at food banks.

These people simply need to stop being seriously ill, divorced and all of that, that’s what I say.

A lot of people who specialise in studying poverty have said the welfare “reforms” are behind the rise in food bank use, as well as rising benefit sanctions, low pay and ever-rising living costs. But Iain Duncan Smith seems to know what he’s doing, especially when it comes to talking about “fairness”. Or statistics, for that matter.  You never hear about people starving who don’t have a messed-up life, after all. The man has solved that cause and effect dilemma conveniently and to his discredit, very cheaply. Bravo. We should give him a break, as the poor, inadequate vicious bully defensive man can’t even afford to buy his own underwear.

It’s just a coincidence that the Tory austerity measures have been targeted at the poorest, after all. Nothing to do with those draconian, punitive fair and much-needed cuts to people’s lifeline benefits.

Meanwhile, I’m delighted to see the rise in tax-avoiding, sanctimonious kindly wealthy people preaching Victorian values of thrift, self-help and morality, but only to the poor, of course. We really must learn to manage how to not have the basic requirements for survival better, after all. We’re just going about being paupers all wrong. We all know that increasing absolute poverty is an indulgent lifestyle choice. Who wouldn’t jump at the chance to have such an easy time of it, languishing in all of that deprivation, a shorter life and constant cold and hunger? Not to mention such a special social status. It’s so important to know one’s place.

Yes. Poor people are just so incompetent at being impoverished. How utterly selfish. We really ought to make much better use of our absolute poverty. Perhaps we should learn how to announce a flounce from the country, like many of the tight-fisted, selfish, personality disordered,  socially irresponsible hard done by millionaires do, at the prospect of social policy not going quite their way. Some of them were very cross indeed about the very idea of contributing to our economy, and who can blame them. After all, it matters not that poor people starve, as the most important and useful thing for this country is the accumulation of more wealth by an already very wealthy minority. The destruction of our country’s economy, public services, welfare and so many lives is a sacrifice the wealthy are more than happy to pay.

Good thing that David Cameron has obliged their generosity. Phew. The alternative just wouldn’t bear thinking about for those poor millionaires, who are, after all, victims of terrible discrimination, and inequality. Someone has to be, apparently. It’s in the Tory social order rule book. Still, at least we are all better off than Iain Duncan Smith. Most of us are still capable of managing coherence, as money can’t buy that. So we can be cheap and cheerful.

But the rich have obviously forgotten the virtues of porridge and thrift, too.

Perhaps the poor could run budgeting classes for poor, needy millionaires. It seems not many people know that porridge provides the way out of grinding, long-term material deprivation and helps to prevent terrible social problems. Better safe than sorry, I say.

And David Cameron says rich people need looking after. They must be very vulnerable and fragile. I’m sure it will make the mansion tax more palatable, too, for the tax dodging unbearably tortured souls that may have to dip their hands in their vast vaults and pay their way for once endure it. They didn’t mind the bedroom tax, though, despite it being a breach of human rights, and they even managed to stay calm and silent at the destitution and deaths it has caused: they didn’t complain once, bless them. So perhaps they’ll cope with the mansion tax after all.

There’s no porridge on the House of Lord’s menu, either. I feel so sorry for them:

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See what I mean? An example of Baroness Jenkin’s “budgeting skills”, which are subsidised by UK tax-payers. The House of Lords’ 760 peers benefit from an £84 discount on their food every week. The generous cut is more than the weekly Jobseeker’s Allowance, which is just £71. And the subsidy comes on top of the £300-a-day “subsistence” given to peers for each day they attend the Lords, to cover food and accommodation. How do they endure it?

And thinking about it, isn’t it odd that whenever we see the curiously abrupt forgetfulness and sudden ineptitude on the rise amongst the poorest members of the public and their increasingly chaotic, difficult lives, it coincides every time with a significant increase in poverty, inequality, politically manufactured unemployment, a significant rise in the cost of living, poor working conditions and lower wages, and welfare “reforms”.

And a bunch of selfservatives in Office. There’s a correlation there somewhere, isn’t there?

Primary referral causes in 2013-14

Latest foodbank figures top 900,000: life has got worse not better for the poorest in 2013/14, and this is just the tip of the iceberg – The Trussell Trust.

Executive Summary of Emergency Use Only Report.

The just about surviving report


Thanks to Robert Livingstone for his excellent memes