Fucking 2016, eh?: A Guide (so far) [a blog]#whatiwrite #2016 #brexit #trump #hillary #stopit


Remember when David Bowie died, and you thought the year couldn’t get any worse? You were a fool. Pretty soon, everyone you’ve ever loved had died, including people you hadn’t thought about in years, like Prince, and people you’d never heard of, but whose death led to some really shareable Facebook quote memes. 2016 was so good at death, you probably think Lemmy died this year. He may as fucking well have, it’s all the same.

But what about those of us left behind, still living? Well 2016 isn’t going to go easy on us either. If you live in the UK, you’re now on your way to the early 1970s, in a Temple of Doom style, out of control mine cart. But there’s no little Chinese kid in it. We’ve sent that fucker back home, along with the traitorous monkey in his little waistcoat and fez. The dirty, radicalised, Muslim shit. No, The United Kingdom of Great Britian and Possibly Not Scotland or Northern Ireland has spoken out against the shackles of unelected MEPs (who they elected, in actual elections), and comfied up in the slanket of xenophobia, in time for a period of eternal, unopposed Tory rule, under a Prime Minister no one fucking asked for.

Elsewhere, the leading lights of the Leave campaign have since jumped ship. Boris Johnson, faced with the very real possibility of becoming the leader of a party torn asunder by BigEndian/LittleEndian disputes over how to be more efficiently cuntish to the common man, decided it wasn’t for him. He’ll wait it out for a bit, until the dust settles; passing time by attending conferences on how to best gas Syrian babies to death, or by fucking Steph from Gogglebox, while Dom watches – still holding her hand, still quaffing his Chateau Margaux 2009.

Nigel Farage – champion of the normal, decent, hardworking, unemployed racist – has decided his journey is over now, having had a hand in fisting the economic ringpiece of the nation; assured his legacy will live on in the fissured anus of what was the UK’s racial and religious harmony. No one knows what his next move will be, but as a man who longs for the simplicity of the old days, it will probably be to spray paint ‘PAKIS OUT’ on the shutters of his local Londis, or posting human faeces through the letterbox of a MegaMosque.

David Cameron has left us, his lasting impression on history doomed to be the mental image of him throatfucking a dead farm animal. It’s not yet known how he could apply his skills as a politician to jobs in the real world, but I’m sure there is some Hedge Fund out there looking for a man who can get out of any scrape by bringing up his dead, handicapped child.

America goes to the polls in November to choose a leader from either Hillary Clinton, who has the experience, the gravitas, the cunning, the hair, and the surname to be President, or Donald J. ‘The Donald’ Trump, who is the Breath of Fresh Air candidate, if you happen to live in a sewage plant, and the freshest air you ever get to smell is the the stench of Marlboro in the communal smoking shelters outside. There is of course a third candidate, one Bernie Sanders, but if you’re still planning on voting for that guy, you’re either a sore loser, a high-functioning retarded person (IT’S FINE, PEOPLE. I USED IT IN THE MEDICAL SENSE AS WELL AS THE PEJORATIVE), or you’re just really slow at working your way through your twitter feed, and it’s still February for you.

All in all, the last six months of horror have felt more like six years, and if you believe in the spiritual wisdom of 1990s Chinese tattoo designs, we may be in for 6 months of absolute bliss and contentment. We deserve a break after all that, right? I mean, how heartbroken were you when Bowie, Prince, that Russian guy off Star Trek, and all of those other people (who you forgot existed about 12 hours later again) died? How sad were you to wake up on the morning of June 24th to find out that well-meaning lefty voters hadn’t realised every vote in a referendum actually counts, and they’d accidentally delighted skinheads, Nick Griffin, and people who name their kids Lee, Dean or Aaron? How many times did you run to social media to send your worthless thoughts and prayers whenever someone shot up a gay nightclub or a Queens of the Stone Age concert in the name of the very religion that you’re constantly defending on the internet so that you look like a great person? How many times did you have to change your profile picture to the flag of a country whose colours quite frankly failed to complement that shirt you had on? I’ve lost count, myself. But maybe we are in for a good run at last.

Let’s come back here on New Year’s Eve, when I’ll be blogging from inside a fallout shelter, in our new official language: Chinese (Simplified Han).

Refugees: A Handy Guide [a blog] #crisis #refugees #deyturkerjarbs


There’s a lot of stuff on the news these days about some sort of Refugee Crisis thingy, and sometimes it’s hard to take in. Between watching your Sky Plussed episodes of Real Housewives, Celebrity Big Brother, and The Man with the Two Stone Testicles, there’s hardly time to absorb any of these so called facts about whatever’s happening Over There, and why we should actually care. Luckily, I’ve compiled this handy, bullet pointed checklist, so that you can get up to speed quickly, and get back to the important things in life.

  • Who are these people? Dunno, really. But they look brown. And some of them might be terrorists. Lots of them have beards. Some of them are children. And some of those children are dead. Which is tragic, really. Especially when we see photographs of them all drowned, and find out they have names and stuff.
  • Where have they come from? Syria? I think it’s Syria. One of those places from the Bible, anyway. I think it’s in Africa or somewhere like that. Or it mightn’t be. Like the way you’re never quite sure where Lanzarote is, but you know it’s far away, even in a plane. Or the Canaries. They’re not even in Spain.
  • Why do they want to come here? Well obviously they were happy in Syria, in their houses with electricity and food and big TVs and jobs and whatnot, but then they realised they’d much rather leave and risk death, imprisonment, internment, and homelessness, because the UK lifestyle is so amazing, and no one ever complains about living here.
  • Are they Muslims? Probably. They’re all Muslims over there, aren’t they? Except the ones with the red dots. They’re Native Americans, I think. That’s what you have to call them now, anyway. Political Correctness gone mad.
  • Will they build supermosques and try to ban Christmas, pork, and Baa Baa Black Sheep? Yes.
  • Why haven’t they stopped in any other Safe Countries on the way? I’m not sure, but I think it’s because France, Austria, Germany, Turkey, etc don’t have Gregg’s the Bakers.
  • But they can’t eat sausage rolls, can they? No, but you’re forgetting about the Steak Bake. You can get one of those and a coffee, two quid the lot, now. If you can get the girl behind to counter to understand you.
  • Is Britain big enough to take on all these new people? Well, Germany has taken in 20,000 of them over four weeks, and we might take in 20,000 over five years. But we’re full. So, no.
  • Will their kids be going to our schools? Only the ones who don’t drown on the way here. I saw a few pregnant women too, on the news. They’ll come over here, have the kid on British soil, with a British birth cert, British nationality, and a British passport, and expect it to be treated like all the kids who were really born here. They’re taking the piss.
  • Will my little boy grow up speaking Syrian now? He’ll have to, if he ever wants to get a job. My kid already speaks Polish, Urdu, Farsi, Chinese, and that deaf one with fingers. You can’t speak English in his school now, or they’ll expel you. And anyway, I don’t like it when I go in one of their corner shops and they’re talking in some funny language to each other. You’d think they’d have the decency to speak English, so I can hear what they’re up to.
  • Are any of them gays? Maybe.They cut off your head for being gay over there, so we should do the same when they come here. If you want to live in our country, you should live by our rules. We’ll probably just let them get married and adopt kids though. Soft touch Britain.
  • Would all these new people add to the economy, in the long run? Of course not. Every single one of them will be on benefits within a week, in a free house paid for by you and me, working on the side for less than minimum wage, paying no tax, as well as begging, robbing your house, and pickpocketing you on the street. The lazy cunts. Send ’em back before they get here, I say. If I want to see lazy foreigners doing fuck all for loads of money, I’ll go down West Ham on Saturday.
  • Are any of them paedos? Probably all of them. I saw a thing on Facebook that said Allah shagged a girl when she was nine. If it wasn’t okay for Rolf Harris, it shouldn’t be all right for him. One rule for them, one rule for the rest of us. At least God waited until Mary was 12 before he got her pregnant.

The Daily Mail Guide to Reporting on Women [a blog] #sexism #dailymail #midriff #flaunt


Internal Memo

From: Paul Dacre (Editor in Chief)
To: All writers, sub editors, web copy writers, freelance bigots


Good morning, everyone! Women are an important minority group who make up 52% of the world’s human population, so here at the Daily Mail, we think it’s crucial to give them the correct amount of representation in our paper (and, more likely, on our website). Even if they used to be men, in which case we make sure to use the correct pronouns in a way that seems like we’re taking the piss a bit. And call them a woman enough to start an outrage war in the comments section. Anyway, enough about chicks with dicks, here’s a breakdown of how to write about the decorative sex in a way befitting of the high standards readers have come to expect from us.

  • Bravery: It’s important to highlight the bravery of many women in society today, and it comes in many forms. We at the Mail prefer to concentrate on the bravery of attractive female celebrities who leave the house without make-up, probably to take their children to school, usually unaware that there are bottom-feeding paparazzi scum lurking in the bushes. Please remember to include several close ups of the brave woman’s foundation-free face, along with some comparison pictures from an airbrushed magazine cover so that our readers can understand the sheer heroism of said female emerging from her actual home without first employing a team of stylists and make-up artists to get her ready. Tone of the article must not be mocking, but feel free to insert some subtle nuances which imply that women are literally only good for looking at and masturbating over, and when they don’t make the effort to fulfill male fantasies, they are worthless pieces of ageing meat.
  • All Grown Up: A sensitive subject, with Britain and the rest of the western world currently under siege by a plague of terrifying paedophiles, so tread carefully here. The purpose of this sort of article is merely to welcome a newly 16 year old (THAT’S LEGAL HERE, DON’T WORRY – Editor’s Note) into society, preferably if she is wearing some sort of push up bra or corset. Again, be careful not to use language which is provocative, as this may confuse readers used to our hard line, zero tolerance policy on child sex predators. A degree of innuendo is perfectly acceptable, and feel free to use words like ‘blossoming’ and ‘radiant’. Steer clear of usual DM favourites like ‘lithe’, ‘buxom’, or ‘pert derriere’, as wouldn’t want to give out mixed signals. ‘Leggy’ is fine, however. No one out there is perverted enough to be aroused by a teenager in stockings and suspenders. Please include at least 40 photographs, with the girl’s face in at least three of them.
  • Mini Me: A relatively new topic, this one is quite simple. Any female celebrity with a female child over the age of… about six, can be photographed and reported on, with the angle being that said child looks quite like their parents. Feel free to add something about ‘matching outfits’, if both are (for instance) wearing trousers or skirts. Please do not make the accompanying text be lascivious when mentioning the child. Unless she has breasts, or something. Not a lot of copy needed for this sort of piece. 80 or so very similar photographs will suffice. If you need to make the article a little more interesting for readers, try to include some sort of subtext about the mother being jealous of the child’s youth, and imply that maybe her vagina is ruined now.
  • Post Baby Figure: Always a reader favourite, in this piece we find a woman who works as a glamorous actress or supermodel, and picture her six weeks after giving birth, looking like she must have adopted the child, so flawless and pristine is her figure. The actual amount of time is irrelevant, always use ‘six weeks’. Dunno why, it just sort of sounds good. Bikini photos are best in this situation, although photos of the woman in a top where she ‘flaunts her toned post-baby midriff’ are also fine. Please remember to use this exact phrase. At no point must we point out that these women are genetically superior to the average new mother, or that their jobs necessitate them being in incredible physical shape, and thus make it easier for their figures to return to normal, post-birth. This information isn’t really crucial to the story, and would probably make our female readership feel a bit better about themselves. Which is to be avoided, really.
  • Dare to Bare: Another classic, this sort of piece is usually centred on premieres, awards shows, galas. We find females who have made the mistake of dressing too provocatively in a pathetic attempt to get news coverage, and duly report on this, with 40 to 60 accompanying photographs. As always, the headline must concentrate on the clothing (or lack of) and never on whatever nonsense said woman does for a living. The pop strumpet Rihanna is always a good choice here, and writers should be aware that in these pieces, the language and implications should be light, frivolous, and sexually objectifying. Please keep any thinly veiled racism regarding the pert derriered songstress for our more serious editorial pieces. It’s important to have a sense of congruity, after all.
  • General Tips: Overall, the House Style here at the Mail is pretty simple to follow, and uses logic at its core (unlike women, obviously). If a woman has done something good, it’s important to point out how nice her dress was at the time, with links for readers to buy a similar article a knockdown price. If a woman has done something bad, similar rules apply, as she still may have been wearing a nice outfit, and our readers will still want to keep on trend. If said woman was sexually assaulted, it’s probably okay to speak disparagingly about the outfit she was wearing, but considering the advertising revenue we receive from click-throughs on related clothing adverts, it may be more prudent to praise the outfit, and just imply that she was raped because she’s an alcoholic, or a whore.

    I hope all this was of some use to you guys, and I look forward to seeing your efforts in the right hand column of the website soon.

    Yours sincerely,

David Cameron has Probably Put His Cock in A Lot Worse [a blog] #piggate #paedogeddon #notcliffrichard


It’s a testament to the power and size of social media that, within a few hours, the whole ‘David Cameron fucked a dead pig in its mouth’ thing was already as old and trite as any of the scripted jokes on an episode of Mock the Week. Laugh it up, UK folks. He’s still your glorious leader for the next four years. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Fucking a dead pig in the mouth opens some serious doors. Tell your kids that today when they get home from school. I’m joking, obviously. Your kids don’t go to the sort of school that leads on to those sort of porcine necrophiliac fellatiopportunities. Your kids are already fucked.

But, but… Jeremy Corbyn! Yes, Jeremy Corbyn is amazing, isn’t he? He loves people, gays, blacks, Caitlin Jenner, peace, flowers, and muesli. And he hates corporations, homophobia, racists, Kanye West, war, weedkiller, and McDonald’s sausage and egg McMuffins. But old sexy Jezza, the sexy college professor type that you’d probably let finger you in a dusty research library – he wasn’t really elected leader by his own parliamentary party. He was elected by people on Facebook sharing a link and paying three quid. His parliamentary party hate him, because he’s as much a threat to them as he is to nuclear war, the Tory party, and #NationalSecurity. Tony Blair did a very good job in ridding Labour of any MPs who’d grown up with a coal fire, were members of a union, or had ever sat near a brown kid in class whose father didn’t happen to be the Namibian ambassador. Jeremy has less chance of leading the country than that other fella with the initials JC. You know the fella I’m talking about – man of the people, loved by the masses, crucified for our sins, used to present Top Gear.

The idea that this pigfucker story will be the end of Cameron is so far-fetched that no one is even suggesting it. The other day, Cameron insulted the whole of Yorkshire, and within an hour he’d fixed the whole thing by saying he’d asked Geoff Boycott and Dickie Bird was it okay, and it turns out it was fine. Back to your tasks, peasants! This is a country where people elected a man whose brain is 46% hair to be in charge of a city with 8.5 million people, and an economy bigger than Australia’s. We have long given up the silly idea that whomever is in charge makes any difference to how much we get shafted. The fact that they might have had to put their knob in some cold pork when they were at school is just another hilarious bonus. And, to be fair, it’s sort of coming out now that the politicians in the 70s and 80s were putting theirs in little boys’ arses while someone, who for legal reasons definitely wasn’t Sir Cliff Richard, watched the whole thing and wanked himself blind.

Literally every politician you grew up watching on TV as a kid was having sex with children and then murdering them. Aided and abetted by the team from Blue Peter, more than likely. Today’s politicians, with their funny Nick Park faces, their inability to eat a bacon sandwich properly, their indirect murder of the sick, the needy, the disabled, and millions of brown babies – those guys are like comic relief compared to Ted ‘I Buried the Bodies on Hampstead’ Heath, or Maggie ‘Jimmy, You Can Stay in Carol’s Room’ Thatcher. Well, at least that’s what they want us to think. Does Boris Johnson’s silly, bumbling persona hide a man who forces five years olds to fight rabid dogs in pits, before fucking both parties, killing them, and eating the corpses? Is David Cameron’s ham-faced sincerity a veil which masks his predilection for sodomising infants before sacrificing them on an altar to his ancient Owl Gods? Did Harriet Harman lobby on behalf of a group called the Paedophile Information Exchange, suggesting that child pornography should be legalised, and the age of consent be brought down to somewhere between six and ten? OH WAIT, THAT LAST ONE’S ACTUALLY TRUE.

So yeah, by all means have a giggle at the thought of your reptilian overlords having to shove their junk into the orifice of the next day’s ham roast so they could be initiated into a life which would hand them everything, at the expense of the weakest and poorest in society. It’ll keep your mind off the fact that, every other day, you’re the worthless piece of meat that’s being throatfucked.

Football: Best Left to the Men, Really [a blog] #WomensWorldCup #England #Sexism #Feminism


The small percentage of England’s liberal, tree-hugging, tranny-enabling population that bothered to stay up last night to watch the women’s ‘football’ in the so-called World Cup in ‘Canada’, were left reeling after watching their country’s ladygirls throw away a perfectly good 1-1 lead in the last seconds of their semi-final. Seemingly misunderstanding the entire point of the game, some bird called Laura sliced the ball into her own net in stoppage time, handing a place in the final to the equally female and incompetent Japanese. Having done so well to reach the latter stages, the team now head home in disgrace, having ruined the worldwide image of English football that their male counterparts have worked so hard to build, since inventing the sport about 200 years ago, and winning like one trophy since then.

There were of course tears at the final whistle, especially from Laura, who had fucked up right and proper, by diving in for the ball like some sort of scatty female, instead of acting like a male player would, and taken time to weigh up the odds and probabilities, using the age old tools of logic and basic physics. Not Laura though, she attacked that ball with all the fervor and precision of an 11 year old tweenager trying to pull out a lock of Harry Styles’ hair at an HMV signing. And the result was a catastrophe, as any man could have told her before she even started. Tears, not just from Laura herself, who behaved in a way that real, masculine footballers like John Terry or Paul Gascoigne in their heydays wouldn’t have dreamed of; but also from the pundits in the studio, who committed the cardinal sin of letting themselves get emotionally invested in the proceedings, like a bunch of girls. You wouldn’t see Ian Wright doing that, would you?

England were hampered from the beginning, having lost several players to menstruation, cramps, and ‘If you don’t know, there’s no point in me telling you’. The Japanese, by contrast, were looking strong in all departments, despite not being allowed by FIFA to wear their lucky schoolgirl outfits, and having to put up with their own government’s insistence on pixelating their genitals. Japan are known for their possession game, with long sequences of passing, and what the Guardian described as ‘a lack of penetration up front’. Which is of no surprise, really, as that’s basically what’s wrong with most women, and if it were up to me, that’s how I’d sort them all out.

Losing a World Cup semi-final is not a small deal. England’s superior and much better paid male footballers have managed to avoid losing one for 25 years. Most of the time, they manage to avoid losing quarter finals too, unless they’re unlucky enough to face anyone half-decent, the completely anti-English unfairness of penalties is involved, some foreign player does something a bit cheaty-looking, or they don’t score as many goals as the other lot. The women are clearly playing catch-up here. They have a chance of redeeming something in the Third Place Play-Off, of course, but no one will be watching that except lesbians.

As for the actual game, well it was good, apart from all the diving and stuff. Something the men’s game is thankfully without. The England girlwomen’s goal came from what can only be described as a dodgy penalty, which the team outrageously accepted, instead of doing that thing Robbie Fowler did that time when he did that thing, and saying ‘No, we don’t deserve this one, have it back’. Everyone knows that’s what you’re supposed to do if you’re an honest English player. Or Paolo DiCanio.  An English international striker is never a diver. Unless you mean Michael Owen against Argentina at France 1998, but that doesn’t count, because he was just doing that to counteract the sending off of David Beckham. Which hadn’t happened yet. But still, cut it out girls, that sort of thing is for foreigners and pansies.

There was some consolation to be had on the internet afterwards, when men of all ages and waist sizes clamoured to commiserate ‘the girls’ on their fine and unlucky loss, often helpfully mansplaining the nuances of the sport to women who literally do it for a fucking living. It wasn’t all light without shade though, as other male types helpfully weighed in to inform everyone of the low standards of this massively underfunded and bureaucratically neglected burgeoning world sport, often adding that they could have done better themselves, or that it would have been more entertaining if the women had been wearing tighter shorts. Which would be funny, if that wasn’t the exact opinion held by Sepp Blatter, a man who understands the concepts of ‘feminism’ and ‘tact’, about as much as he understands what ‘resignation’ means.

So, what now for England’s female ladies? Speaking from his cell in Cushyanddefinitelynotapaedoplace Prison, PR Guru and registered sex fiend Max Clifford said “Well, the possibilities for the girls are literally finite. On the back of almost being successful at this so-called World Cup, they can expect the offers to come flooding in. Well, the pretty ones can anyway. I’m sure Nuts and Zoo will be interested in some nice lingerie spreads. And there might be some footwear endorsement deals on the cards. What’s that one? Manolo Blahnik, is it? I don’t watch Sex and the City. We’re not really allowed to watch anything with ‘sex’ in it when we’re locked up in here. I’m not a paedo though, those were grown women I raped and stuff. Oh! Oh! Those ones with the red soles. Women love those shoes. And I think they like handbags as well. So basically, thanks to this pathetic display, most of these girls can expect to be quids in.”

So there you have it. Well done to the females, better luck next time, and don’t feel down; I would still do at least five of you. Seven if alcohol was involved.

When Do We Get a Straight Pride Parade? And Give Us Back Our Rainbow! [a blog] #marriageequality #SCOTUS #pride

straight pride

Okay, enough is enough. The gays are literally taking over the world now. Everywhere you look on the internet, there’s rainbow pictures, and men kissing, and people putting up photos of two ducklings getting married while erroneously referring to them as ‘two chicks’. It’s sick, and it has to stop.

I’m all for live and let live. But I don’t need someone’s homosexuality shoved in my face all the time. I don’t need to know about what sick stuff they get up to in the bedroom, just because some liberal idiot has decided that we all need Human Rights. You don’t see me talking about being straight all the time, do you? No, my Facebook relationship status, profile picture of me and the wife, constant online check-ins when we’re anywhere together, tagging her in any status that’s even loosely related to us being a couple, and posting pics of her bump, the scan, and the eventual baby, along with six folders of our wedding – that’s enough. I’m not shoving it down anyone’s throat.

You can literally go to any big city in the civilised world now, and for a whole half a day of each year, risk running into a load of gays and lesbians and trangenders, and bisexuals and bi-curiouses, and people who AREN’T EVEN WEIRD OR ANYTHING, THEY’RE JUST GOING TO IT ANYWAY, and it can be quite a traumatic event, if you’re not prepared. I mean, obviously there’s fair warning (posters, internet ads, flyers, guys shouting about it with loadhailers), and it’s not not on for any more days a year than St Patrick’s Day, or Christmas, or any of those days where we get sad about people who died in the war; but still. It’s a bit too much, and I really resent going to it. But I have to, because someone has to keep an eye on them.

Gay sex is weird, and I don’t understand it. So it’s really out of line for gays to bring it up all the time. I mean, whenever I meet a straight couple, they don’t make me think about them in bed, sucking each other’s toilet parts, sticking stuff up each other. Straight people have a bit of decorum. But if you’re gonna introduce me to your ‘wife’ when you’re clearly a woman yourself, well now I’m going to have to spend ages picturing the two of you scissoring or sixty-nining, and sometimes it’s not even hot. A lot of the times, you don’t even look like the real lesbians, from porn.

I’ve met a lot of people’s grandparents, and I’ve never ever thought about them shagging each other. Thought hasn’t crossed my mind. They’re old people! They eat buns, and watch The Antiques Roadshow. They don’t bother with all that stuff any more. But, this week, I saw a thing about two 85 yr old men in Alabama who’ve been together for 50 years. And now I have to think about two old codgers lubing up and going hell’s bells until one of them (or both of them) shoots a hot, sticky load, and they collapse into each other’s liver-spotted, but still strong arms. And I don’t really have the imagination or the stomach for that.

Where is my Straight Pride parade? Can a person not be proud of being born the right way, or of not choosing to be gay? Surely it’s something we need to be congratulated on, not shamed for? Sure, the Pride movement isn’t really about floats or feather boas, or confusingly beautiful transsexuals in silver hotpants – it’s probably more about the happiness of the LBGTQ community that they live in a world where they can be themselves without fear of arrest, losing their jobs, etc – even though that struggle is continuing, and until gay people can walk hand in hand down a street in any town without funny looks, cat-calls, beatings, or worse – or kids can come out to their friends and parents without ever worrying they won’t be accepted as normal, there will never be true equality. Yeah, yeah, I know all that, sort of. What I’m trying to say is, I’m special too! Give me back my rainbow, you queers.

Which is Better? Kendall’s Ass or Her Mother’s Penis? [a blog] #CallMeCaitlyn #BreakingNews #Arsecocks


Bruce Jenner is no more. I’m not really sure what he was before, but the days of he are gone, long live Caitlyn; Vanity Fair cover star, reality show dynasty co-matriarch, and former Olympic Medalist (cos she had to give medal back, obviously. Someone else won it.)

Yes, on the day when that Kim Kardashian has-been woman and her pop star husband announced the imminent arrival of their next appallingly monikered offspring, precisely no one gave an actual fuck, because the big news was: some rich person looks pretty in a corset. I was there right at the start, as I happened to be over on VF.com entertainment scribe Joanna Robinson’s page, looking for some Game of Thrones opinions, and she was the first to let the mongoose out of the traps, to coin a phrase.

Very quickly, my internet was filled with exclusives from all the major news outlets, most of them completely struggling with the concept of ‘pronouns’, and some profound, thought-provoking comments on said articles, from the great unwashed. “Omg she looks amazing!” screamed people who, up until about four seconds before, had definitely been feminists. “Good for her, she’s the best!”, said overly-liberal types, who hadn’t given a fiddler’s fuck when Caitlyn was simply ‘that guy from that show on E! who was married to that fucking crazy woman.’

I like to think I’m as liberal as the next person, until I look around me and check out what the next person is up to. And that person is usually being a shitehawk. Being liberal, to me, is about live and let live. It’s about supporting people less fortunate, when they need your support. But that’s not how it works for some liberal people. For them, it’s more about ‘Look How Amazing a Person I Am! I Don’t Hate Anyone! Except Conservative People, Obviously’. There’s something a bit icky about that friend of yours who is constantly posting gushing tributes to anyone in the celeb sphere who happens to be brown. gay, transgender, a giraffe, etc. You can’t just pre-love everyone who is a minority or marginalised by society. That’s as fucking idiotic as the way some people on the Right pre-hate them. It’s still pre-judice, yanno?

And, if they’re not doing that, they’re posting their mock outrage at how CRAZY and STUPID the views of some nutcase on the opposite political side happen to be. “OMFG I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS FAT, RICH, REPUBLICAN SENATOR IS SO IGNORANT ABOUT HOW FOOD STAMPS WORK, YOU GUYS!!!!!”. Yeah, you can though. You definitely can. Shush.

Don’t get me wrong: I’ll always be Left Wing. Having grown up poor, I can’t help it. It doesn’t matter how rich I become, I can’t ever see myself suddenly developing a callous around my heart, and deluding myself that my success wasn’t half luck, and that I am not just a few bad decisions away from being that homeless guy I walk past on the street. But not all people with Right Wing views are evil or stupid. It’s just the ones you see making comments on the internet. Because, as the old saying goes, ‘Stupid Cunts Make the Most Noise’. And there are plenty of those on the far Left too. You just don’t like to admit it. For every twat who blames ‘Barry Hussein’ for the fact that he got mugged on the subway, there’s a jelly-spined bleeding heart who sticks his fingers in his ears every time someone brings up carpet bombing or Guantanamo.

But, back to Caitlyn. It’s great that she’s in such a position of privilege that her coming out (in the debutante sense, not the sexuality one, I have no idea whether she prefers snails or oysters) has had such a fanfare, a thorough Annie Liebowitzing, and a generous helping of Photoshop’s Gaussian Blur filter. Good for her! But I’m not buying all these people who never gave a fuck about her when she was a man, suddenly making her the poster child for diversity. She’s still part of the elite, let’s be fair. Whatever her struggle is now, or in future, she’ll be struggling while taking a car to Spago’s, and having a Mexican clean her toilet. The idea that trans kids around the world will suddenly have someone with whom to identify is stretching it a bit. I mean, stupid kids from poor families don’t look at George Bush and think ‘Never mind! I can still be president someday!!!’ That’s because, even though they’re stupid, they know they’re not going to Harvard or Yale on some C scores. The best they can hope for is a job scraping Caitlyn’s fragrant lady poos off the bowl.

But, Caitlyn’s grand entrance into the halls of polite society wasn’t the only thing trending over the past few days. No, in a story of equal weight and importance, young Kendall Jenner wore some shorts. They were really short shorts. You could see the beginnings of her buttocks in them. Like, a lot of the buttocks. What was she thinking? Luckily, she’s 19 now, which means it’s been a whole year and a bit since it was morally dubious for any newsgiver outside of the Daily Mail website to make suggestive comments about her pert derriere. Although the Daily Mail website is literally the only place on earth where anyone uses the phrase ‘pert derriere’. Anyway, Kendall’s tiny, white-girl child-arse was the talk of the web, relegating Kim and Kanye’s Konception to third place, which must have been devastating.They’re both used to being the most celebrated anus in town.

So, how should you have reacted to the pictures of The Artist Formerly Known as Bruce? Up to you, really. Just know that if you’re my friend, and you’re waxing cuntical about how much you’ve ‘always admired her spirit’, I’m going to vet your Facebook timeline quicker than I checked your Spotify history that time you pretended you knew any B.B. King songs that didn’t have Bono in them.