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).