My Easter Egg is glowing, Mr. Trump…

My Easter Egg is glowing, Mr. Trump…

I was thinking the other day “What would happen if a sociopath and a psychopath had a barney?” and considering they are both in control of countries armed with nuclear weapons, then it looks a lot like the US and North Korea. If The Silence of the Lambs was a showdown between Hannibal Lector and Buffalo Bill; Trump Lector wants to eat Buffalo Kim’s liver with fava beans, and Kim wants to incorporate Trump’s tangerine face into his US body suit, with Putin in the wings like Predator, trying to take as many skulls as possible back to his home planet. I want to imagine that they all have their hands over the big red buttons, but I know Kim’s is more of a Dynamite trigger from 1800’s frontier America. I couldn’t tell if it was nuclear war or a gold rush, ending in a saloon brawl, capped off with John Wayne spinning a Colt 45 on his finger.

I can’t understand the bipolar attitude of Donald, a man who threatens nukes in the morning and runs an Easter egg hunt in the same decision. It wouldn’t have surprised me if I heard that Trump had fly kicked a kid in the chin for a golden egg, because it matched the tacky letters on the side of his buildings. At a time of giving, Trump wants to give chocolate eggs to kids and nukes to North Korea; but knowing the man, he’ll send a Cadbury’s warhead to Pyongyang, and the kids will find yellow-cake Uranium in their eggs. Trump has seen the fear of the North Korean public and wants to deliver 1.2 megatons of freedom, to either liberate them or simply burn the fear off along with the rest into a fine powder-like substance, then crush that powder further into the ground when he rolls tanks into Pyongyang Square. Whatever comes first. He’s not fussed.

All this comes after bombing Syria, using “Intelligence” which is a word applied very loosely around a man who admitted wanting to f**k his own daughter on live television. He even said in a news interview that he ordered the strike while eating cake and gaffed, saying that he’d bombed Afghanistan, which he later did. Slipping up with national secrets, why not just give full co-ordinates, follow that up with a quick “We’re coming for ya!” then a “gun fingers to the screen” sign off. If ISIS can buy rockets, they can afford a subscription to CNN and some decent WIFI. However, I digress, launching 59 missiles at an air base, allegedly producing the gas, which it will probably turn out was a Syrian Air Force’s launderette when we find dry cleaning tickets and washing machine parts strewn over the vicinity. It might turn out that Trump waged war on Persil and the good people of Hotpoint.

I was actually going to write this as the news from Syria came in, but I thought I’d leave it a while as there would’ve been an air of “too soon” about the whole thing. Syria has taken a note from World War 1 Germany on crowd control as President Assad gasses his own people. It may be possible that this is the world’s most elaborate “Sure vote” system ever, as he spends 6 years bombing and gassing the public until the only person alive and eligible to vote is Assad. Whether America was wrong to do it, I can’t say. Whether it’s the “Archduke Ferdinand” opener to World War 3, who knows? Although, the atmosphere has a somewhat “Trench Foot” vibe. I keep expecting a draft letter in the mail. I will say, 59 Tomahawk missiles seemed like slight overkill.  If Trump sent in a Navy Seal crack team to catch Assad mid speech, and blew his brains out all over the camera while he was kissing a baby, it wouldn’t have been half as ostentatious. Even the Space Shuttle Columbia disaster had a more understated feel, in comparison. I just wish that Trump wouldn’t look so smug, I know it’s the first decision he may have got right, but don’t start playing with yourself too soon. Mexico haven’t agreed to pay for that wall yet.

I really wanted to keep this edition British, with British problems. However, the fact that I live in London, a place that comes top 10 in any political maniac’s “Places to Nuke first” handbook, I feel that this is a very British problem no matter how drowned in Stars and Stripes it may be. I feel as if we’re one wrong word away from nuclear winter and government issued lead paint on sale at Tesco. In the spirit of the British, back to Brexit (being a word I’ve come to hate, I just want this thing finalised so that Frankenstein’s word dies with it), the Greens believe that Brexit holds an “unprecedented threat” for environmental law, which if it does, we’ll only find out after America, Russia and North Korea’s war; the world is laid waste, orphaned children are drinking irradiated water, Vault 101 opens like a subsidised Fallout 4, and the Green party own the only stretch of land with a tree on it. I don’t think environmental law will save the planet as much as stopping three countries using bombs with enough power to boil the oceans and everything in it to a fine steam. Evolution happens to adapt and survive, yet I feel like if I lived long enough to sprout an evolutionary propulsion system to fly away, America would hunt me down, strap a nuclear warhead to my skull and launch me at the nearest available enemy warship.

I make jokes about these times, because it’s the only way to keep a sane mind about the whole thing. It’s like ripping off a plaster, the fear is worse than the pain. Once it’s done, it’s done. It’s the same attitude I have to nuclear war. I know that when Covent Garden is engulfed in a blinding fireball, I won’t feel the pain, because there will be milliseconds between the explosion and me turning into coal. The only fear I have, is the only thing to remember me by would be the blackened outline on a paving slab. I want to be positive, but it’s very hard to find silver linings; especially where I look up, see a cloud, then a Chinook flies past.

I think now, it’s a better time than ever to get closer with family and friends. That’s what I’m doing.

Take care,

Stephen Mills

Pink Passports, Article 50 and that scene from Braveheart.

Pink Passports, Article 50 and that scene from Braveheart.

As Article 50 is triggered, Nigel Farage is booed off stage at the EU like the British version of 8 Mile, and the government seems to be treating our budget like a council estate mum who saw some new sofas in the DFS sale, and forgot that her credit is f**ked up, I’m reminded that the little man is going to get ever so littler. As the powers of terrorism look over the water at us, they must feel superfluous by now. Where they once bought bazookas and AK47’s in bulk, their last order was $35 million worth of popcorn to watch us tear ourselves apart. I’m looking at old Asda adverts with their “Always Low Prices” campaign hoping for a Brexit clause, tying them in to a spoken word contract to stick with their promise as costs go up. The world is so bad now, people are looking to Nostradamus’ predictions like it’s a reputable journalistic opinion.

I always assumed Britain was the country that set the way in the world, and if leading the way in self-deprecation is anything to go by, I expect to see whole nations cutting noses off to spite faces. As Scotland rears up, Nicola Sturgeon dons the blue face paint and screams “FREEDOM!” on the 6 O’clock news, I can understand why they want to separate. We all have that friend who falls out with the group and expects you to tag along so you can be loners together. Scotland said nothing about going down with the ship, yet Captain May wants to go down in glorious fashion, bringing a full crew, passengers and stowaways with us after selling our lifeboats to the highest bidder. At this point, things have gone so monumentally bad, even replacing Theresa May with a Margaret Thatcher corpse puppet would bring a chilled atmosphere to proceedings.

In retrospect, I feel as if David Cameron’s decision for a Brexit referendum was like setting up the dominoes so Boris Johnson could wade in, and belly-flop them with the force of an elephant at a poacher’s barbeque. Johnson’s claim that we sent £350 million a week, disproved by the fact that we collected most of it back in subsidies, is now off-set by the move to spend £500 million on turning burgundy passports blue… And the reason is because a few Tories think they look PINK! And these are the Wombles in charge of our economy. Who have they got on the calculator, Barry Chuckle?! We have homeless in this country who can’t afford food, shelter or clothes, but god forbid they go on a booze cruise to France with a pink passport. We’ll regret this when we see Philip Hammond in Santander asking for a loan to fund the NHS for a week.

The only way to fix this economy is to start charging big companies proper tax, and I’ll be waiting for that well into my grave; then further when I eventually turn into oil and I’m dug up and converted to petrol by a big company to run some bloated oaf’s motor, and probably still not then. We are no longer the Great British Empire; no longer do we own the seas nor the vast land we once ruled. Our immense wealth was built on dirty money. I can’t say I’m proud of that, neither am I proud of the fact I was taught at school about the brilliance of the British Empire without being taught of the atrocities we committed to get it. Behind every great fortune is a great crime, and we shall soon see this in action when the IRS take a closer look at Donald Trump’s tax returns.

On that note, with some of Donald Trump’s cabinet being effectively investigated for high treason and Trump’s inept attitude towards it, I wouldn’t be surprised if the FBI found that he’d appointed Vladimir Putin as his Secretary of Corruption and Vote Rigging. It’s generally a giveaway that Putin is too close when they’ve been pen pals for the last 20 years. He’d probably flip flop his way out of this one too. But what do you expect from the owner of the Miss World Pageant, a man who judges the most beautiful women in the world based on whether some tits in a bikini can play a clarinet slightly better than tone deaf. I don’t think he really understands that the problem with the western economy, is the billions we have spent on wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, yet he wants a war with North Korea, who I believe at the moment are trying to build more nukes out of firecrackers and party poppers. Knowing his character, it would be like Trump bringing nukes to playground scrap. The geopolitical equivalent of getting back at a bully by kidnapping his parents, giving him a noogie until his bare skull is exposed, then burying his parents alive on a rainy day and giving him a detailed map of their location scrawled on the back of a McDonald’s napkin.

But back to more British problems, as Freddos rose to 30p last time I checked, this is a sure sign of an economy in collapse. People are more worried about the tallow in the new £5 notes rather than the value of the note itself, we are a nation confused about what is important. Veganism, although a worthy fight, isn’t mine and isn’t the fight for now. It’s a bourgeois fantasy that we should all be vegan, have moved out by our early 20’s and have a mortgage by 30. We’re a nation where the boomers wonder why us 20 somethings haven’t moved out yet, and we’re wondering how it was so easy for them. Most jobs near me are in London, yet the most affordable housing is over 30 miles away. We’re told by Tories that the living wage can be lived on, as they live in luxury on expenses. However, if they suddenly earned living wage, the middle-class suicide rate would fly through the roof, and most luxury hotels would be getting rid of hanging Tories on mass.

The average working person in Britain doesn’t have any representation in the House of Commons. The Labour party is now a bunch of privately educated school kids. I have no problem with this, I certainly don’t want “Big Dave” from the pub, addressing the nation from 10 Downing street, wearing his 1998 England home top with a can of Stella in his hand, talking about “How England used to be”. It’s that kind of nostalgia that gave Boris Johnson and Nigel Farage the power to do what they did. But I wouldn’t mind having some people who know what it’s like to be working class, instead of this force-fed empathy for us. I can’t stand this Tweed Labour. Labour for Hipsters.

However, before I leave this, I don’t want it to seem like it’s all doom and gloom. There are a few silver linings for us Brits. Firstly, the security sector is booming because of terrorism, so there will definitely be jobs there. Secondly, thanks to Brexit, in a few years the repossessions market will be up. So, if you’re the kind of person who enjoys the absolute distraught look on children’s faces as you walk away with their PS4 and games, while their mum chain smokes a box of 20 as she throws slurs in your direction, then that might be the job for you. Thirdly, as Brexit draws closer, Nigel Farage gets self-satisfied and becomes more public, that’s more opportunity to give him a slap.

Take care,

Stephen Mills

The first of many. So, since I’ve been gone…

The first of many. So, since I’ve been gone…

It’s been 2 years since I wrote a blog and in that time, the world has started a decline into the opening scene from Mad Max. I thought the epitome of the UK’s downfall was watching David “Forehead” Cameron take the helm. Had I known he would lead a referendum on what circle of hell Britain wanted to dwell on, I might have forgiven him for cutting my Student Finance. However, Brits being typical Brits decided that a hard Brexit, likened to the deepest circle of hell in this metaphor, was in some way getting back at the establishment. In retrospect, Brexit was the political equivalent of jumping out the first-floor window of the World Trade Centre because you’re scared of loud noises. The pound deteriorated in value literally as soon as the vote came in, it reminded me of the time I caught Norovirus with its efficiency.

Where was the opposition, might I ask? Jeremy Corbyn has been as absent as Hull City’s defence since Brexit. At a time when big political faces (none bigger that of Nigel Farage) were rallying support from the undecided or the plain stupid, Jeremy Corbyn put in a cameo role for the last week of campaigning. Smiling for photos with Cameron after 5 weeks of deciding which horse to back, then got it wrong. I used to be a Corbynite, which now just sounds like something used to shut Superman up when he gets a bit lippy. I’ve never seen a man in charge of a political party with so little get-up-and-go. He seems like the kind of man whose wife must get him to fill out a satisfaction questionnaire, to find out if the breakfast she cooked him was above par. A man who has all the charisma and determination of an off-kilter turd in a bidet. If you asked him what his favourite colour was, it’d be beige.

I might laugh at Corbyn if he wasn’t the man who is supposed to represent me against the Trust Fund brigade. OJ Simpson was represented by the dream team of Rob Kardashian, Robbie Shapiro and Johnnie Cochran. I feel like the working class is being represented by the more retarded Chuckle Brother and his closest pals. It’s when you look closer, and realise that both sides of parliament were probably flatmates at Oxbridge, that you realise there really is no representation for the working class. Unless you truly believe that UKIP, the palatable face of racism and fascism, is the working man’s Conservative party. It’s weird that this shift in politics has created the rift in the working class, where half remain Labour and the other half hate everyone else. I would vote Green Party but chances are, we’ll be dragged into another war and I’ll have a hard time explaining how recycling my jars is saving the world. At this point in time, picking between Labour and Conservative is like picking between Pepsi and Coca-Cola. They’ll both end up destroying you, but you pick whichever one has the better deal at the time. Labour have become so middle class now that if they saw the Conservative party’s champagne budget, Labour would only request that they downgrade to Prosecco.

Now we have Theresa May, who seems to have been living in the parliament’s nuclear bunker for the last 7 months. I’m guessing she foresaw Trump’s oncoming apocalypse and rushed 30 foot below ground to call a bed, like the most inappropriate towel on a sun-lounger in Benidorm, wearing Speedos 3 sizes too small. Between long absences in public and Prime Minister’s questions, she seems to keep a place as residential hermit and a parent holding Britain to its Brexit because it’s “what we asked for”, as if we were children who took payment for a chore not yet done. Reiterating the point as if she’s proud. I’m waiting for the moment Brexit takes hold and the elite have to argue with a Halifax adviser for a mortgage on a loaf of bread, while the rest of us are spraying silver shit in our mouths then ramming a car into a petrol tanker to get to our crappy jobs in the morning. Because that’s preferable to paying the inflated prices for a train.

All this while Trump’s regime comes bearing down on the world. We’d be forgiven for feeling like the poor fella looking down the barrel of an AK-47 in an ISIS propaganda video. Anywhere with recently found oil reserves will put that information underground quicker than a hipster Jazz-Funk act. Trump’s war on sanity just encompasses anyone with a view slightly different to his, which means in 4 years, most of the nation’s opinions will be considered fake news. He’s not even a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He’s more of a wolf who popped into a blind tailor for a dodgy suit, put the remains of his last meal on his head and ran for president of the sheep people. It’s sad that we look back on Bush like a political genius compared with Trump. He even had the nerve to send Navy Seals on a task, got one of them killed and then brought the freshly widowed wife into the crowd for his first senate announcement to say “thanks”. I half expected him to have her shackled in chains, laid in front of him wearing a bikini like that bargaining scene from Star Wars.

It’s not weird that my generation and below has a less than vested interest in politics. They don’t want to vote and don’t vote. When I hear this, I usually argue with them. However, nowadays I can’t. Picking between someone who wants to destroy the world or destroy the economy is one hell of a cross to bear. I can’t argue with them anymore because not even I want to vote for these people. If god exists, he must be watching us like the latest season of The Walking Dead. I’m wondering if Melania keeps Lucille in a lockbox for Donald when someone speaks out of turn. The world has become unpredictable, and when picking the new meal deal at McDonald’s that can be a good thing. Unpredictability when it comes to the economy and war, isn’t the knife edge that the average person wants to walk on. The worst thing we can do as a nation however, is to fall apart. That only furthers the gulf between the rich and poor. Solidarity will save us.

Take Care,

Stephen Mills