Brexit blues

Sad-bulldog

Brexit – British exit,
Screw you EU, we can do without you,
We can shoot our foot off if we want to,
Don’t need no thought control,
No straight bananas, human rights and that rigmarole,
Gonna go it alone, screw your free-trade zone,
Rules are for suckers, innit, gonna make Britain great again,
Bring back capital punishment while we’re at it,
The golden days, fuck you johnny foreigner,
Who cares if our hospitals grind to a halt,
Theresa May, ‘cos she’s a toff, Tory twats,
Cricket bats, leather on willow, warm beer,
Lend us your ears, it’s gonna get grim up here.

Brexit – British exit,
Check your Daily Fail for alternative facts,
Refugees, swarming like rats,
Dark skies, economic ruin,
Tabloids selling porky pies,
Business moving overseas, fleeing when they see the ship sinking,
USA got Trump, we got screwed too,
Right up the channel, hardcore propaganda,
Just like in the war, only we’re the losers,
Now we’re all over, projecting stupidity onto the white cliffs of Dover,
Pissed off people tricked with lies,
Not the EU who fucked your lives, we fall for it every election,
Elites in charge, the toffs always win mate,
We just get someone new to hate,
Who is this time? Not the poles, blacks or paks,
It’s deadly refugee attacks,
Lethal hordes, kick ’em out,
Maybe we can build a sea wall.

Brexit – British exit,
Right wing getting apoplectic,
They only feel alive when they have somebody to despise,
Fear the foreigner, don’t speak our lingo,
Have their own culture, don’t play the bingo,
Funny food, weird religions,
Bombs under burkas, terrorising our tots,
Get ’em out, scream the gutter press,
Britain first, never mind the mess,
You got fooled mate, your frustration used,
They know how to bend the rules, clever fuckers,
Goodbye yellow brick road, hello dark side of the moon,
Brits abroad? Don’t care about you,
Working classes? You’re fucked too,
Same old story, when you vote Tory,
Their money is a shield, your pain they’ll never feel.

Brexit – British exit,
Game over, see ya later,
Wave your flags and enjoy your ‘freedom’,
No man is an island, and these islands will soon be a no man’s land.

 

© Copyright Jason Lennick 2016. All rights reserved.

 

Ninety-eight red balloons

dont-look-now-smallA journey into the city recently turned into one of those Mondays of minor irritations and muse-inspiring moments that just sticks in the mind.


It didn’t start well, since my watch strap, the subject of a few recent repair attempts, finally gave up the ghost and snapped. This turned into something of a metaphor as shortly afterwards I literally ran out of time and missed my bus to the station by seconds. Oaths and dark curses were muttered as I waited in the cold for its successor.

After transferring from train to the Metro, a guy got on with luggage but neglected to hold on as the train lurched forwards. He fell against me and trod heavily on my foot. It’s fortunate that I’d neglected to pack my razor-sharp ninja sword that morning, else he’d have been completing his journey minus his head.
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Trumpageddon

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It is 2021 and the Earth is a smouldering ruin. What little remains of human civilization exists in small pockets, stretched across the scarred and barren wastelands of our once mighty cities. Starving, diseased and horribly disfigured, they fight giant rats and rabid wild dogs over the last of the McDonalds‘ still-fresh-looking burger patties.

The apocalypse, so often predicted, had finally come to pass on a date nobody had expected: a rather ordinary Tuesday in February. And it was all down to the chaotic results of the flapping of a butterfly’s wing in an Amazonian rain forest.

Of course that’s not true at all. It was in fact largely brought about by the actions of one man. A despicable orange goblin, with tiny hands and a massive ego. A misogynist, racist, science-denying, sociopathic TV celebrity, with the demeanour and appearance of a sleazy used-car salesman. Donny Trumpet, billionaire sex pest and reality-avoider, had concocted the ultimate con, with the help of his old chum, Vlad ‘The Impaler’ Putanski. And, it was said, it had been partly inspired by a much beloved Christmas movie starring Eddie Murphy.
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What’s in a name

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I’ve always been fascinated and entertained by clever, funny or weird band names. Clearly it’s a challenge for any musician or group to find the perfect moniker, that name that sets them apart and captures a sense of what they are about. Or maybe just got chosen in a moment of drunken / stoned madness and stuck.

I grew up listening to the likes of Pink Floyd and Bowie and one of my first LP purchases was Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, so perhaps it’s no surprise I developed an ear for good music and interesting names.
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The future is here, almost

albert_einstein_medNew year’s eve is often a time of reflection and even regret, as well as anticipation and hope for the year to come. But we can only live in the present, so as a great sage once said:

“Be not afraid for the future or regretful of the past, for the past was once the future, and the future will soon be the present, until it quickly becomes the past, again. In this way there is no past, present or future. Or something.”

Wise words indeed and ones we can all easily choose to ignore.

We lost many wonderful people in 2016, including some personal heroes like David Bowie. I suspect we also lost a bit of faith in human nature, with the UK’s Brexit debacle and the US presidential election demonstrating once again how the masses can be manipulated by ruthless sociopaths and morally bankrupt media organisations to vote against their own best interests. We now live in a post-truth world we are told, although I’m not sure if that is true or not.

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Saturday night fever

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One reaches a certain age where the thought of a wild night out on the town, crowded bars and long queues for packed and sweaty nightclubs slowly begins to lose its appeal. Over the years we certainly had our fair share of such nights, but then one day you start to see the advantages of a nice quiet, non-crowded living room. No dress code, no queues for drinks or bathroom, very cheap booze and you can be in bed at the end of the evening in seconds rather than endure the awful slog home via night buses or trains.
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Dances with woofs

dog_medI had a somewhat difficult childhood, given the fact I was raised by wolves. Lost and alone in the wilderness of an Essex park, my only choice was to learn from their wily canine ways in order to survive. I say raised by wolves, although actually it may have been more of a brief babysitting. And the fearsome wolves that I encountered on that fateful day may have been a pair of quite friendly dachshunds. But their natural instincts to help a small boy, separated from his anxious parents for almost fifteen minutes, says a lot about why dogs are considered man’s best friend. I’ll never forget Dotty and Dennis the dachshunds, or their kind owner who helped me make the arduous half-kilometer trek back to the picnic area where my parents were finishing the last of the sandwiches and pop. I learned a very valuable life lesson that day: if you want to enjoy sandwiches and soda pop, don’t wander off in a daydream after listening to Peter and the Wolf ninety seven times.

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