Corridors Of Power

Instalment One.

In a leafy suburb outside of the cosmopolitan and exciting city of London there is a mental health hospital. St Peter’s Royal Hospital is the official name, but the inhabitants of the quiet suburb know it merely as “Pete’s”.

St Peter’s is full of a number of colourful characters, but on this particularlyy bright Saturday afternoon, three new inhabitants were brought in, and these three were quite the remarkable triumvirate.

Let’s begin, firstly, with the self-appointed ringleader. His name is Dafydd Cameroon, and every now and then would speak with an outrageously bad welsh accent. He was adamant that his Mother was Welsh and his Father was Cameroonian, and as such, that elucidated the origins of his rather unique name. Yet, it was quite clear from his Union Jack socks, and inbred English aristocratic features that his nationality was English and he was merely a very confused and deluded man. Dafydd was slimey, tottering and had a face that gleamed like rubber, lacking any discernible or strong features. He was without any jawline, cheekbones or chin of note. On the surface, he was amicable enough, yet underneath the pleasant and polite façade resided a dark, volcanic anger that threatened to boil over at the slightest thing. His biggest source of irritation was when people accidentally got his name wrong.

“Hello David, come right this way, your bed is wait….”

“DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE CALL ME DAVID AGAIN YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH” he exploded on his first day at St Peter’s. The nurse was visibly taken aback, but wrote a note on his chart: ‘don’t call David; gets angry by this – wonder why (child abuse??)’

However, after this rather surprising outburst, Dafydd resorted back to type, telling the nurse over and over again that he knew a black man. The nurse was black herself, and found his insistence that he knew “a delightful black man, you’d really like him, he looks quite like you” at best annoying, and at worst rather insulting.

The second in the triumvirate was an odd man. A very odd man indeed. He walked stooped like a cat would if it stood on its hind legs and appeared to have at least a very crooked vertebrate. Some days, his ungainly and stooping gait gave the impression that he had no backbone at all. His name was Nick Cloggs, and he had watery blue eyes nestled away amongst folds of skin. His face seemed to have collapsed into itself, and his mouth glistened with spittle, yet was slow to smile. When he did smile, it looked very forced and merely created the impression that Nick was battling with sever constipation. His skin was sallow and his hair was floppy, pompous and stuck up like a toilet brush. His eyes were perpetually disappointed. Nick professed to have an intense love of Cloggs, and would often be found to be saying “Look, I’m sorry guys, but I just fucking love Cloggs, ok? They’re just so fucking durable, I promise that if you give me money I’ll buy you the best Cloggs your heart can desire”

However, recently he had taken to wearing Clark’s, the very same shoes that Dafydd wore, but still insisted Cloggs were “just the fucking best”. He could be seen to look down at the Clark’s on his feet in a resigned manner, and if one listened carefully he could be heard to say “I’m sorry” over and over again.

The third member of this puzzling gang walked slightly behind Nick and Dafydd and attempted, but failed quite miserably, to exude an air of aloof, nonplussed, superiority. He walked behind the two in the same way a young teenager would walk behind his uncool, embarrassing parents, trying to pretend he wasn’t with them, but always staying close enough so as not to feel lost. Every now and then, Nick or Dafydd would spin round hurling delightful combinations of words in the man’s direction such as “fucking hell Ed, what’s that wooden thing you’re carrying” and “hurry the fuck up Ed”.

His name is Ed Broadband. Ed spent large chunks of his day rabbiting on about different Broadband services, and had extensive knowledge on all the competing providers. BT was “too expensive” whilst TalkTalk was “too slow”, Sky was “too capitalist” whilst Plusnet was “not capitalist enough”. Dafydd often said to Nick behind Ed’s back his favourite provider was definitely Virgin Media as “he’s definitely a fucking Virgin Nick, look at his shite hair”. Nick would sigh, chuckle and then look at the floor. As of yet, Ed had yet to confirm his favourite provider, but had instead compiled large and extensive lists of all the flaws of each main provider.

Ed was tall, gawky and had a face that inspired indifference. His hair was the type one would casually ruffle in a condescending way, and had the charisma of a box of crackers. Under his arm, he would have with him at all times a wooden pallet, and would often hop onto it to deliver awe-inspiring speeches. Most recently, he clambered onto the pallet to argue his point that “although Tubes are faster, I believe we should get the bus to the British Museum as it’s too hot on the tube and I get sweat patches. I’m just a regular guy, like the rest of you, and like the rest of Britain, I get sweat patches because I’m a regular bloke, like other blokes in Britain who likes getting the bus sometimes”. However, Dafydd kicked the pallet from underneath him and muttered “no one gives a shit Ed”.

The three of them were quite the remarkable triumvirate indeed.

Into the Rabbit Hole


Come with me boys and girls; come with me into the rabbit hole, otherwise known as the WorldWideWeb. Take the plunge and you’ll soon be questioning anything and everything. Let me lead you into the dark depths of humanity. Let us begin.

‘He is beautiful isn’t he? Its not so much the pitch is his cathedral but more like he’s the fucking Pope out there. He is an absolutewarrior and he is our warrior sshould be captain too. Never seen anything like him.’

This succinct little comment about the footballer Luis Suarez really got me interested – really got the juices going. It is very biblical, very heavy with religious language and imagery, which is always nice, and comparing a footballer with the pope is definitely an acceptable thing to do. Furthermore, I really like the vivid image of the pope, decked out in his full attire, trundling around a football pitch being ‘an absolutewarrior’. I’m really glad the author wrote ‘an’ instead of ‘a’. His attention to detail when it comes to the Queen’s English is admirable. But, I can’t help but wonder what the image entails? Using his scepter as a weapon? Using his huge hat to get a distinct advantage in the air? Who knows, but all I know is that the author ‘Murdell’ from the definitely not deluded ‘redandwhitekop’ is clearly a literary genius.

‘Every single Muslim in this country is playing a ‘breeding/waiting game’ Let me tell you all: When the bubble breaks, blood will ‘Gush’ through the gutters! Shame on the social engineers, AKA Western Governments.’

Ah. I’m sure you were all wondering when the borderline racist, definitely bigoted comment would be rearing its glorious and white hooded head. And here it is! Well, where to begin? The use of ‘breeding’ is very clever because it conjures up images of cattle or small mammals; therefore, all Muslims are animals. I can’t argue with that logic; can you? Also, what is not clear to me, and I suspect the author has deliberately left it unsaid, is why the blood will be gushing. Will the Muslims start a bloody uprising? Perhaps. Will there be a civil war? This is definitely implied. Or maybe, just maybe, the author of this comment is a tin-foil hat wearing, paranoid twat who thinks every shadow is a foreigner trying to steal his job, wife, daughter, stamp collection and stockpile of shoe laces. This was on The Telegraph website after all, so what else do you expect?

Continuing on with the threat of Britain no longer being about British I present this sexy little number:

‘if Africa is allowed to deteriorate then Africa will come here. Intervention in Sierra Leone was a great success’

Now, this is a very puzzling comment. By saying ‘Africa will come here’ what exactly does ‘ZowieBowie’ (you guessed it, from The Telegraph) mean? Are they implying that Africa will join forces to make an almighty African army and invade and colonize Britain (revenge is a dish best served cold after all)? This wouldn’t really make all that much sense as Britain is significantly smaller than Africa so would be a bit of a waste of time. Maybe, what they mean is that all the Africans are going to sail over to Britain in the dead of night on hastily made crafts produced in the depths of Mount Doom, don some clever disguises like clothes and shit, and then integrate themselves into British society (the horror!). Or, and this is the most frightening implication of all, the spectral threat of continental drift. I think we really need to prepare for the moment when the entirety of Africa floats over to Britain to cause a colossal collision thus killing everyone. Everyone. It’s a real possibility people, so make sure your bunkers are ready.

‘My soul detached from my body and my heart filled up like a balloon and I flew on to unknown places, while listening to this song. Thank you so much. This music is beautiful’

This person is quite clearly a cunt.