Nonsense · Political · Reactionary

Recipe in Case of Disaster


Less than a month before the big day, I’m finding it hard to scrape together the usual tentative hope that comes with elections. I’m not sure if I’ve reached the bottom of the barrel, or whether I’m already a foot into the dirt beneath it. With all that’s been going on this past year it’s not hard to see what’s been poking holes in the Labour moral, what with the rise of right-wing and fascist-hopeful governments springing up like particularly ugly daisies all over the place. Regardless, it’s not over ‘till it’s over, so we’ve set the venue, stocked up on spirits, and my friends and I will be up all night, waiting to know whether we’re sailing to Finland or not.

But I’ve been thinking. And it’s occurred to me that, foolish or otherwise, our hope prevents us from reaching the higher levels of nihilistic giving up. Our escapism, I’ve realised, just doesn’t go big enough.

It’s perhaps a symptom of our reserved Englishness, but I think I’ve found a solution for those truly without hope for this year’s general nonsense. So here it is, my recipe for the perfect election night escapism.

Things you will need;

  • A liberal mindset

These are supposedly a dime a dozen but the woman in number ten tells a different story. Nevertheless, you will need one in order to fully enjoy the fatalistic hilarity of political disaster. Have you ever met a self-aware Tory? I haven’t. This will be your base ingredient.

  • An uninhabited island

This is a little trickier to come by. With a Conservative government in play; it can be a little hard for those of us without an allowance from our millionaire daddies to procure an unblemished paradise. However, the splendid isolation from political responsibility is essential. Don’t let our country’s financial ruin spoil your election day piss-up, and in a pinch the Ilse of Wight isn’t too far to swim to. It’s nearly uninhabited, being mainly squirrels.

  • A tanker of booze

The good stuff, preferably, but if you don’t plan on making it to another Conservative government Tesco value vodka will do. Don’t worry about the potential environmental disaster should the tanker spill its load into the sea, if the election goes pear-shaped the global environmental crisis will be confined to mythology. Dump at will. Remember; climate change is an invention of the Chinese.

  • At least one (1) friend

Getting drunk by yourself is a problem, getting drunk with others is a party. Or, if you don’t drink, at least you have a shoulder to cry on should the worst happen. Or the best. I’m not about to police when you cry. There’s no room in this recipe for toxic masculinity or the shaming of emotional behaviours. We’re not resigned to more years of patriarchal nonsense just yet.

  • Fireworks

In part because, oooh pretty, but also a very legitimate requirement when one is stranded, deadly hungover, and dehydrated, on an isolated island. Provided they’re not used for celebratory explosions, in the event of the UK not choosing to cavort with the devil, they can be used to flag down passing ships when the need arises. This recipe advises trying for a Nordic ship of some kind. Swedish or Norwegian, preferably. Reinvent yourself as a tragic castaway and seek out a job in your new homeland. I hear they have excellent social services.

  • Your local Conservative or UKIP MP candidate

You don’t know them? Have no idea how to lure someone onto an uninhabited island far from support, friends, and a comforting police presence? Never fear, Tories like all creatures have their appropriate bait. For some it’s a wedge of cheese, for others a well-timed fox, or some prefer a saucy bit of ankle. Some have been known to follow the call of a sow in heat, but you don’t want those ones on your island. Trust me.

  • A sacrificial dagger, a copy of the Necronomicon, and a lot of candles

Bear with me. You never know just how badly an election night will go until you’re sat on the floor with a gin and tonic that’s more the former than the latter watching a cheesy whatsit brought to life by the horrors of science claw its way into a seat of power. Best to be prepared.

Now, having acquired all the necessary ingredients for a stonking election party, on to the method;

  • Preheat the planet point eight degrees Celsius higher than a hundred years ago
  • Throw all your ingredients together with the abandon of someone who has seen democracy fail them at every vote since they reached the age of majority
  • Get completed wankered
  • Wait
  • Don’t forget to actually vote, this bit’s important, or you’re no longer allowed an opinion (Disclaimer; you are allowed an opinion, but it also allows everyone who did vote not to care about your opinion.)

And there we have it. Provided all goes to plan, you will have the perfect election day bonanza, complete with the most ancient and revered of all British pastimes, binge-drinking. I’ve not tested the recipe, but I’m quite confident it will work. If something does go wrong, with your party or with the election, you can always turn to eldritch blood rites. See, I told you to trust in the candles. It’s contingency. So is the presence of the MP candidate, but that’s up your personal discretion. I’a Cthulhu, everyone.

Animals · Political · Reactionary



I consider myself a human being. I’m sure you think of yourself as human, too. It’s a fairly commonplace sentiment. I was born to human parents, and I attended a human school. Excepting those among us raised by wolves, owls, ferrets, and other miscellaneous fauna, I imagine this goes for most people. We’re all human beings and deserve to be treated as such, though this is getting progressively harder to remember.

This isn’t to say that we’re losing all our morals and are fast tumbling down a slippery slope of technology-driven debauchery, I’m not writing for The Daily Mail. It’s a feeling, one I’ve been experiencing, and surely we’ve all felt the same at some point. We’ve all seen something truly awful that someone has done, generally a dictator or another failure of the American gun laws, and wondered whether they can truly be human. How can someone, we ask ourselves, do this and consider themselves human the same as I do? There are moral differences, and then there are moral obscenities. There’s political controversy and then there’s Germany in the 40’s.

An exaggeration, yes, but it’s hard to keep the hat on my hyperbole when fox hunting is in the news again.

It’s in the news, and the news is treating it like it’s just another policy to be bartered over in parliament. Not as if it’s a horrifying bloodsport giving the Roman coliseums a run for their money in barbarism. And, before I get ahead of myself, I’ll recap exactly why it’s so appalling for those of us who have been able to forget over the decade or so it’s been illegal. (Not that the law has stopped the toffs on horses, but we’ll get to that in a bit.)

Contrary to what would be nice to believe, fox hunting didn’t end in 2005 when the ban came into effect. Sure, it made hunting foxes theoretically punishable, but if you’ve spent any time in the countryside you’ll know very well that the law is looked at a little differently in certain circles. It’s hardly the Wild West, of course, though it is where all the guns are. And the horses. And a lot of the racism. Huh. On second thoughts, maybe it is the Wild West of England. Only it’s everywhere, and it has enough cash to get away with a little bit of recreational animal murder.

Because murder is exactly what the hunt is. Don’t even dare say the words ‘pest control’. Don’t. If I don’t personally combust there’s a good chance Roald Dahl’s ghost will manifest with the express purpose of backhanding you. There is no proof that fox hunting is an effective means of pest control. Zilch. And if not that, then what is it? What is the hunt, if not an altruistic attempt on the behalf of the local stable to reduce the dastardly population of chicken thieves?

Since huntsmen like to hide behind their excuses like a second skin (concealing no doubt their true reptilian visage) I can tell you instead what it is. The hunt is a bunch of sadists on horses getting their kicks from seeing an animal torn apart, organs splattered across the beautiful countryside they claim to enjoy so much. It’s the life of an animal, hunting to survive as it does naturally, unnaturally cut short after a drawn-out chase that would be considered torture were the victim not a fox. It’s a hoard of right-wing caricatures having a jolly old circle jerk over how civilised they are as they paint the faces of the initiated with the blood of the kill. It’s the worst of us dressed to the nines in fancy boots to crush fox cubs underfoot and gloves to protect their hands when they throw them, bound, to be ripped to shreds. I won’t add pictures. That would be cruel.

The hunt is despicable. Inhumane. And yet the huntsmen rail against the ban publicly, as if they weren’t murderers; as if it were a normal thing to do. If it were another canid, wolves or domestic dogs, the hunt would likely be washed away by the sea of righteously offended masses waving handmade signs and loudly denouncing their mothers’ relationships with farm animals. But, while the UK as a whole doesn’t want it back, they’re not doing anything to stop what’s still happening, either.

Because foxes are still being killed and not in the comparatively humane way they’re legally allowed to be. Read around and you’ll see plenty of alleged claims about hunts still doing things the old fashioned way (murdering like grandpapa used to do) but that’s it. Alleged claims, they call them. Never mind the videos, the hundreds of photos and statements and recordings and even testimony from the horses’ own mouths. Or the huntsmen’s own mouths. Same difference, really, only I imagine the horses have a fair bit more to say about being spurred and whipped.

For those of strong constitution and willing to brave animal death and unpleasant noises, here’s a hunt saboteur video published in an article by The Sun showing hounds cornering a fox;

Note the timestamp of the video, 2017/01/14. February of this year. Over a decade after this kind of slaughter has been outlawed, and it’s still happening, on a road, in full view of members of the public. And has anyone been brought to account? Of course not. Wishful thinking. Absurd thinking, isn’t it, that someone might be arrested for breaking the law. But people are constantly, are they not? Then what is it about this law?

Is it, like various other laws, that when it is a certain demographic (the rich, the white, the landed gentry in their houses built on old money and old sin) breaking them they are merely not held accountable? Or is it that outside of the few, no one wants to know? It’s been outlawed, and so it must be gone, and anything else is too much trouble to think on. Is it merely apathy? Because honestly, at this point it’s hard to tell whether the ban being lifted would make much difference at all, bar making it even easier for the hunt to get away with the murder of their opposition. Oh, and yes, they’ve done that, too. It’s almost as if they have no moral boundaries they won’t cross. It’s almost as if we’re letting them do it.