Let The Horror Commence

It’s so typical of the Prime Minister to ruin my writing plans for the week. There I was, planning out my punchy think-piece on how we belittle the artistic taste of teenage girls, preparing to rip through the fabric of society with my tempered wit and seething feminist rhetoric, but no – Theresa May has other plans. Our robotic, soulless, pop-up head of state wants an election, perhaps so she can finally be elected.

Ms May has taken the format of the lying, back-tracking politician and run a marathon with it. It’s so expected that no one seems to care any more. She could pledge to save the NHS, sell it off a week later and we’d all shrug it off as typical politics. She may well do that, actually, once she’s finished hard brexiting her brexit for the sake of brexit.

It looks like the Tory election tactic is going to be pretty much the same as 2015, whereby they do absolutely nothing and hope that half the population continues not to vote. Apathy is in their favour, especially when it’s the poor and young whose disillusionment becomes inaction. Though I’m shocked Theresa didn’t schedule it for May just for giggles, June is painfully soon and I can’t help reaching for the panic button. Whether we like Corbyn or not, we’ve got him, so we best start dolling him up.

We’ve reached that time once again where the young, liberal sphere starts twitching with anxiety. I want to help, but I don’t know what to do and also I’m working this weekend. We are, like the tortured white heterosexual John Mayer, just waiting on the world to change. I’ve been thinking about what I can do differently this time, and so far these are my suggestions (insert other parties if necessary):

 

  • Say your name is ‘Vote Labour’ in Starbucks so they have to shout it across the café.
  • Paint yourself red and wait for people to ask you why.
  • Make yourself a martyr – wear a labour t-shirt and kick the security gates at Downing Street until someone truncheons your brains out.
  • Arrange a national Daily Mail burning party.
  • Convince Corbyn to dress up as Obi-Wan.

 

That’s enough silliness, we genuinely do need to do something this time. I’ve never gone door-knocking before, but 2017 might have to be my debut. I’ll be about as welcome on the doorsteps of Wimbledon as a dead rat, but my ‘I don’t know what to do’ excuse is starting to wear thin. No one is going to give us a manual for Tory-ousting so we’ll have to experiment. Trial and error. If we’re lucky we might get them out before too many of us die.

My musings on pop culture might have to wait for a while, it’s time to learn me some political campaigning. I’m too scared to go by myself, I’m worried I’ll get squished by a fascist, so I’ll have to bribe some friends to go with me. I could just bring my dad of course, he’s good at squishing fascists and he knows lots of things. Either way, let’s get out there and politely knock for our future.

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