Like everyone else who doesn't have a high wall to hide behind when the country's poorest eventually resort to sexually violent cannibalistic rioting, I was quite disappointed by the 2015 General Elections. On Friday the 8th of May I arose with a face like a man who'd just woken up in jail on Christmas Day. The unthinkable nightmares had become grim reality and once more our reptilian overlords had slithered back into power in a triumph of callous self-interest over compassion and human decency. What a hell of a way to start a hangover.
To me it speaks volumes about British values when we collectively decided we'd rather be ruled by an inhuman creature with a face like a haunted abattoir than a man who bodged eating a sandwich on camera because he's "a bit geeky looking." I'm unsure anyone can convince the electorate to vote for them with a mouthful of recycled pig, but such is the focus of the media in these troubled times. We need a leader who can convince us of their consumptive prowess and the consequences be damned! Indeed, damned we are as the axe-wielding automatons rise again without the buffer zones of walking stress-ball Clegg and co.
It was a truly bizarre election as the professional guessers were rendered utterly useless in what looked set to become an "unpredictable" series of events.
It was as if George R.R. Martin was writing the results, big names across the board were dropping like moral standards. With Douglas Alexander getting beheaded on national television by a 20 year old politics student who nearly tripped over her own umbilical cord en route to the chopping block and Nigel Farage surviving his own resignation, frankly the whole thing just got ridiculous - part of me expected Paxman to just admit that he is Highlander and start decapitating Alexander Salmond and cohorts whilst whistling God Save The Queen. Ed Miliband and the Nick Clegg shaped speed bump both got the chop and left Cameron standing victorious atop a mountain of broken bodies and dreams where he emitted a bestial roar, beat his wings and took to the night sky in search of mortals to devour.
This year's election briefly allowed cynicism to give way to the faintest sensation of hope or something that felt remotely like it. I'm baffled as to how such emotions were ever sanctioned by my mind because the reality of the situation is that people are greedy sacks of decomposing meat only interested in prolonging their own futile existences at the expense of everyone else's happiness and wellbeing; an election is a good chance to do just that, but with the legitimacy of democracy on your side. Rather than accepting that you need to pay in order to enjoy the services that redeem this sinking prison isle; high quality education, free healthcare and a vibrant range of culture, Tosspot Tories decided to cling to their treasured pittances like the doomed treasure-hoarding elite on board the Titanic.
So what have we learned from this year's debacle, aside from the fact that Jeremy Paxman should always conduct interviews with a live hand grenade and that Virgil was wrong; greed, not love conquers all things. I suppose we've learned that election pundits are only useful as organ donors as well as noting that election campaigns are a complete waste of time and money. It became clear that realistically the best option for almost every political party would have been to not stick their heads over the parapets - everyone who did took an arrow of public loathing right in the eye. Besides most people aren't convinced by the charades and falsely emphatic promises that generally make up an election campaign, their decision is based on the hell of that they've endured under the previous government and whether or not they feel that another party can actually alter those hellish conditions. Or they're based on hereditary conditions that restrict the flow of oxygen to the part of the brain that enables free and independent thought which may have caused some voters to blindly vote as their families have done. Or else it's down to a crushing sense of inadequacy coupled with an over indulgence in shoddy journalism which led several million people to vote for UKIP.
Ed Miliband erected his own quite literal tombstone and was banished to Ibiza, presumably where he necked enough Ketamine to do a passable Tony Blair impression, Natalie Bennett effectively shat down the snorkel of the Green Party during a radio interview whilst Nigel Farage kept the nation guessing as to whether he looks more like a combination of Mr Bean and Richard Nixon or a very smug stoat and the entirety of the Muppets after a props-room flood. Essentially, no-one came out of it looking good or even halfway to human; the shape-shifter-Cameron entity tried to hide from a TV debate with Ed Miliband on the basis that he secretes noxious fumes when anxious that are deadly to anyone with an income of under £40,000 per year. This was arguably his wisest move as undeniably the campaign trail left almost every leader and their party looking like the shambolic bundle of meat-sticks that they truly are.
One thing that has haunted me since the results were announced was how our silver lining may well be the death of UKIP but it's easy to see how the far right mutates to find a more socially acceptable form; look at the gains made through previous incarnations such as Tommy Robinson and Nick Griffin... Much like a body snatcher that needs a new host due to the level of toxic bile that courses through its veins, the far right never truly dies - it just changes jack boots and England flags for suits and poppies before rising again to mislead the uneducated, the intolerant and the disenfranchised so I'll hold back on the celebratory fireworks for now as Farage and the gang return for more off-colour capers in the next instalment of Britain's got ignorance.
In the meantime though we're stuck with David Cameron and his best efforts to have rummaging through bins in search of sustenance made into a national sport by 2017. If it starts with the scrapping of the Human Rights Act then presumably it ends with a national oxygen tax ensuring that the emaciated carcasses of Britain's poorest will be reused to fuel stately homes. Perhaps it's not as bad as all that and maybe I'm wasting my time applying WD-40 to my anus in preparation for the barbed cock of the Tory-machine, but something about the blank-eyed stare of the Cameronauts tells me that Davey boy would be more willing to take bets on how long it takes a homeless person to die after he's shot them in the guts than he would be to take the woes of Britons seriously. Besides, he's a lizard.