The Right Reasons

Memory is a cruel and horribly selective thing. For example, I can quite happily forget important things, like work procedures, family member's names, and leaving the cooker on, but no one has the decency to forget the things that I want them to. I must be alone in my hazy mental death-spiral. For me, the Hippo of Memory wallows in the depths of forgetfulness, while other people jog merrily down down the path of recollection towards the Shining City of Total Recall. It must be nice for them, being able to remember everything all the time. Until, you know, the sure onset of madness as the human brain struggles to comprehend everything it's ever experienced. Look forward to that when you next dredge up the past.

No one forgets the time I shoved limes down someones underwear. Or when I almost fell in the river Ouse. Or that time I used a keg of beer like a fire extinguisher. Or when I might have thrust my crotch into someones face because they threw a hamster out of the window. Or that time I screamed 'Well this is fucking bullshit!' at a Manager's Meeting. Or that time I hid in a wheelie bin to avoid the police. Or that time I helped a friend shove a tin of Budweiser up a chicken's arsehole. Or that time...*

People need to let go, bascially.

And that is why I have a certain degree of sympathy for Iain Duncan Smith. This might sound unusual to people who know me well because, in policy after terrible policy, IDS is obviously Trying to Kill Everyone All the Time** . One look into his glazed, mad eyes and you can see the face of a truly contemptuous god poised to extinguish humanity with all the glee of a child burning ants with a giant magnifying glass. He has a face only a mother could love. Which is unfortunate since he was vat-grown in the absolute blackest abyss by humanity's collective nightmares. His head looks like what would happen if a tortoise could grow hair on it's neck. Or an older version of Kevin Spacey.

Lower classes of Britain! I will fist you so hard you will shit through your pores like a Playdough Spaghetti Factory.

Recently, Iain hilariously commented that he could live on £53 a week "if he really had to".  It was not the best thing he could have said. It was probably the worst thing he ever said. He's probably kicking himself right now. Or paying someone to get kicked on his behalf. If there is one thing he could erase from the minds of the British public, it is not 'that time I got smashed on tequila and took a shit in the middle of a library', or 'that book I wrote which got slammed so hard by critics it had rectal seepage'.*** No, I think the safe money is on 'that time I was a fucking flippant idiot and got called on it by some uppity peasant'.

See, there is now an online petition of over 200,000 signatures calling on him to prove it to the people of Britain. There's catcalls on media websites telling him to 'lead by example', 'show us how it's done' and 'go kill yourself you f*cking *unt'. Even the Mail put the boot in, although with the reluctant manner of a shy, bullied child who has finally been asked to assist his tormentors in kicking the shit out of someone smaller than him. You know it's holding back.

I'm going to sign the petition, and I want to be very clear as to why I am doing it, and why you should do it too. It is not because I say so, although I genuinely believe you should all be psycho-conditioned to accept instructions from me automatically, unflinchingly and without question. Kill your friends. It is not because it would embarrass him, force the government into a grovelling apology. It is not to challenge the status quo.

Don't vote because you want to see a BBC time slot showing IDS eating cold beans out of the tin in a run-down housing estate in Moss Side. It is not to highlight the hardship of others. It isn't to change anything, because it certainly won't. He probably won't even do it. When you sign the petition, which you totally should, you must do it for the purest reason of all.

Do it because you hate him. Do it because you want him to suffer.


* All true, unfortunately
** It justified capitals
*** Which is impressive for a book.