POOR PEPE

Bullying was normalised by reality TV, pop star judges and tough guy celebrity chefs with Deirdre Barlow hair.

Young Pepes learned that to win you must be malicious. That empathy is a weakness. That sympathy is passé. That spite is right!

Poor Pepes. Sad, insecure, mutually stigmatising, profoundly petrified Pepes. Discouraging each other. Stealing each other's strength.

The least equipped of us to deal with the challenging vagaries of life, should Pepes be pitied?

Pepes degrade and humiliate each other in an attempt to exorcise their own degradation and humiliation.

But self-hate is non-transferable. They curse each other and they are all cursed.

Jungian shadows are projected wildly. Insults and caustic humour betray an overwhelming dissatisfaction with existence.

It goes on and on. From snide to cutting. Accumulating. A toxic tsunami sweeps across our world. An inescapable, global hex.

Discourse is corrupted and now those racing to be POTUS exchange cruelties. So presidential. What good influences.

Being kind or even considerate and thinking 'hey, there's a whole human being inside that human being' is history. 

Climate change, warfare, whatever, the Doomsday clock is reaching twelve. 

It seems the concluding act of the human race is to piss on its own grave.

But if you can't beat them, join them. I think I'll give it a go.

So, my first and final insult to the poor Pepes of the world is this...

My remaining hope is that I live long enough to see you all die.

Die.

In cowering, sobbing, isolated regret.

Inhaling the Arctic methane.

Your world in unrest.

Dying. Dying. 

Dead.




That is all.

Release the gas.

Send in the drones.

Whatever.

WAR HORSESHIT

The thing about World War One is that it was very well lit and the music was absolutely lovely, swelling and whirling and crescendoing as the boys died on the sweeping canvass of the field. Oh, the boys, the boys, so brave and some as young as thirteen. I’ll don my poppy and salute the boys and their efforts. Each one proudly choking on hardening mustard gas mucus. Coughing, convulsing and falling. And all the while so well lit, so beautifully lit. It’s no wonder they called it The Great War, it was bloody marvellous.

Maybe in the future our current wars will be recalled in a similar fashion, through the prisms of aesthetically pleasing nostalgia simulations. Instead of blurry footage of exploding buildings on remote monitors, we’ll see our brave drones swoop down and liberate post-production graded, high-definition, panascopic landscapes. We’ll have stories of an army boy’s love for his drone and the sacrifices he makes to retrieve it when it is shot down by the enemy. ‘Oh old Droney, how I loved ya Droney.’

We’ll have majestically choreographed cinematic recreations of despots being deposed. I can see it now, Gaddafi (played by Alan Rickman in a black wig) being stabbed in the arse as the sun rises over a new Libya and a rousing soundtrack denotes liberation. It’ll be a bit like Laurence of Arabia only in 3D and with a touch of Hostel to keep the kids interested. HRH or one of her family will attend the premier and Tom Hanks will exec produce and everyone will be moved to tears, for a bit.

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And now a poem. The authorship of these verses is much disputed. Some say they were penned by Tony Blair, others say George W. Bush but I think this poem shows the hallmarks of one of our latest and greatest war authors, Hillary Clinton (author of We Came, We saw, He Died):

The Moral Argument for Gardening

Such beautiful seeds
descend upon
plough into
the trembling earth
Yielding searing flowers aflame

Scorching, cleansing, beautiful gardening
Trowels of truth
Ploughs of patriotism
Shiny new harbingers of
a garden of resolve

From a just winter
a righteous summer shall rise
With the sweet scent of freedom
and fresh tender bounty
Ripe for the picking

And when we’ve stuffed our faces
and all is left bare
the seeds will rain down once more
An honourable cycle
Oh beautiful war

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That’s really the great thing about war in general, it inspires such fantastic art. I mean, imagine if Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen weren’t traumatised in the dugouts of Flanders. They’d be a long forgotten pair of old queens. Their names wouldn’t ‘liveth forever’, I’ll tell you that. War makes a man of you and sometimes an artist. Here’s to the next one.