I don’t usually do politics. The kind of spoken word that I do is an escape from the real world, though I do poetry about themes and society, such as LGBT issues, representation and inequality. I don’t usually do pieces about real people either, unless you count Jeremy Clarkson and Katie Hopkins, both of whom I’ve performed humorous poems about. I always see such poems as having a relatively short shelf life. I haven’t performed the Clarkson poem much since the muppet was fired from Top Gear. It was a sad day.
However this year has truly been a bummer, politically speaking, not only with that whole Brexit thing, (what the hell was all that shout?), and the populism of that Farage bloke, the rise of the rather spooky Teresa May, (again obliterating one of my poems, in which I mention ‘Home Secretary Teresa May. Short shelf life, you see), but rather more scarily, the ominous buffoonery of Donald Trump.
I’ve tried to make sense of all this as the ultimate expression of celebrity culture, the rise of anti-intellectualism, image over content, bluster as a signifier of the supposedly downtrodden. The result of the Europe referendum demonstrated, to my way of thinking, the wilful protest of the supposedly under-represented. Both Farage and Trump have grasped the idea that it doesn’t matter what lies you tell, as long as you sound angry. They have created situations in which there is a supposed opposition to everything which their supporters only just now realise that they cherish. Abstract concepts such as freedom, identity of the dominant culture, fear of change, the foreign Other. The more they shout and lie, the more popular they get, because the lies are so obvious that they’ve become conceptual anti-political protests.
I’d like to write poetry about this. But none of it is very poetic. The best way to fight bluster and bullying is often with humour, and that’s happening a lot in the US but not so much over here. I can’t remember who said that you can’t win an argument against stupidity. But when the stupidity is a purposeful tactic to win arguments, that’s when we should be worried.
The Pet Shop Boys did a song called I’m With Stupid, which had the line, ‘Is stupid really stupid, or a different kind of smart?’
Will all of this blow over? Probably not. Mr Trump hopefully won’t win the election, but you can never be too sure. People are being put off politics, including the politicians, and this will lead to a whole generation of media-managed calculated blundering, office as character, celebrity warmongering.
Tag Archives: politics
Oh, England.
Oh, England.What was that?
Are we still friends?
You’re scaring me.
You’re pulling out of the staff
Lottery syndicate.
Buying your own tickets now,
Hoping the big one comes along.
We turned one way
At the crossroads
Already convinced
That we were lost.
The loudest shouter
Demanded the way
That looked best for him.
He had no map.
Just instinct,
Not even an app,
And now the engine sounds
Like its out of fuel.
England.
You shrank.
You stink.
You snarl.
You don’t think.
You regret.
The scariest thing is wondering what
Kind of language this seemingly legitimises,
What small stands a good man can take in a world
Where hate is now seen as justifiable
Because that funny Farage bloke looks like he might
Say something similar, you know,
Sipping a lager, probably, chortling and saying it
Not because it’s right but because it sounds
Good in the saying.
He’s got the rhythms,
He’s got the moves.
He looks like he thrives in chaos.
Perhaps he’ll buy us a round.
Oh, England.
I never felt comfortable with your flag,
Seeing it more as the appropriation of the mindless
Snivelling narrow minded seething loud mouthed
Gut-led instinct ignoring boozer whose political
Pronouncements sound leery in the pub environment,
Just one of the lads,
Waving that flag,
Waving it with all their might,
Waving that damn flag.
We are an island.
And some think that this means
We cannot join hands,
Reach out and help those jump across
When they need it the most,
Share some love because we all have love,
Even a skinhead can have a tender heart
If only he weren’t so
Afraid to show his true emotions.
The chanting of the pack might not make sense
But when it echoes back from high street shop fronts,
There’s a certain inevitability.
All it takes is an idiot with ambition
And a modicum of hatred.
Some think we need to build a wall,
But that would only succeed in
Keeping us in.
Oh, England.
I see no boundaries,
I see no politics,
And it’s not just me.
So long as we are on this planet
We cannot escape our duties,
Our humanity,
That others might be inclined to stand tall
And say that they exist for the greater good,
For peace and love, togetherness,
Understanding, sharing,
Kindness, curiosity,
Passions of the truest kind,
Rather than some localised upchuck,
And this at least makes me
Feel slightly better about the future.
Good people will always
Be there.
Good people wilL always
Be there.
Oh, England.
Poem (for Katie Hopkins)
Poem (Katie Hopkins)
Once upon a time
There was an evil monster
Whose ferocity was fed
Not by those it maimed
But by the pumping buzz
Of publicity and sound bite,
Controversy and sheer big-headed
Attention-seeking desperation
And it was called
Katie Hopkins.
And the more it fed the more
It scratched at the surface of
Polite society hoping that the
More damage it inflicted
The greater it’s substance would be
Only to find with each
Deep vicious cut
That people merely laughed at it.
How it scowled at the world
Like a mardy shark
Spoiled not by circumstance
But by the slow drip of publicity
Which it mistook for adulation.
How it fed so ravenously
On the eternal circle of
Jaded misguided opinion and response,
Prejudice disguised as truth.
Oh, Katie Hopkins,
Like a bad busker on the
Pedestrianised high street of proper debate,
A sad singer wailing at the world
Having only made 10p.
You’re like the kid in the quiet cul de sac
Whizzing up and down on her skateboard
Starting to become a nuisance.
Looking out from the window,
There she is again.
Whizzing up and down on her skateboard
Back and forth, hither and thither,
Whizzing up and down on her skateboard
Get off that skateboard, Katie Hopkins.
Get off that skateboard, Katie Hopkins.
Get off that skateboard, Katie Hopkins.
I like to think it’s an act.
No-one can be so stupid.
I like to think that you
Meet up with your friends
And you’re perfectly normal,
As easy going as the rest of us,
Hoping that one day we will all realize
That it’s a silly joke,
A grotesque parody,
Somehow revealing our own
Misgivings and
Actually adding something to the world.
Oh, Katie,
You vain fickle brained warthog,
You gloating flap mouthed pimple,
You xenophobic motley-minded weasel,
You rank vomit-inducing ne’erdowell
With a face like a permanently surprised frog,
You toxic, provocative, class-conscious,
suspiciously orange
Arse.
It’s like you’ve seen that Farage bloke and thought,
I’d like a piece of that,
Though he’s far too left wing for my liking.
It can’t be like this, surely,
It can’t be.
Yet a part of me suspects that it is.
If you didn’t exist,
Then we’d have to invent you.
And that, I suspect,
Is what’s already occurred.