Enemies of Reason Poundshop potshots at the media moral maze.

A victory for greed

WILL YOU WIN £50? WILL YOU? MIGHT YOU WIN £50? THINK ABOUT IT. FIFTY POUNDS IS A LOT OF MONEY TO YOU.

GREED. GREEDY. DO YOU WANT THE MONEY? DO YOU? DO YOU WANT IT? IT MIGHT BE INSIDE. DON'T BE BAD GREEDY LIKE THE BAD GREEDY MAN. BE GOOD GREEDY. TAKE THE MONEY. MONEY. FIFTY POUNDS. THINK OF ALL THE CORNED BEEF YOU CAN HAVE WITH THAT. MONEY. REAL MONEY. IS REAL MONEY INSIDE? MONEY. COLD, HARD CASH. FIFTY POUNDS WILL BUY YOU AN AWFUL LOT OF DAILY MAILS. WHY NOT BUY MORE DAILY MAILS WITH THE FIFTY POUNDS YOU FIND INSIDE THE DAILY MAIL? WALLPAPER THE WHOLE HOUSE WITH IT. USE IT TO STOP LEAKS IN THE BATHROOM. LINE THE BUDGIE'S CAGE. GO ON. FIFTY QUID. FIFTY WHOLE BRITISH POUNDS. GREEDY. GO ON, GREEDY. THERE MIGHT BE MONEY IN THE PAPER. GO ON. YOU LOVE IT. YOU BLOODY LOVE IT. GO ON. BUY THE PAPER. BUY IT. THERE MIGHT BE MONEY INSIDE. REAL, CRISP, LOVELY MONEY. MONEY. YOU LOVE MONEY, DON'T YOU? I THINK YOU DO. I THINK YOU LOVE IT. DO YOU LOVE IT? YOU LOVE IT. HAVE THE MONEY. GO ON. ENJOY THE MONEY. MM, LOVELY MONEY. YOU COULD BUY A WHOLE BOX OF TWIXES, JUST FOR A LAUGH, AND THEN THROW THEM AT DUCKS ALL DAY. WHY DON'T YOU DO THAT? YOU WANT TO REALLY. BUT YOU CAN DO ANYTHING WITH MONEY. REAL MONEY. LOVELY MONEY. GORGEOUS, BEAUTIFUL, POUTING CASH. MONEY. YOUR MONEY. MONEY FOR YOU. MONEY THAT'S YOURS. FEEL IT CRINKLING IN YOUR FINGERTIPS. OH YES. MONEY. THE LOOK OF IT. THE FEEL OF IT. THE SMELL OF IT. OH YES. THAT'S THE SMELL OF MONEY ALL RIGHT. THE MONEY YOU WANT. THE MONEY WE'RE GOING TO GIVE YOU. BECAUSE WE WANT YOU NOT TO BE GREEDY. NOT GREEDY LIKE THE BAD MAN AND THE OTHER BAD MAN DOWN THERE. NO, YOU'RE NOT GREEDY LIKE THEM. YOU JUST WANT SOME MONEY. WHAT'S WRONG WITH THAT? NOTHING, I'LL TELL YOU WHAT'S WRONG WITH THAT. NOTHING AT ALL. GO ON, BUY THE PAPER AND GET ANGRY AT THE GREEDY MAN. AND YOU MIGHT GET SOME MONEY. PROPER MONEY. MONEY YOU MIGHT ENJOY. MONEY YOU CAN HAVE ALL FOR YOURSELF. MONEY. HAVE THE MONEY.

Why I don’t want Thatcher to die

It's funny, but the feeling that's crept across me over the past few days, upon hearing that Margaret Thatcher is ill and might not make it, is not one of joy. I thought it would be, but it isn't. No, the overwhelming feeling is something approaching disappointment, and sadness.

Sure, if you'd asked me a week or so ago whether I'd be happy at the imminent death of someone whose entire worldview and actions I find despicable, I'd have said yes. I'd have said more than yes; I'd have been dancing through the streets in a giant sombrero, shooting fireworks into the night sky, singing Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead. I'd have been delighted at the thought of Thatcher finally getting in a grave so we could all piss on it.

Not now.

Maybe I'm getting more mature in my 30s than I was when I was younger. Maybe I don't find the idea of an elderly lady snuffing it all that appealing. But I don't think that it's that, either. I still do wish ill and death upon people that I don't like, and I don't see anything tremendously wrong with that, and I don't think that's going to change. I've wished her, and others, ill in the past, and I don't really regret it, though that nastiness seems to be going away a little, the older I get, the closer I get to snuffing it myself, the nearer me and my friends and family get to an appointment with a furnace.

But there's more to it than that.

The reason why I feel sad is that I want Margaret Thatcher to live a long and healthy life - and I think all self-respecting lefties should, as well. And I'll tell you why. I want her to live, to see a day when the things she believes in are not just discredited, and despised, but overturned, and consigned to the wreckage of history.

I want her to live, to see a day when she is rightly regarded as a poisonous and terrible influence on Britain and the world - not just by the usual suspects, or by those who suffered at her hands and those of her friends Botha, Reagan and Pinochet, but by the vast majority of people.

I want her to live a long and full and healthy life where she can see that the things she did were truly disastrous - and, while, I don't wish ill upon the country and I hope that I'm wrong about the effect of her heirs' cuts on the country, I want her to live to see the day that her brand of me-first neoliberalism is shown to be a horrific stain upon the world, and not a solution to anything at all.

You might say I'm naive. I'm used to being called that. But I do think that, regardless of what I think of the vile woman, she believed she was doing the right thing. You might argue against that, and I don't mind, but if I'm right, and she did, and she could live long enough to be shown that everything she believed in was wrong, that would be better than her dying now, frail and old, in a hospital somewhere, to the ringing endorsements of right-wingers everywhere.

If she dies now, it's perfect timing, in a way. You can see David Cameron carrying on the torch from her at her deathbed. The cry of "Let's do it for Maggie!" will go up. The obituaries will be glowing towards the 'Iron Lady' and her legacy - I have a feeling they always will be, I'm afraid - in the newspapers who eagerly enjoyed her policies then, and who eagerly enjoy her successors' policies today.

No. I don't want her to die and I don't want her to suffer. I want her to live. I want her to live to see the day when she's proved wrong. I want her to suffer remorse and regret for the things she has done, not slip away from this life feeling free, with a sense of righteousness and vindication. I know that's probably a stupid thought, and one which is ridiculously doomed, but I don't care. I don't want her to suffer, and I don't want her to die. Not until the day she's shown to be wrong and acknowledged to be wrong by the vast majority of people.

And then she can go to hell.

The gifts that Santa forgot

Dear Santa,

It's October, and a lot of people will be thinking that it's too early to be thinking about Christmas. Not me. I'm always thinking about Christmas. Where Eagles Dare, tins of Quality Street, watching the tinsel spin around the room after a gallon of eggnog... you know the kind of thing. Who wouldn't want that every day? Roy Wood was fucking well right. And besides, I've been down the Co-op. It's fucking well full of the shit. After Eights... Roses... Turkish Delight... Matchmakers... you know, all those things with which we celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ and our eventual path to eternal life.

Anyway, I'm rambling a bit. Look, I write to you every year, and every year I have one, very simple request. Bring me a fucking Scalextric. I don't ask for much. Really, I don't. Sure, I'm 35 years old and supposedly nowadays I'm meant to be getting grown-up presents, like Drakkar Noir, or hygienic nasal clippers, or a pair of bloody novelty socks that have got lights on the side and play Jingle Fucking Bells or We Wish You A Merry Cunting Christmas, about ten times, before you stick them in the wash or smash them with a toffee hammer after a couple of cans of McEwan's on Boxing Day. I know that's what I am meant to ask you for, nowadays.

But I want a fucking Scalextric.

Don't fuck around with some sort of generic plastic model racing cars on a track, either. Oh no. My grandparents tried that back in 1983, and they soon found out just how wrong they could be. It's a fucking Scalextric or nothing, all right? With decent cars. Formula One cars, or banger racers, or something. Don't fuck about. Just give me the fucking Scalextric. All right?

I feel that, on this occasion, my tone may have strayed somewhat from my normal friendly words of pleading, and this is a lapse for which I can only apologise. On the other hand, if you'd fucking well brought me a fucking Scalextric, I wouldn't have to be so nasty, would I? I'd have my Scalextric, and I'd be happy, and I'd just be asking for other things, like the bloody Dunlop Bridge, or a grandstand full of shit looking spectators that you have to spend hours painting with Humbrol, which ends up running onto the newspaper, and then it gets stuck and you rip it off, and then the paint comes off with it, and you start crying and throw the whole lot against the wall, and it stains, and you cry even more at the hopelessness of it all, and... I appear to have wandered from my main point. But you get the general idea.

Much love and kisses at this special time of year. And yes, I have been a good boy this year. Well, apart from that. But could you blame me?

Love,

Anton Vowl.

For some of us it was the Scalextric; for others, the Star Wars figures or the Mr Frosty. Funnily enough I did have the Mr Frosty, and he was ruddy brilliant! But I know that must be a cold steel knife to the heart for those of you who didn't get one. I know how much it must hurt. Well, let's see this as some kind of group therapy for us all. Is there something that Santa never brought you, which you still haven't got, all these years later as a grown-up? Do you flick through the kids' section of the Argos catalogue with a wistful sigh and a tear in your eye? If so, confess it below, and perhaps through sharing the pain we can get through all of this.

Austerity cuts new age of misery meltdown drinking game special

How are we going to get through the next few hours, then? Not just the impending doom, of course - though the shock-doctrine flamethrower that's about to be taken to the public sector is going to be pretty strong meat - but the television and radio coverage of it. As is I believe traditional in these times, I think a gentle drinking game could be in order. Let's get the gallows humour and bunker mentality right to the fore. Think Dad's Army defending the pier. Think Mike Morris in the final days of TV-AM. Think Titus Bramble attempting to stop someone quite good from getting past him. Yes, we all know it's hopeless, and we're doomed, but let's try and get through it somehow... with a campfire, a sing-song, and by getting wrecked together.

So, scrape out the last dregs of booze from the cupboard that will soon be bare, set them up in front of your television, and let's make this all pass as painlessly as possible. While the small-state fatcats go around spraying champagne today, let's actually drink something. See you in the morning, with a massive hangover, on the way to the job club.

Patronising analogy from Government minister about debt - TAKE A DRINK. "Let's say, for example, you borrowed something on your credit card, you would have to pay that back, wouldn't you? This is about MONEY which you have, but if you OWE someone else MONEY then you are in DEBT. And it's like someone having DEBTS and then going out SHOPPING. I am trying to make it EASY for plebs like you to understand because you are THICK."

"This is all Labour's fault" - TAKE A DRINK. Phrases like 'our hands are tied by Labour', 'we inherited this mess from Gordon Brown' and 'this crisis is Labour's legacy' certainly count.You might find this is the killer by the end of the day.

Nick Robinson looking/sounding smug - TAKE A DRINK. As you know, I'm no fan of Robinson, but he has a chance to redeem himself today by being something other than smug. In the unlikely event that he can't manage that, though, you must take a drink. And it's going to be pretty hard to avoid him during the course of the day - he's going to pop up everywhere. Jumping down from the ceiling, leaping out of the fridge - "Not now, Robbo!" - he's going to be everywhere, whether you like it or not.

Pointless graphic that tells you nothing about anything - TAKE A DRINK. You'll be comatose at a bus stop by noon if you're watching Sky News. Yesterday's analysis of defence cuts, including whizzy graphics of giant boats and planes flying past the presenter was so crushingly poor that you ended up hoping that one of the Tornados would spear him in the nuts. But no, he just kept on wittering away.

Vox pop of 'ordinary' people who all hate the public sector - TAKE TWO DRINKS. "We asked this family of ordinary folk what they thought. John, you work in the public sector and you'd be on the dole tomorrow if this happened, what do you think?" - "Oh, this is all Labour's fault, I'm glad they're cutting back the public sector, they're all chancers, I can't stand them, I'm glad I'll be down the Job Club, I deserve it..."

Inane comparison of private and public - TAKE TWO DRINKS. "I have a small business and treat my staff really badly, but people are allowed to have holidays and take time off sick in the public sector, almost as if they care about staff or something. They're not living in the real world..."

"They're not living in the real world..." - TAKE TWO DRINKS.

Complaint from Government spokesman/shill about how the evil media are all secret lefties by daring to say anything about cuts being possibly anything other than wonderful - TAKE THREE DRINKS. I fear we may hear a lot, especially on the BBC, about how the dreadful state-funded scum would be bound to complain about their gravy train ending up in the sidings, or how they're all dirty Trots anyway. "Oh well of course the BBC would say that" - charge your glasses.

Andrew Neil with barely concealed erection - TAKE FOUR DRINKS. If only to wash away the memory.

Robert Peston growling like Chewbacca - TAKE FOUR DRINKS. Just for the hell of it.

Shoe-horning-in of immigration - TAKE FIVE DRINKS. "Of course this crisis wouldn't be so bad if we had control of our borders, and why can't we just sack them if jobs need to go?" - it always amazes me at the creativity of xenophobes, but they won't be resting today. You'll see them turning up.

Depiction of anyone on benefits as a 'scrounger' - JUST DOWN THE WHOLE BLOODY BOTTLE. Yes, there's someone somewhere who gets ten billion billion pounds from the taxpayer and lives in a 93-room mansion with a trillion kids, so that means everyone's on the take, especially the evil disabled, who are all probably all right to pop down the coal mine anyway, malingering scum.

Lots of middle-aged fat white men who are all going to be completely untouched by the cuts, sitting around in a nice warm studio talking about why everyone else needs to be dumped out on the scrapheap as if they really do share the pain of it all - HIT SELF IN FACE WITH BOTTLE, COLLAPSE IN HEAP ON BLOODSTAINED CARPET, SOBBING ABOUT GENERAL ELECTION RESULT, WAKE UP AT 3AM, HATE SELF, REPEAT.

Humankind’s greatest achievement

Throughout history, we mud-chucking barbarians have waited in the shadows for quantum leaps of science to lift us out of our ignorance. The wheel, the telescope, the jet engine... and now, I'm here to tell you that I have experienced the latest leap in human understanding, one that will propel us out of the dark ages and into a glorious future.

This is our Icarus moment. This is what science is actually for. Forget twatting around with microscopes or launching rockets into space, and all of that shit; here's something that genuinely benefits us all - something we can be proud of. When our grandchildren look at us and ask what contribution our generation made to the world we live in, we can smile, and simply point at this:

Just take it in for a moment. Your eyes are probably telling you that you're not seeing what you're seeing. "What trickery is this?" you're probably saying to yourself, as your brain refuses to process what your eyes are seeing. But it is true. I am here to bear witness to what I have seen - but not just seen. I've tasted it, on my recent holiday. I have tasted science. I have tasted the fruits (and nuts) of the land beyond the scientific stratosphere. And let me tell you, the blueberry and hazelnut Pringle is Neil Armstrong. It is Darwin and Wallace. It is everything that we as a species have ever achieved, and perhaps ever achieve.

Sure, it's a crisp, but it's a fucking fruit and nut crisp. Fuck yeah! Straw for your poetry, your prose, your works of art; this is science, people. This is what science should be doing. Not fooling around with planets or tinkering with bacteria; oh no. When the world comes up with fruit and nut crisps, then you can truly say, yes, this is the 21st century, at last. Sure, I appear not to be hovering to work on a jetpack just yet - a horrific lapse from those so-called 'scientists' who rule our lives and who lied to us via nice old Raymond Baxter and Maggie Philbin on Tomorrow's world - but I can forgive science for that, so long as there are wonders such as fruit & nut crisps.

I have never seen such delights in this country, however. Perhaps Pringles think that British people are sawdust-tongued fools who aren't ready for the joys of fruit and nut crisps. Perhaps they think we'd go mad if we were exposed to such heights of flavour. Maybe they think we'd go giddy and start rioting in the streets - and maybe they'd be right. Maybe we don't deserve fruit & nut Pringles. Maybe they're too good for the likes of us. Can we be trusted? Would we burn people in wicker Pringles tubes? We very well might. But should we be denied the chance to reach for the stars? Who has the right to stop us? It's a poser.

All I do know is, they are fucking delicious.