It’s LEO Readers’ Choice time of year again. Are you going to recuse yourself from participating? Trendiest word of the year, that; who’d have thought it?
When it comes to voting in contests that I have a slim chance of winning, my philosophy is simple: Cheat to win. So my pal Igor has already hacked LEO’s server and guaranteed me victory.
I didn’t know “Louisville’s Most Tiresome Pillock” was even a category, but I could’ve saved you a few quid and told you that Igor was surplus to requirements. You’ve won that honour by a country mile. Personally, I’ve avoided any popularity contests since I became a known associate of yours — on account of my style is so fucking cramped these days, it feels as if it’s wearing one of your suits.
You’re lucky I let you benefit from my patina, me old china. Don’t push it. As for LEO awards, as long as the winners don’t turn out to be alt-right wankstains, it should all pass without incident. I don’t even think there’s a Best Column category — which is an outrage. Does Yarmuth even read this rag?
I’m sure he does, but he probably understands only about one word in three. Bevin and Fischer read it, though; pretty damn sure of that.
I think so too. Speaking of, Fischer’s finally made a decision over that stupid, bloody statue, so finally some well-deserved credit to the bloke. However, my bet’s that when they pull the thing down, nobody who actually lives in Louisville will give a toss — with perhaps the exception of Angela Leet. I assume you have some suitably moronic suggestion about what should replace it?
Of course. I think the first time I laid eyes on, you should be memorialised. We were at Molly’s watching England get unceremoniously slung out of the 2012 World Cup. So I reckon a life-size effigy of you doing your nutter would work well, with the added bonus of leaving plenty of leftovers for scrap. When I first saw you, I thought you had escaped from a mental institution.
Because I was excited about the match… like a man of the people, a true fan? As opposed to sitting diffidently like a perfumed, private school rugger bugger sipping his ginger ale?
No, not because you were a behaving like a bawdy and low-bred council house yobbo. It was the day-glo yellow shorts, black string wifebeater and flip flops. You looked like an extra from an amateur theatrics version of “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” But since I’ve got to know you I now realise you were wearing your finest garments.
It’s called being on brand, chum. Actually, I could get behind a statue of me. I mean, it’s going to happen one day, so why not melt down the slave bloke and turn it into me? Change the plaque to a real history lesson for kids of the future. “Louisville was proper shite until Pip turned up.” It’s got a certain ring to it. It’ll be a nice authentic addition to that otherwise-poncey neighbourhood.
Nicer than the new convention centre is to Downtown?
I love me a bit of brutalist Soviet architecture — but, and like you, the new convention center’s an essay in banality and compromise. Although I was surprised when I discovered that the new centre was really just going to slightly less-bad version of the old centre, I have to admit I was shocked by how really bad the final product was. It’s as if somebody saw the Speed and held a contest to do the worst possible version of it, and then said, “Let’s have a giggle and see if anyone’ll notice if we don’t actually consult with the architect and just work directly with Paddy the builder instead.”
Yeah; it’s a missed opportunity to do something really bonkers and interesting, put the city on the map. But showing personality wouldn’t be the Louisville thing to do, obviously and sadly the bastard’s been built in plain sight for the whole world to see. As always our analysis is a day late and a dollar short.
We need to jog on — but do me a lemon: Let’s not talk about Rand Paul in Russia: He’s not so much low-hanging fruit as rotten fruit.
I wonder if he’ll volunteer for Space Force? I doubt it. Even with Cadet Bonespurs in charge, the armed forces are still reluctant to take traitors.
It’s a sign of End Times, ain’t it?
For American hegemony? Perhaps. Spending vast sums on gobsmackingly stupid projects while people don’t have dental care, or who’re forced to work until they die, is probably a good indicator that a nation has lost it. Borat doesn’t need to ask the question — even if he is a Bokke, Elon Musk is America.
That gives me a chance to bring up Bill Gates — but in his defence. It’s absurd how vilified he is. No individual in history has spent more of his own hard-earned on Earthly problems than Gates. And yet if you ask the people of this country whom they admire, him or Musk or Bezos, two peas in the same utterly mental pod, I guarantee you it won’t be Gates. The more I think about that, the more I’m sure there’s no hope for this place.
I remain optimistic. Most charlatans eventually expose themselves to the sunlight. Take Bevin going to D.C. to kiss the Ring and talk about the justice system, for example. It’s not exactly surprising that the White House’s nabobs are suddenly interested in shaping prison reform.
Seeing as many of them are probably going to end up doing porridge, there are no prizes for guessing that they’re taking this subject more seriously than, say, Space Force.
So we’re right back where we started: a pair of bitter and mouthy Brits ruing their continuous inability to win anything.
Well, at least we’re the best at that, even without the gong to prove it.