Two brits’ awards… Mitch’s shrunken raisins

You bore me, and I guarantee you also bore our readers.

Uhm, I haven’t said anything yet.

A preemptive strike just in case you decide to bang on about your agency winning a LEO Readers’ Choice award — while I had yet another maiden over. I sometimes wonder if this city’s sophisticated enough for my languid prose.

Fuck your languid prose, Dickens. You might need to explain what a “maiden over” is to our non-cricket-loving followers or your old lady might be giving you a preemptive strike or two to the back of your head with a frying pan.

Pshaw! Let them consult Google. It’s not my job to educate a bunch of disaffected colonists about a sport they’re culturally and spiritually ill-equipped to appreciate.

“Sport” is a bit of a stretch, isn’t it? A bunch of chinless ponces dressed in white, jogging between wickets and cucumber sandwiches. If it weren’t for its feckless cousin, baseball, it might qualify as the world’s most unathletic and least-challenging game. It makes college basketball look demanding.

A Chav like you wouldn’t understand. It’s the sound of leather ’pon willow, my lad, the convivial banter of sophisticated friends and old school chums… not the public-estate-level prattle your work-colleagues no doubt have to endure putting up with your bollocks all day long. Like being in Matt Bevin’s company, I should think, only less entertaining and less Asian porn.

Maybe next year you’ll win something, mate. Is there a “Least Likely to Beat Mike Rutherford In an Editorial Slam Contest” category? Or a “More Forgettable Than Pat Forde and Less Introspective Than Scott Jennings” award?

It won’t matter. By this time next year LEO will have been shut down thanks to the repeal of the First Amendment… and you and I’ll be in the gulag selling our tuchases to the guards in exchange for a slice of nan from the multiple-award-winning Shalimar Indian Restaurant. This country’s already a tinpot dictatorship.

Innit, as we Chavs say. Because when an undisputed cult figurehead is in power — and make no mistake, that’s exactly what Trump is — and he openly orders law enforcement agencies to do his bidding, just as he did with that farcical FBI investigation into Kavanaugh, then we’re already there.

Democracy is hard work, so people don’t care for it. They forget that Rome didn’t fall in a day, and that Jack Fry’s wasn’t voted the best fine-dining option in Louisville without a lot of hard work on their part. Anyway, where do you stand on Paul and McConnell’s home addresses getting doxed?

I might be a Comprehensive School case study in failure, but at least I know that you don’t dox an address. You dox a person by revealing their address. However, I also know exactly where McConnell’s home is. Have for years. It’s never been any secret. Plus I’m pretty sure the location of the Bowling Green McMansion that Paul lives in was reported after he was done over up by his 60-year-old neighbour. If anyone wanted to know where they lived, I reckon it’d be a piece of piss to figure out. I’d bet even a third-rate, award-less investigative journo like you could find it.

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The only reason I ever go to Kroger on Bardstown Road is to see McConnell and wonder at what a tiny little bloke he is in real life. Like, roughly the same size as you. Probably got a cock like an acorn and a pair of Alberts like shrunken raisins. I’m generally in favour of public servants being answerable to the public, so tough tits to both of them. If they won’t hold town halls and take open questions, which of course they won’t, how are people supposed to communicate with them other than by approaching them in the fruit aisle?

You speak with an almost-disturbing level of familiarity about Mitch, and I don’t just mean in terms of where to find him in the grocery. But yeah, they’re the Inner Party. Budding O’Briens, all of them. They’ve long had their Goldstein in the shape of Soros, and now they have their Big Brother.

Between you, me and the gatepost, I’d happily head back to the Albion and spend my weekends watching cricket and sipping sherry with the vicar. Surprisingly, though, my wife doesn’t want me to leave, and Airstrip One’s actually in even worse shape than this festering pile of near-fascism. So you’re stuck with me.

We keep on going back to it, I know, and we’re far from the first to have said it, but it bears repeating that McConnell is the most destructive and dangerous person in American politics. I’m glad that his infamy will outlive him and that, when future historians look for reasons about why this country finally went down the shitter, they’ll look no further than your award-winning-Highlands-neighbourhood wazzack. There’s no gobbier cunt on the planet.

Can’t argue with that. Maybe swap me for Boris or Murdoch. Not that this is in any way a strong segue, but how about ol’ Lanshima? Bonkers.

I was pretty stoked when he got given Flasher Johnson’s seat, but then at that point I knew nothing about him other than his history overcoming adversity (by which I mean he managed to get into Bellarmine without going to Trinity). Then, I saw a television interview with him that night and was like, whoa, hang on a second, there’s something not quite Kosher here. Still, I wish him all the best in Nigerian politics. Maybe not a particularly great career move, but he might be more cut out for African politics than for our local leagues.

Not bent enough, you mean?

Precisely. It must have been hard for him to adjust to a country where lobbying for donations is essentially all legal. Nigerian politics is infinitely more traditional in its approach to corruption. And, oddness aside, anyone who does an angry press conference about moving to Nigeria in a Benny Hill castoff jacket is all right in my book.

Didn’t have you down as a Benny Hill fan. Sometimes you surprise me with your momentary lapses into good taste.

Of course, I have good taste. Just like the readers of LEO.

Howzat!

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