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Straight from the greater world of icky ugliness to your personal space. Sorry about that.

Approx Reading Time-10Monday. Think of it this way: soon you’ll be dead, and there’ll be no more morning angst. Solved! Macron. Trump. The Soviet Union. Yes, them again.




Macron officially the next/youngest/most attractive ruler of France. Somewhat.

Call me a cynic, but much like the way it goes with his doppelgänger in confectionery, we’re going to overindulge, succumb to a horrific bout of gastroenteritis, and push the plate away when we see his well-defined saccharine figure cross our laps. But, then is not now, so, vive Emmanuel! You did well not being that crone that hated people for no reason. As in, your opposition. To this newscaster, racism is akin to drag racing. There’s a lot of noise and smoke, and you’re entirely unsure why you’re doing it, but there’s a crowd looking, and you can’t tell if their faces are in frozen accusation, or stoic support, but there’s a chance you may get laid, so burn rubber, Adolf.

As it turns out, Macron is the youngest – and perhaps most-chiselled – leader in all of Fwance (eat your heart out, President Charles de Gaulle) (and phwoar, I would), however, the same cannot be said of his place in French history, as that honour goes to one-time Lisa Simpson fantasy/bonfire aficionado Joan of Arc.

There’s a woman who led, and in the correct Gallic verve too. By being horribly murdered in a public place.

C’est leadership, Emmanuel.


Trump accidentally grants first wish on Presidential genie, threatens to stop all press briefings.

Before you twist your face in a DeNiro scowl and monotonically castigate the decision of 45 to ban press intrusion, therefore 1984! wah wah wah…it isn’t. Because there was more sex in that book. The only thing that is being fucked in the remake is our casual edutainment, and perhaps the global faith in the American system. At least we still have our war with Eastasia Eurasia. Doubleplus good, eh?

Well, it’s fair enough. He’s his own Press Secretary on Twitter, and on Twitter the questions are written down and can be blocked. Why not? It’s not going to change anything. The only person it really effects is the Prez’s alpha mutt, the wheezing chihuahua being the aluminium fence of denial which magnifies his bark, Sean Spicer, for whom it sadly might be time for the green dream.

I hope Donald drives Sean to the vet himself. It’s only right.


Muscovites protest demolition, news teams downplay sentimental tears.

As the national anthem of the Soviet Union will attest, it’s good to heavily exaggerate the past. And therefore, the only thing better than living in the soviet era is keeping the illusion of it alive. The wall never came down, and drunk Uncle Boris didn’t feed the economy to the circling Wall Street hawks.

хорошие времена.

However, overnight, the flames of government-past were fanned over the chilly Muscovite streets, with a frankly Soviet 20,000-strong crowd stepping out to protest the demolition of 8,000 Kruschev-era apartment blocks that bear his name. Seemingly, his threat of burying his detractors could come to pass in the decrepit masonry that barely keeps the roof away from the floor.

Say what you will about this nuevo-Russia, the strong ways of the Union remain. One path, one mind, unsullied by the vapid nature of capitalist intrusion. A grand, golden ideal, that…

Oh for fuck’s sake, bring back the USSR. Turnips and abject hopelessness for all.


The top five Tweets from overnight:

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