Apart from the summer solstice, Royal Ascot, The Queens speech, and something called the fucking Day of Rage. Come On! I’m all for peaceful protest but that sounds like it’s going to be about as calm as Nigel Farage being introduced to his new Polish neighbours.
I know there’s anger right now. Real, heated, palpable anger. The type of anger you only feel after talking to fucking ‘John Smith’ for 3 hours on Sky’s ironically named helpline. The standing on a piece of Lego, white heat, fucking red mist rage that this incompetent, poor hating, shower of cunts of a government induces.
But this protest must remain just that. A protest. If this descends into a fucking grab a TV free for all, then you’ve fucking lost that argument quicker than Paul Nutall changes his fucking home town.
Smashing the fuck out of a local family run accountancy firm and trashing some innocent cunt’s ‘nice car’ isn’t holding the government to account. It’s just pissing your fellow city dwellers off.
That fucking walking scarecrow, Boris, is more excited about using those water cannons than David Cameron at a fucking petting zoo. Don’t give the warbling plum stutterer an excuse.
So. March. Chant. Wave your fucking signs and unite. Grow and swell like Micheal Gove’s head after being re-appointed to cabinet. Go back every fucking day if you have until someone fucker listens but please give the boys in blue, our fire fighters and our ambulance service a fucking rest today. They’ve had enough shit to deal with.