Who is this fucking unbearable cunt? (a poem)

Michael Deacon is at the Labour conference

Michael Deacon does not like the Labour Party

Jeremy Corbyn has just been re-elected leader

Michael Deacon does not like Jeremy Corbyn

Political funnyman Michael Deacon pushes past leftist oiks

“Out of my way!” he barks

“Read some fucking Orwell!”

Momentum thugs surround him on all sides

A thrum that bustles so, that it becomes a scrum

He is boxed in

There is no escape

He hears the distant strains of Billy Bragg on the PA

The moderate MPs have fled

There is not a sensible journalist in sight

All around him the Corbynista locusts flutter

Michael Deacon stumbles backwards

He is dazed

His senses overloaded

He knocks into something

“Ya!” cries Michael Deacon

“Watch where you put your Stalinist tripe!”

It is a stall, a stall of books

Books of leftism

Of dangerous ideas

Deacon raises his hand to strike the bookseller,

But in his infinite mercy refrains

For something has caught his eye

The glint of a colourful specimen

Almost like the book of anti-Corbyn jokes he wrote the foreword to

But it is not full of jokes

And it is not, oh how it is not anti-Corbyn

It is a book of poems

An anthology, by numerous authors

About how much they like Jeremy Corbyn

And not every item contained therein

Is of a particularly high standard

Michael Deacon recoils in disgust

He spits out a hollow, monosyllabic cackle

Michael Deacon hates poetry

He hates songs

And dancing

And he hates laughter

Which is why he’s the Daily Telegraph’s parliamentary sketchwriter

“How much, boy?” he crows, sallow face contorting

The bookseller is frightened

“F…f…f…f…eight pound ninety nine, sir”

Deacon shoves a ten pound note down his throat

“Keep the change. It’s called capitalism, moron, you should try it

Now where, pray tell, can I find the boys from Sky News?”

“!mmmmmmmm” garbles the wretched youngling

“WHERE?” Deacon screams, at last striking the boy

For his patience has run low

The whimpering Corbynite flinches and points to afar

“Yah!” bellows Deacon

“Yah! I will wreak revenge on those who have offended my sensibilities so,

With their dreams, with their ideals,

Which they must express as art,

Rather than facile snark”

He has reached the Sky News boys

Like vultures, they circle

Their cameras fixed on the Deacon

“Listen up all ye, for I bring the truth”

The conference attendees fall still, rapt

As the truth is told

And lo, does Deacon glance sideways

Letting forth dazzling political funnymannery

All the techniques that are on point,

All of them are utilised.

First he says complimentary things,

But in a sarcastic way

Bitter sarcasm

Slaying the fools of Corbynism,

Then, authentic Deacon zingers, humdingers

Like those that once lined the pages of Zoo magazine

In happier days

A respectable publication

Not like Corbynist blogs

Then,

“Read some effing Orwell”

yasss slay queen

The trolls silenced

Deacon triumphant once more

The grand denouement,

The cherry on the cake,

Is Deacon’s reading of a poem

Which he calls “remarkable”

In an ironic tone of voice

And at last

Mission accomplished

Trolls seen off

Lefty loons cut down to size

By the seminal Deacon wit

It is time to celebrate,

For it has been a successful Sky News appearance,

Deacon swigs champers,

And spends hours angling his phone to take a new twitter profile picture,

Which looks even less like him than its precursor,

Jowl submerged in beard and artsy filters,

Squashed apricot head framed into semblance of normality,

Ah, normality, smoulders the Deacon

All ye who rue its name are traitors foul and base

Read some fucking Orwell mate

And don’t bother with the poems

Serious men write for Zoo.

deacon

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