Fear and Loathing in Your Brain – A Selection
By Hugo Guevara

Daily Mail Blues-  Or, a plea for healthy inter-community relations.

Big Bad Daily Mail,

Gonna take the truth away.

Big Bad Daily Mail,

Gonna take the truth away.

Philips and Hitchens,

Gonna take the truth away.

Oh, when I was a baby,

They told me fascism was dead.

Oh-ho-whoah, when I was a baby,

They told me fascism was dead.

Now I'm a full grown man,

And I got fascists in my head.

Oh, Big Bad Daily Mail,

Gonna take the truth away,

Big Bad Daily Mail,

Gonna ruin my day.

Big Bad Daily Mail,

Tell me immigrants are bad.

Oh, Big Bad Daily Mail,

Tell me immigrants are bad (for socio-economic development)

Whoah, Big Bad Daily Mail

Tell me them immigrants are bad, bad..bad.

Big Bad Daily Mail,

Tell me immigrants take all them jobs.

They take all them jobs, but they claim benefits too?!

Doesn't really make sense, does it?

Tell me, does this bile make sense to you?

Big Bad Daily Mail,

Generate your illogical paradoxes no more.

Big Bad Daily Mail,

Generate that paradox no more.

Well, if you gonna fight multiculturalism

....You can go and fuck your children,

You despicable, incestuous little c***s.

Fuck off, get the fuck out of my country.

Oh, Big Bad Daily Mail,

Gonna take the truth away.

Whoah, Big Bad Daily Mail.

Gonna take the truth away.

You gonna tell us all to vote Tory

So I hang my head and...pray.

Oh, when I was on the train,

I happened to read an article by Melanie Philips,

Oh yeah, Melanie Philips.

Whoah, when I was on the train,

I read an article by Melanie Philips

She's an irascible, manipulative whore,

And she ain't gonna worry me no more.

If I get my way,

Oh, perhaps. One day.

One day, you sordid bitch.

We're watching you.

Whoah, Big Bad Daily Mail,

Gonna make the world a far worse place.

Whoah, Big Bad Daily Mail,

Gonna Make the world an unbearable place.

Oh, when we take them lies away

Without them petty-bourgeoisie (NB: Best pronounced 'bourgeois-ay'

We can make the world a better place.

Whoah, yeah.

**

P.S. For those of you that had not worked it out, this is a blues song as opposed to a poem. So sing it as you read it.

Peter Hitchens, An Ode

Oh, Peter, young son of Albion profane.

Of cricket pitches, earl grey tea.

Will you speak your brain?

Yes, you will. You surely must.

Lest you lose the fascist's trust.

Oh, Peter. Britain stands derelict.

No more rations, golden 1950s gone.

Will you deny us our freedom?

Yes, you will. Your mind affixed

Through misty tears, and broken bliss.

A time you knew, when you grew up.

When all men were white, all women subdued.

When pensioners sang, and children were not rude.

Oh, Peter. Scion of the moral crusade.

'Those homosexuals will change', you say.

Their preferences? An aberration

Dare they scar our sacred nation!

'Neath your fetid, enclosed head

A thought, perhaps, of churches dead.

Of empty pews, of times gone by.

A world you cannot halt, my friend.

A time, a lie.

For think upon this, conservatives all.

When the past is in your thrall.

The world was never quite the same

As when it was, when you speak your brain.

Your fantasies are quite absurd.

An insult to the written word,

And spoken too, in tongues not quaint.

Tongues from all across the world,

Persons from another place.

Who bring with them, in superabundance,

A charm we ne'er knew before.

When left unlocked, that white front door.

When your mother let you play, and pray.

In those half-thought golden days,

Before the time when crime was real,

Before nulab, of youth rebellion.

Yet think upon this, conservatives all.

The world was never in your thrall.

It changes thus. It changes fast.

The past was another country,

A dystopia.

Read backwards, and wrongly.

Through your queer histories.

If in England we must live,

Let us not forget.

Without those influences new and alien,

It would be a banal shitheap.

The Xenophobe

He drives a German automobile.

Eats curry every Friday night,

With a cobra.

And alongside his friends,

We will inveigh

Against the other,

‘Gainst diverse ways.

Of living, loving,

Our new normativities.

The waiters are always insulted.

He holidays in France and Spain,

It's alright there, but ‘Please! Not here.'

Not amidst fine English girls,

With potted-bellies and bleached-blonde curls.

They're all for us, he says.

To keep the lines pure,

Rarefied Anglo-Saxon blood,

Impure purity, folk-cultural.

‘Enoch was right'.

He works, on and off.

Has arguments wicked,

About British jobs,

For our dear British workers.

Even New Labour is sold,

An explosion of nationalism,

Our antagonist. The E dot U.

Will we ever be tolerant, again?

The xenophobe.

His goods were made in China.

Broken arm, stitches.

Sewn lovingly, stitched up

By an Indian doctor.

Even the cigarettes he smokes are American.

Only his senseless hatred is native.

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