Alright, you filthy animals, strap yourselves in because it’s time for another dose of truth serum straight from the bowels of this rotting carcass we call society. I’m Spider Thompson, your favourite chain-smoking oracle of outrage, and today we’re diving headfirst into the steaming pile of excrement that’s the British political circus. As we all squat here like constipated monkeys waiting for the verdict on that walking haemorrhoid Stephen Yaxley-Lennon – yeah, you know him as Tommy Robinson, the self-proclaimed martyr who’s about as victimized as a shark in a goldfish bowl – I’ve been forced to endure endless babble from the idiot hordes about their precious “Saint Stephen” and that slimy toad Nigel Farage. And the burning question clawing at my brain like a bad acid trip: Is the answer to these bastards simply to ignore them? To starve the oxygen thieves of the air they breathe?
Listen up, you drooling masses, because this keeps crawling out of your slack-jawed mouths like vomit after a three-day bender: “There’s no such thing as bad press.” Oh, really? Every time some well-meaning fool tries to skewer Reform UK or its frothing figureheads, the drones chime in with, “You’re just handing them more voters, you idiot!” As if naming these vermin is like sprinkling fairy dust on their poll numbers. And here we are, with Stephen’s trial plastered across every screen like a bad rash, him whining about being the victim while backed by that billionaire space cadet Elon Musk – who just casually called for civil war and skated away scot-free, because why the hell not in this clown world? Meanwhile, Reform and Farage play the oppressed underdog to Starmer’s boot, even as they’re neck-deep in what smells like treason: choking free speech, slurping Russian rubles like cheap vodka. Day in, day out, good people hurl facts at these scum-suckers, and what happens? They swell up like ticks on a fat dog, growing fatter and meaner.
But let’s pad this out with some real meat, you bastards, because if we’re talking about how keeping a name in the press balloons a person’s image and political power, history’s littered with these parasitic success stories. Take that orange-faced buffoon across the pond, Donald Trump – back in 2016, the media couldn’t stop vomiting his name every five seconds. “Trump said this outrageous thing! Trump did that insane stunt!” Every scandal, every tweet-storm, every late-night comedian’s roast just pumped more helium into his ego balloon. The press thought they were exposing him as a clown, but nope – they were building his brand. Free airtime worth billions, turning a reality-TV has-been into a cult leader who stormed the goddamn Capitol. Bad press? That was rocket fuel. His approval ratings spiked every time some talking head called him a fascist; it just rallied the morons who love a good underdog story, even if the dog’s rabid.
Or rewind to the granddaddy of them all: Adolf Hitler, that mustache-twirling psychopath. In the 1920s, German papers were full of his beer-hall putsch fiasco – arrested, tried, thrown in the clink like the loser he was. But oh, the coverage! Headlines screaming his name, editorials dissecting his rants. He turned his trial into a propaganda pulpit, and by the time he waltzed out of prison, Mein Kampf was a bestseller. The press kept him alive, kept his ideas festering in the public gut, until he clawed his way to power on the backs of economic misery and endless ink. Ignoring him early on? Might’ve starved the fire before it burned Europe to ash. But no, the media fed the beast, and look what we got: a world war and a Holocaust.
Hell, it’s not just politics – look at the celebrity sludge pit. Kim Kardashian, that vapid avatar of nothing, built an empire on a sex tape scandal. The press went berserk: “Outrage! Shame!” But every tabloid splash, every late-night joke, just amplified her. Suddenly, she’s not a punchline; she’s a brand, a billionaire with her ass insured for millions. Bad press turned her into a cultural virus, infecting everything from fashion to politics. Or take Boris Johnson, that dishevelled mop of privilege over here – scandals galore, from lockdown parties to lying about everything short of his shoe size. The papers hammered him daily, but did it kill his career? Fuck no. It made him the “lovable rogue,” the anti-establishment jester, ballooning his image until he squatted in Number 10 like a toad on a throne. Every “Boris blunder” headline just grew his myth, turning gaffes into gold.
Back to our homegrown horrors: Stephen and Farage thrive on this same toxic sludge. People fight their lies tooth and nail, fact-checking every bile-spewed tweet, and what do we get? More eyeballs, more donations, more power. Is the flip side the cure? If we treated these clowns like the footnotes they are – mentioned in passing, like a bad smell you wave away – would that finally deflate them?
Picture it, you filthy freaks: Next time Stephen’s mug pops up in the news, instead of front-page fury, we shrug it off. “Oh, and by the way, that idiot Robinson’s back in court, probably whining about his imaginary chains again. Will the fool ever learn? But hey, on the bright side, Starmer’s slashed those boat crossings for the 30th straight week – real progress, not hot air! Pro tip: Dump your shares in Dinghy Ltd. before they sink faster than Farage’s credibility.” Boom. No deep dives, no outraged op-eds. Just a casual dismissal, like swatting a fly.
That’s the kryptonite, you bastards. These two survive on attention alone – Stephen with his eternal “donate to my victim fund” grift, begging like a street corner preacher every time he fabricates a slight. Without the spotlight, his PayPal dries up. Farage? The man who lit the Brexit fuse and birthed the boat chaos in the first place. His whole schtick is “Boat people! Invasion! Panic!” screamed into every camera that points his way. Scrutinize anything else he says? It crumbles like wet toilet paper. He’s “leading” a party of four – or is it five this week? – that’s fracturing faster than a junkie’s resolve. Why gift him airtime? The party’s a joke, imploding under its own weight of incompetence and infighting. Mention it? Why bother?
Attacking the lies head-on just amplifies them – it’s like wrestling a pig in mud; you get dirty, and the pig loves it. But promote the truth on the other side? Spotlight the wins, the facts, the boring but beautiful machinery of actual governance? And relegate these vermin to footnotes? That might just work. Starve the attention whores, and watch them wither.
Something’s gotta give, you spineless herd, because even I’m wasting breath on these nonentities who’ve achieved jack shit beyond stirring hate and lining pockets. They’ve never built anything, never fixed a damn thing – just parasites sucking the life from the body politic. Ignore them, downplay them, and maybe, just maybe, we can flush these turds once and for all.
Now get out of my sight before I puke. Spider out.
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