Crank Those Podcasts To 11 – The Fucking Media Ain’t Playing Straight.

Listen up, you filthy animals, because I’m about to shove the truth down your throats like a bad batch of synthetic amphetamines. It’s me, Spider Thompson, your favourite chain-smoking, oracle of the apocalypse, reporting from the bowels of this godforsaken country where the air tastes like regret and the politicians fuck you harder than a malfunctioning sexbot. And today? Oh, today we’re diving headfirst into the steaming pile of shit that is Nigel Farage and his merry band of Reform UK wankers. Yeah, that’s right – another week slithered by like a greased weasel, and guess who’s been doing the real journalism? Not the overpaid, cocktail-sipping hacks in their glass towers, no sir. It’s the citizen journalists, those unpaid warriors of the word, the digital desperados sniffing out the global money trails that connect Farage’s Reform to every shady corner of the planet. Russian Rubles? Offshore shell games? Who the fuck knows, but these bastards found it, and what did the mainstream media do? Sweet fuck all. Not a peep. Not even a half-hearted fart in the wind.

If I were to strap on one of those tin-foil helmets that Reform voters wear like it’s the height of fashion – y’know, the ones that block out reality while amplifying their own bullshit – I’d swear on my last vial of truth serum that there’s a conspiracy afoot. Someone, somewhere, is pulling the strings, gagging the press like a dominatrix with a grudge. Bad news about Farage and his lot? It evaporates faster than piss on a hot sidewalk. But sling some mud at the current crop of governmental idiots? Oh, that’s front-page gold, screamed from every rooftop for months on end. Hypocrisy? It’s the national sport.

Take this house fiasco, for example. Farage, that smirking sack of xenophobic charm, “can’t remember” how his fancy pad got bought. His missus handled it, he says, like that’s a get-out-of-jail-free card. And get this: the woman’s family couldn’t afford a pot to piss in, yet somehow they snag a near-million-pound mansion? This should be splashed across every goddamn headline, blaring from every screen, dissected on every talk show until the public chokes on the details. But is it? Fuck no. It’s buried deeper than a mobster’s body in the desert. Not even a whisper on the back page. The paid hacks are too busy polishing their Pulitzers or whatever the hell they chase these days.

And how about a little goddamn transparency, you spineless sacks of shit? No? Fine, here’s another filthy nugget for your rotten brains: These MPs are supposed to vomit up their register of interests to prove they’re not sucking on Russia’s teat – like that Welsh Reform prick Gill, getting sniffed out for foreign payoffs – and what about Farage? That smarmy bastard just quits filing back in May, skips November last year too. Why the hell isn’t this splattered across the news like the diarrhoea it is? Public knowledge? Public interest in watching the media’s pet playboy get dodgy with his dirty cash? Wake up, you idiots, or I’ll make you.

As I goddamn well mentioned, that slimy Welsh reform parasite Nathan Gill just bent over and pleaded guilty to eight fat counts of slurping up Russian rubles like a starving hooker at a caviar buffet! And here’s the kicker that makes my bowels clench in righteous fury – something’s rotten as a week-old corpse in this setup. This bastard’s been rubbing elbows with Farage and Tice for a goddamn decade, there’s enough snapshots of those grinning hyenas together to wallpaper the entire Tate Modern and turn it into a shrine of hypocrisy! But oh no, the second this shitstorm erupts, poof! They don’t know him from a hole in the ground. “Who? Never met the guy!” Bullshit!

The whole Reform barge is a floating cesspool of jokes, packed to the gunwales with lies, corruption, and dodgy cash sloshing around like vodka in a oligarch’s yacht! But what does the gutless media do with this bombshell? A pathetic 25-second blip on the BBC, then bury it deeper than a politician’s conscience! This is a major league scumbag getting greased by Russia – a key player in this bloated new party that’s supposed to “save” us all – and the story hits the wires then gets strangled in its crib. Front-page screaming headlines? Interrogations of the rest of that motley crew of grifters? Nah, zilch. Killed dead. And that, my dear degenerates, reeks of conspiracy like a fart in a crowded elevator. Someone’s pulling strings, and when I find out who, I’ll shove my truth-bazooka so far up their ass they’ll taste journalism for weeks!

So here’s the deal, you slack-jawed masses: if the professionals ain’t doing jack shit, it’s time to amplify the amateurs. Crank those citizen podcasts to eleven, blast them into every household until the walls shake. Spread the word like a virus – make these truth-hunters household names. We’ve got a fucking MP who’s just committed treason, right there in broad daylight, and then perjured himself in the same goddamn hearing. Nothing. Zilch. The story hits the ether, courtesy of the unpaid sleuths, and poof – media overlords kill it deader than disco. Now it’s emerging that this same slimy fucker stopped reporting his incomes to the House back in May. Coincidence? My ass. It’s quieter than a nun’s fart in church. Someone’s squashing this like a bug under a boot.

Who the hell is hiding the truth? Who’s got their greasy fingers on the kill switch? We’re coming for you, you shadowy pricks. Scream it from the rooftops, flood the feeds, ram it onto the 6 o’clock news until every home in this blighted isle is echoing with the facts. Drag that snake-oil salesman Farage through the streets by his shrivelled bollocks, tar and feather the lot of them. The revolution starts with volume, people – turn it up, or get fucked by the silence.

This is Spider Thompson, signing off before I puke from the stench. Stay angry, stay informed, and for fuck’s sake, question everything.