The Filthy Truth About Yesterday’s Pathetic Ego-Wank

Listen up, you degenerate sacks of meat and misinformation, this is Spider Thompson crawling out of my filthy bunker to shove the jagged edge of reality straight up the collective arse of the bullshit parade that was yesterday’s so-called “march.” You know the one – that cocaine-dusted delusion where some pint-sized provocateur named Tommy Robinson (or Stephen Yaxley-Lennon, if we’re using the name his mum gave him before he rebranded himself as a hate-peddling grifter) promised a tidal wave of 3 million “patriots” would flood London like a biblical plague. Three million! Ha! The cops pegged it at 110K, and from my vantage point – squinting through the haze of their tear gas and my own righteous fury – you’d be lucky to scrape together 100K of these mouth-breathing morons.

But numbers? That’s for Part 2, you impatient scum. Right now, we’re diving headfirst into this cesspool of deception, and I’m not wasting ink on the predictable violence – we all saw that coming, like a bad hangover after a night of cheap gin and cheaper ideology. No, what boils my blood is the avalanche of lies, the propaganda that’s got these idiots frothing at the mouth, ready to burn down the world because some con artist whispered sweet nothings about invasions and lost morals into their empty skulls. Strap in, you filthy lot; we’re about to dissect this shitshow with the precision of a chainsaw abortion.

Part One: The Video – A Portrait of the Perfect Patsy in a World of Weaponized Stupidity

Oh, sweet bleeding Christ on a hoverbike, where do I even start with this absolute specimen of human wreckage? I’ve trawled through a hundred videos of these brain-dead zombies spewing their bile across the net, but this one – this glorious idiot – takes the cake, frosts it with delusion, and shoves it down your throat until you choke on the lies. Behold, the insidious bastard himself, the living embodiment of the demographic that Tiny Stephen panders to like a streetwalker hawking expired dreams. These are his people, his flock of fleeced sheep, the ones he lies to every goddamn day with the fervour of a televangelist on a coke binge. Tell them the sky is pink, that the BBC has been pumping pure propaganda into their veins since birth, and watch them nod like bobbleheads before marching off to torch the place. Pathetic.

Feast your eyes on this drooling oracle: “To get our country back, and bring back the church mate. We’re Loo- This country’s lost its way we need to restore some morals in this country.” Jesus wept, it’s like someone’s spiked his tea with a cocktail of stupidity and stimulants – sentences colliding like drunks in a mosh pit. “And stop the invasions too.” Invasions? Plural? As if one phantom horde wasn’t enough for this fever-dream fantasy. “4K men every month are coming through and its men only men that are coming. I think they could be assembling an army. Swear to god mate.” An army! Built from undocumented shadows, no doubt, ready to conquer the green and pleasant land with their sinister… existence? The piss-taking journo chimes in: “Let’s say Keir Starmer’s watching my live broadcast now, what’s your message to him?” And here comes the venom, straight from the gut: “What have you d-why are you deliberately destroyed our country. That’s what you are doing, you are deliberately-you’ve done this on purpose Keir, you’ve let a load of undocumented males in, con-fucking-ca-capable of rape and all sorts and you’ve let them in on purpose. We all know what you’ve done. I feel it’s on purpose mate, destroyed the UK on purpose.”

This man – this walking, talking indictment of failed education and unchecked echo chambers – makes me want to vomit up my own intestines just to escape the nausea. He lays it bare, the raw, festering core of the lies these poor, mentally mangled sods are force-fed daily. All so a handful of opportunistic parasites like Tommy Robinson can snort lines of coke off the backs of their donations, jet off on paid-for holidays to sunnier climes, and posture like tin-pot dictators while sowing division that rips the country apart like cheap tissue. This guy’s deluded as a flat-earther at a globe convention; nothing he says coheres into sense, and what little does is pure, distilled fabrication.

The real villains? The puppet masters pumping this poison into his veins – the grifters, the agitators, the hate merchants who invent “4K men” assembling phantom armies to keep the cash flowing and the mobs marching. These lies aren’t just words; they’re weapons, sharpened on the whetstone of ignorance, and they’re carving up society while the liars laugh all the way to the bank. Fuck them, and fuck the venom they spew – it’s time to cauterize the wound with truth, you bastards.

Part Two: Bending Space and Time – Or How to Lie About Crowds When Physics Says “Fuck You”

Ah, but the lies don’t stop at imaginary invasions; no, these charlatans have to warp reality itself with their bullshit arithmetic. Enter the crown jewel of delusion: the “3 million people” claim, bounced around like a bad check in a den of thieves. Some sharp-eyed bastard on Twitter – bless their sceptical soul – pointed out the obvious: you couldn’t cram that many bodies into the space without violating the laws of physics, let alone common sense. So I did what any self-respecting truth-monger does: I fired up Google Maps, measured the goddamn areas myself, and prepared to eviscerate this fever dream with cold, hard facts. The police announced about 110K, and honestly, that feels generous, like they’re padding the numbers to avoid bruising fragile egos. But fine, let’s play nice – extra generous, even, so the Robinson fanboys can’t whine about their shattered illusions while clutching their pearls.

First off, the entire route: from start to the rally endpoint, measured generously at 66,500 square meters. And when I say generous, I mean I’m including every inch, as if these idiots were packed in static like canned hate. But marches move, you morons – they occupy maybe a third of the space at best. Still, let’s squash ’em in like sardines in a fascist tin: 4 people per square meter. That’s right, shoulder-to-shoulder with these reeking, racist cunts – I wouldn’t get within three meters without a hazmat suit, but for argument’s sake, we’ll pretend. Crunch the numbers: just over 266,000 bodies. Tommy’s been screeching about 3 million for weeks, like a broken record on steroids. Not fucking likely, you lying prick.

Now, zoom in on the photos and drone shots – the PR sweet spot, where the crowd looks thickest to fool the gullible. Area? 29,000 square meters. Same density: 4 per meter gets you 116,000-ish. Bingo – that aligns with the cops’ count, with the evidence, with goddamn reality. But 3 million? That’s receding into the distance like a bad acid trip. And don’t start with the “citizen journalists” howling, “Don’t trust the police or MSM – they lie!” Yeah, well, guess what, you deluded dipshits: reality doesn’t lie. You can’t stretch roads like taffy to fit your fantasy figures. Physics is the ultimate fact-checker, and it’s calling bullshit on your entire operation.

But wait, there’s the grand finale: the rally at the end, where the cops cordoned off a “must remain within” zone for the participants. Map it out – generous again – and it’s a paltry 14,352 square meters. At 4 per meter? 57,408. Pathetic. Okay, it’s static now; let’s crank it to 5 per square meter – close enough to inhale the farts of the fascist in front. 71,760. Still a fraction of the fever-dream millions. Not satisfied? Let’s reverse-engineer this horseshit. For 3 million to show, the rally would need 209 people per square meter – stacked like human Jenga, defying gravity and sanity. Over the bridge? 103 per meter. Spread evenly across the whole march? 45 per square meter for the entire length. Forty-five! You couldn’t fit 45 pint-sized pricks like Stephen into one square meter without turning them into paste. Not a chance in hell, you mendacious midget. Your lies aren’t just inflating egos; they’re deflating truth, and I’m here to pop the balloon with a goddamn harpoon.

Part Three: The One Special Guest Who Actually Showed Up – Elon Musk, the Space-Faring Snake Oil Salesman

And now, the cherry on this shit sundae: Elon fucking Musk. Here we go again, this self-anointed emperor of the ether, this unelected oligarch who fancies himself the puppeteer of free speech (don’t get me started on my Twitter ban history, you rocket-riding hypocrite – I’ve got scars from your arbitrary algorithms). This clown beams in via livestream on a massive screen, preaching to the drugged-up, pissed-up louts like a digital demagogue. “Dissolution of parliament,” he babbles. “Change of government” in the UK. Well, fuck me sideways – I think X needs a new overlord, Tesla should boot your bloated ass to the curb, and your kid needs a parent who isn’t too busy playing God to give a damn. But screw you, you twisted tycoon; jet over here and spout that nonsense to the 99% of Brits who wouldn’t piss on Tommy if he was on fire, and see if you make it out alive.

He even eggs them on: “Either fight back or you die.” This interstellar idiot is stoking civil war flames from his ivory tower! I tell you what, Musk – if it kicks off, I won’t be on your side, and trust me, that’s a promise laced with venom. For all you whinging wankers bleating about billionaires meddling in politics – how Soros is the shadow puppet master pulling strings worldwide, and all that conspiracy crap you splatter across your timelines – wake the fuck up: THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT MUSK IS DOING, YOU BLIND BASTARDS. He’s injecting his ego and his agenda into sovereign soil, and I expect you to tear him a new orifice and tag me in the carnage.

Get to it, you filthy reprobates; the lies stop here, or they swallow us all. Spider out.