Truth Hurts, You Sensitive Bastards

Listen up, you whining, screen-addicted troglodytes. I’m back, hunched over this disease-ridden laptop, ready to shove some jagged truth down your throats. This one’s gonna chafe like sandpaper underwear, but I don’t give a flying fuck about your delicate sensibilities. Truth doesn’t care about your feelings, and neither do I. So buckle up, because it’s been a manic week at Chateau Spider, and I’m here to spray the facts like a firehose full of piss.

Last weekend, I dragged my sorry ass back to London. You remember my last trip? All rosy, full of decent folks and passable vibes. This time? Not so much, but don’t start jerking off to the far-right’s apocalyptic fairy-tale just yet. Northolt, two nights, quick and dirty. Good people, shit whisky, and a meetup so bizarre I can’t even type it without the Police knocking. Let’s just say it involved enough weirdness to make your grandma’s knitting circle look like a death cult.

Now, let’s talk trains. Specifically, the subway – those rattling, sweaty metal tubes you lot love to bitch about. Four trips, four trains. Three were clean enough to not make me gag. The last one? A fucking biohazard. Must’ve been the one the far-right rented for their propaganda photoshoot, because the other carriages weren’t half as bad. Central Line, baby, all the way to Epping – yeah, that place you didn’t even know existed 2months ago. Heard “Epping” again when Mrs. Spider’s cousin’s kid, a proper Cockney gobshite, was at those protests spewing bile. But here’s the kicker: she’s got reasons to be pissed. Pushed around, talked to like garbage, phone nicked – the works. Not just another far-right prick with a chip on their shoulder. She’s felt the shit, not just parroted it, so I cannot blame her.

Back to Northolt station for a hot second. Forget the “blind” homeless guy staring me dead in the eyes, clutching his stick like a prop before strolling off without it. The real crime? The staff. Useless, lazy bastards. Teenagers shoving through barriers two meters away, families scanning one ticket and herding five kids through like it’s a goddamn conga line. And who do these brain-dead staff yell at? Us. Standing off to the side, not blocking shit, not helping the fare-dodgers, just existing. They come over, flapping their gums like we’re the problem. Pathetic doesn’t even cover it.

But if you’ve got the balls to ignore Farage’s lawless dystopia porn, get your ass to Borough Market. Best goddamn pulled beef sarnie I’ve ever had. Cost me a kidney and half my soul, but worth every bite. Wash it down with some top-tier sauce and thank me later.

Now, here’s where it gets ugly. Some of the far-right’s noise is starting to sound less like fiction. Mrs. Spider took Baby Spider to her dad’s, and some creep – one of them, as the frothing bigots call ‘em – started tailing her, spitting aggressive “you don’t belong here” bullshit. That ain’t sitting right. So they got the full Spider treatment: a verbal Molotov cocktail to the face. Turns out, most of these “terrifying” types are spineless fairies who scatter when you yell back. Scary? My ass. If you’re quaking in your boots over Farage’s fairy tales, you’re too pathetic to function.

There’s more. Some workman was whining about shiny new flats, built for “our people,” supposedly handed over to “boat people.” Finished in January, still empty, and yeah, that stinks of something rotten. But let’s cut through the noise. London’s a bit shittier than before – fine, I’ll give you that. We caught some anti-white racism, no question. But scared to go out at night? Knife fights on every corner? Total fucking bollocks. The city’s still the same old shithole, just with a slightly different colour palette. Same chaos, same stench, same soul. So quit clutching your pearls and deal with it.