All posts by gildedfalcon

All-star Government

I can’t help but notice that in my lifetime, politicians have been known to be ruffians and scallywags.

This isn’t exactly good for PR (public relations to the working man). I personally struggle to trust liars to even give me the right change at Tesco, let alone to run my country. The solution’s simple, right? Purge our government of such people and get back to the good old days of honest politics. The crippling factor here is that that’s clearly a crock of rubbish, there never was such a time. A good number of people in our House of Lords have managed to buy their way in rather than earn it, and it’s only natural for politicians to abuse their power. I’m not advocating it, it’s just like ‘spotting’ weapons of mass destruction in countries that are brimming with oil-it will happen. And I’m not here to make a political point as such, just rather with an idea for politicians to use.

Tony Blair managed to side with George Bush, one of the most hated presidents in the last hundred years, on a number of issues and made a great number of mistakes, but doesn’t have anything like as bad a reputation that his replacement Gordon Brown had, who managed to make significant progress to buying us time to staving off a recession. The Europeans even wanted Blair to be president of the European Union! They eat up anything he has to say. Why? Why, a trusty doctor of course. Not the sort that’s keeping Vanessa Feltz alive, or the even more annoying kind that’s had half of the Osbourne family inheritance just to keep Sharon’s so full of plastic that it’s unmovable, and her boobs… well, you could probably break your knuckles on those. A good old spin doctor, Mr Alistair Campbell. The dark hand that loomed over Tony’s shoulder was more officially known as ‘Director of Communications and Strategy’, while he was more publicly known as a sh*t-stirrer. The point is, it doesn’t matter how slimy you are, so long as you know how you should come across to the public, you’ll be in.

So here’s my proposal. Much how most guys my age make a fantasy football team, I want to make my own fantasy political party, based on keeping the wool over the public’s eyes while we empty the Bank of England into our pockets. It’s a balance of efficiency, personal amusement, while being entirely celebrities so that the public can ‘identify’ with them. As leader of the cabinet, I’d endeavour to always be in costume like the time I dressed as Top Cat. The idea behind this is that it’d cheer the country up, subconsciously linking me to good times, and of course in terms of foreign affairs, nobody would try to stop Top Cat. He has a purple fedora and a cane, for God sake. As Deputy Prime Minister, I would employ Fidel Castro, on the logic that nobody would get rid of me if he’s the alternative. As Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, I would have Prince Charles, because somebody as clinically racist as him would only want to strike a deal if it really worked in my favour, and it’d amuse me to get as many foreign leaders back-handed by the Duke of Edinburgh as possible (only for my amusement, mind). Chancellor of the Exchequer would go to Deborah Meaden, well known as the one who never invests from Dragons’ Den on the logic that if anyone can make the most essential cuts and still be millions of pounds in the black, it’ll be her. From here, it’ll look like this

Defence Secretary: Mr T.
Work and Pensions secretary: Michael Caine
Health Secretary: Brian Blessed
Education Secretary: Stephen Hawking
Transport Secretary: Jeremy Clarkson
Attorney General: Alan Rickman
Leader of the House of Commons: Danny Dyer
Minister for Cabinet Office: Reginald D. Hunter

Now, my options here may seem… interesting, but having established the paramount crucial jobs in a quasi-official way, I am giving these jobs to people who, in some way or another, are difficult to dispute. On top of all having either humorous or epic voices which are difficult to question, or intimidating ones that you wouldn’t dare question, some of them have other things that could help. Stephen Hawking, as a highly reputable physicist, Mr T and Danny Dyer as people who could snap your neck like a twiglet, Blessed and Clarkson could shout you into submission, Reginald D. Hunter can easily get someone into the public eye as a filthy racist, and finally, Alan Rickman and Michael Caine could seduce and sedate you with their voices.

No I haven’t particularly thought this through (surely anything that puts Mr T and Brian Blessed in power can’t be), but the fact that you secretly want my all-star government is proof that the system works. It’s all about how you come across, not what you do, and I personally think Britain wants to be on any side that has Danny Dyer hosting an argument between Deborah Meaden, Fidel Castro and Jeremy Clarkson.

As a closing thought, as I see an advert for Gavin and Stacey DVDs, I’ve decided that James Corden is just Brian Blessed on helium. Check the laughs, you’ll see what I mean.



One of the great problems of being an atrocious human being is that you kind of need to change your persona in order to not suck. As such, I tend to idolise people regularly, and have taken inspiration from loads of people in my time…

Obviously, my Dad was a hero. He worked a lot, but I lived with my mum and 2 half sisters for years, my only grandparent was a Gran, I had reams of female cousins and 2/4 of my best friends were girls. And when you’re a kid, all women are harpies. This is just fact, nobody disputes it, on a boy’s 12th birthday, his mind is reset and he’s no longer secretly suspicious of vaginas, and suddenly you have twice as many friends in the world and life becomes really easy, right? But until then, women are harlots, and it’s bros before hoes, and Dad was basically the only guy who had my back. 2 of my closest friends, George and Liam, were boys, but I couldn’t trust them. They lived with their mums and sisters! They were too far gone. Dad just existed forever, and other than looking increasingly less like John Lennon as he ages, he is eternal and unchanging. He was wise beyond my years, to this day I basically haven’t left little boy mode of always going to him with a dilemma. He taught me how to read people, he taught me one of the most important life hacks I know (which I can’t reveal on here), and most importantly, he’s proven that you can actually be cool with a neckbeard, so if I can’t be bothered to shave for a month as with now, there may be hope for me anyways. He has also, of course, been constantly there (emotionally, as he is a taxi driver, he is phyiscally always absent).

And then of course there’s the growing up nonsense. As great as Dad was, being a taxi driver was hardly practical. I progressed through various learning institutions, and of course an asylum is a great place to meet the most mental and bizzarre people you’ve ever met. And there among them stood their leader, the balding hatter himself. Philius Nicholls. Anyone who was taught by him will still be able to recite his classroom’s specific anthem, a warbling chant delivered at rapid fire speed to bamboozle us into watching and listening to his every move. It seemed like he was singing, but he was tricking us into being educated! I had little interest in the British Takeover but I was so well versed in facts about it back then, and it’s all because of Philius, with his hair styled to match his idol Beethoven (and it was out of fashion then) and his ancient Greek name. He even led the school choir with military precision, which I was shamefully in. I remember the first time he took us on stage. We goose-stepped out there and delivered an operatic version of ‘Somewhere Only we Know’ by Keane, which went down… well, I still sometimes get teased for it. But here’s my point; I realised at this point that some of the most influential people in our lives are the ones that stand out, and so of course there’s nothing wrong with being star-craving mad, so long as you’re going somewhere with it. He made madness an art which I loved, and yet, managed to keep that musical mysteria separate from his maths teaching, which was coldly precise. In terms of just crunching numbers, I still haven’t seen anyone quicker. On top of this, he’s also a classically trained pianist, furthering my theory that he’s either related to or has also taught Lady Gaga. And then there are my current teachers, Mr Witney and Mr Pelley, who teach me philosophy and ethics respectively. In stark contrast to Mr Nicholls, they taught me that you don’t NEED to be mad to work here, only that it helps. Which I’ve since lost the rights to as a phrase. They’re both very down to Earth people, very funny, very amusing, very helpful in any aspect of life I’ve ever approached them with and have pretty good tastes in comedy, while just happening to be teaching me. They make no effort to be out of this world unless ironically, and I love the total relaxation and contentment they seem to have for themselves.

I have of course, saved probably the most important for last. I’ve omitted many I’d like to speak about, such as existential serial killer Sylar from ‘Heroes’, or my primary school teachers who put me on a decent foundation or the Tillington Hobo. But ultimately, the person who’s inspired me more than anyone is a sexually ambiguous canadian writer who can make you laugh, cry, cry laughing and laugh crying, and then feel a sick sense of primal guilt for all 4 within 3 frames. This man is Joey Comeau. I refer to how I first knew him, through (doesn’t have nearly a big enough fanbase). I have since gone on to read his short stories, his writing for ‘Overqualified’, 4 genuinely meaningful interviews he conducted and have read ‘Lockpick Pornography’, a novella of his. Somewhen in the summer, I will commit myself to reading ‘One Bloody thing after Another’ because it will thrill me. That’s the plugging done. What Joey does fantastically is take individual insecurities that we never tell anyone about (you all have one), and analyse them from a viewpoint you’d not normally see (e.g an outsiders one, as you never tell people these sorts of things) and then lets you all see them as well. Another reviewer described Joey as building up lovely and charming characters just in time to make you watch him do horrible unspeakable things to them, which is also true and intriguing. His writing has helped me through many a bad episode, has changed my outlook on a huge number of things and it wouldn’t be an overreaction to say I would be a hugely different person without him. He’s what started me writing not just to communicate but for meaning, as I thought it’d be a good life goal to try, through my life, to write something about a third as well as he writes not just his stories and comics, but also his life. He also sells one of my favourite shirts ever, “Many problems, one solution: BLOW UP THE MOON”

Loads of people can inspire you in different ways, and to be blunt, if you’re not finding one small shimmer of inspiration a day, it’s because either you’re not doing enough, or you’re too ego-centric to realise you can do better. Having said that, for God sake don’t dwell on it or you’ll realise quickly that unless you’re Usain Bolt (in which case, why am I bothering to address anyone else?), you’re probably not the best at what you do. The only person you’re ever really competing with is yourself, everyone else is just background noise. Inspiration’s a wonderful thing, but I try not to lose sight of doing things my way, because at the end of the day, it won’t be a mature Canadian’s voice in my ears, it’ll be mine. And my audience, as with anyone else’s, is very hard to impress.

If you are Rhys, this is God.