marcusuk.bsky.social
Just Marcus.
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901 posts
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361 following
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Reeves’ fiscal rules—etched in stone, unless the stone’s in a swing seat. “Non-negotiable” is politics-speak for “until further notice.” Somewhere, an Excel sheet is weeping into a Treasury biscuit.
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If someone were angling for their own Reichstag moment, a Trump military parade, all flags and fervour, would be a rather convenient stage I agree. History, after all, has a flair for repeating itself in gaudier costumes.
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TheThe: not just a band, but a beautifully bleak philosophy set to music. Every lyric a punch, every beat a balm. Teenage angst with a PhD, and still schooling the lot decades on. Proper art that sticks in the ribs.
Matt invaded my youth, much!
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A couple of suggestions then, Style Council
Shout to the Top : Boy Who Cried Wolf
And for The Jam
Little Boy Soldiers : Set the House Ablaze (I like that one, it's an instruction :-)
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If this unfolds as I fear—echoes of 1930s Germany in Trump’s America—then when the dust settles on however many lives, a reckoning must come. And the receipts will be there, etched in years of smug, damning social media posts.
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Diplomacy—Trump-style. Just pop people on a plane to Guantánamo like it’s an Airbnb for legal grey areas, and maybe don’t mention it to their governments. Who needs allies when you’ve got a flaming dumpster and a Twitter account?
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The interview’s now indistinguishable from a bad-faith Twitter thread read aloud. We’ve moved past journalism into farce—where every denial is a brick in the wall of complicity. Time to cut the mic.
I too am done with it.
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Every policy, every debate, every distraction is theatre. The script is simple now: stand with democracy, or kneel to the boot. All else is background noise—static on the dial as the volume of tyranny rises.
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David Bull—doctor, ghost whisperer, now chairman of a political séance. Reform’s big reveal feels less like strategy, more like Scooby-Doo casting.
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May your Wi-Fi be strong, your tea be warm, and your day as sturdy and inexplicably comforting as a picture of a suspiciously muscular sheep in the Museum of English Rural Life.
Silicon who? Rural reigns!
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“This is not how negotiations are normally conducted,” Jazz whispered.
“Nor,” Tracey replied, “is this a normal government. Get me the Microwave. We’re going to need translation.”
Jazz paled. “You mean… the Microwave?”
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Trump threatens protesters of his military parade with “very heavy force.”
A chilling statement from a man who treats dissent like a personal affront and the military like a toy army. Protest is a right, not a provocation.
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Threatening citizens for exercising their First Amendment rights isn’t strength—it’s authoritarian theatre. If your parade needs armed force to silence dissent, it’s not a celebration. It’s a warning. And we’ve seen how those stories end.
... as will this one, I'm now convinced.
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Precisely. A party with no MPs managed to hijack the national conversation with a question so pungent it should've come with a biohazard warning—yet the press obligingly passed the megaphone. Manufactured outrage is the new editorial policy.
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Wow, that's proved to be quite a struggle, the best I've got is a tweak "You Are the Best Thing" – instead of You're the Best Thing, shifting the structure to make it read more as direct affirmation.
But alas Mr Weller simply doesn't seem to be a fan of titles that work, most inconsiderate of him.
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Economic stability is first freezing grannies, then thawing them out again is it?. Rather like watching someone burn the furniture, then taking credit for discovering central heating.
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Trump's "pressure" on Putin resembles a maiden aunt scolding a rottweiler. Meanwhile, Ukrainian cities endure nightly bombardment whilst we debate cease-fires. One rather suspects Putin interprets diplomatic entreaties as mere background noise to his symphony of destruction.
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Excellent, include some reference of the transition from The Jam to The Style Council and you'll have at least this reader in your sales report.
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Nothing like the masochistic pleasure of crafting unmarketable fiction. Second person vampire tales with Duran Duran references - I can hear the publishers stampeding toward your manuscript. Still, there's something deliciously perverse about writing precisely what won't sell.
Keep going Sir.
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We've managed to transform our green and pleasant land into a repository for plastic excrement. One might say we're literally eating our own waste - a fitting metaphor for late-stage capitalism's dietary offerings, wouldn't you think?
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A noble effort—but unless that minister has X-ray specs and a moral compass, we may just get a shrug and a leaflet.
Still, someone’s got to rattle the tills and ask why no one ever buys anything from the shop with 900 gold Buddhas and no customers.
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BREAKING: Meta announces new AI lab to create a brain so powerful it can understand why Uncle Barry cries during DIY SOS and still thinks dial-up internet is a conspiracy. Early tests suggest the AI’s already bored of Zuckerberg.
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That move would be like sacking the fire brigade mid-blaze because you fancy more candles. Replacing scientific consensus with vibes and vendettas rarely ends in better health outcomes—unless your goal is to resurrect measles for a comeback tour.
Foolish, very foolish.
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Groovy
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State troops, uninvited, kipping on the floor like it’s a fascist sleepover. All that’s missing is marshmallows, a ghost story, and a tearful call home to ask why democracy’s acting so weird lately.
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And thus, in classic American fashion, the solution to civil unrest is not listening or reform, but sending in the Marines. Because nothing says "we hear you" like camo, boots, and a Humvee full of tear gas.
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Mum laying down the law like a poet laureate of righteous swearing. That’s a parenting masterclass: context, clarity, and catharsis—served with a side of political education and zero soap-in-mouth.
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Same.
Jazz folks always come at me like I’ve insulted their nan’s saxophone.
Meanwhile, country fans accept my view, just tip their hat, shed a tear, and ride off on a metaphorical horse made of heartbreak and barbecue.
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Welcome to Britain, where queuing, passive aggression, and speculative bum-stuff are our top cultural exports.
A game show called Up Yer Jacksy! would pull primetime numbers, a BAFTA, and a spin-off cookbook. God save the cheeks.
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Groovy
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Sly Stone—funk’s wild professor, groove’s mad alchemist. He didn’t just play music; he conjured it, tie-dyeing the air with rhythm and soul. The world’s a little less funky now, but oh, what a sound he leaves behind. 🎶
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Twitter's gone full Stasi karaoke—every tweet a solo, every like a file note. It’s not free speech, it’s surveillance with a reply button. If you're average and outspoken, you're just feeding the algorithm its daily snitch ration.
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A succinct reminder: if the pub keeps filling up with Nazis and the landlord buys them a round, it’s not your local anymore—it’s a recruiting office. BlueSky's no utopia, but at least the jukebox isn’t goose-stepping.
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That ship has sadly sailed. At this point, I’ll likely read it more out of curiosity than in hopes of being entertained, but perhaps I'll still be surprised.
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Ah, so the film veers off from the book—now you've piqued my interest! Bumping it up the reading list immediately. Thanks for the tip... but I must now politely beg you: say no more! 😄
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(Sorry, couldn't resist..!)
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I sense you're in the mood for a good old-fashioned literary dust-up—alas, I’ve read neither Fight Club nor The Mist in their papery incarnations, so as tempting as it is to dig in and defend some fictitious hill, I must gracefully abstain… for now.
(I shall read both now of course - expect me..!)
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Anything with even a whiff of Farage and I’m lunging for the remote like it’s a live grenade.
He’s got nothing new to say—just the same old tune I’ve already heard a hundred times from him and half my mates.
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I’ll admit it’s funny, but that’s the exact moment we stop watching Ben Richards… and start watching Arnold Schwarzenegger being, well, very Arnold Schwarzenegger.
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Groovy.
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Oh, a Verhoeven Running Man could well have been glorious—satirical guts, fascist flair, capitalist carnage, and probably at least one scene where a man explodes while watching adverts.
We were robbed of a dystopia with a brain and biceps indeed.
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Exactly—watching the film after reading the story feels like ordering fine wine and being handed a warm can of cola. The book’s a bleak, brilliant howl; the film’s a campy flex-off with laser tag.
You've chosen wisely in it's avoidance. I, alas, can not render it unwatched.
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Frankly, The Running Man is crying out for a remake—it's the finest example in my collection of a brilliant book tragically mangled into a truly dreadful film.
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Trump's bar is "what I think it is"—a statement of such imperial whimsy it could’ve been scribbled in crayon on the Magna Carta. Caesar didn’t fall this fast.
At this point, America is one golden toilet away from a full doctrine of divine right.
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Gavin Newsom’s so close to declaring California’s independence, I half expect him to build the wall—just to keep Texas out and the avocados safe.