The end is (probably) nigh, argues a close-to-the-edge Tom Connick, between stockpiling canned foods
It seems like a new doomsday rolls around every few weeks, doesn’t it? Those of us praying for the sweet, eternal blackness (just me?) have had our hopes raised and dashed countless times over the last few years – we put all our eggs in the basket of the 2012 apocalypse, only to wake up on December 22 crushingly alive. Since then, we’ve been promised comets on course to hit the planet, flash floods, and even the occasional alien invasion from the more loony corners of the supernatural community, only for every potential apocalypse to come up short.
Well, fear not fellow doom lovers – this weekend could spell the end of days. Or Britain, at the very least.
World Cup fever!
All the pieces are in place. For starters, we’re doing shockingly well at the World Cup. We’re through to the semi-finals; we won a penalty shootout; even the tabloids are behind Our Brave Boys. If that doesn’t spell the end of days, then I don’t know what does. We absolutely can’t handle this success, either. Peer into a pub around the 89-minute mark of any given England match and it’s been absolute pandemonium. Usually, the World Cup news around this time is full of reports of Brits Abroad, tearing through European market squares and generally proving ourselves to be absolutely shocking at handling our booze. The problem is, this time, we haven’t needed to go abroad. We’ve been trashing our own country, like we probably deserve. Some dickheads have even smashed up ambulances and people’s taxis. Hopefully they’ll be the first to go when the ground opens up.
I mean, can we talk about this fucking weather? I nearly cried tears of joy when I woke up this morning to grey skies, but I couldn’t, because every drop of moisture in my entire body has leaked out of my pores. Normally, I’d be first to slap down any suggestion that it’s ‘too hot’. Naysayers to hot weather have no place in Britain – take your top off and get in the park with a bag of cans like the rest of, you grumbling little shite. We don’t get this often enough to complain. But, you know what? This time, it’s been too fucking hot. And we’ve had it for far too long. There, I said it. We’re not cut out for this as a nation. Every enclosed space has become a makeshift oven, roasting more gammons than Toby Carvery on Sunday morning. Every park is a shade of frazzled beige. There were blazing moors up north. There’s a hosepipe ban on the way. Your nan’s already started stockpiling tap water. I went into Tesco yesterday and there wasn’t even any cheese. This is how it begins.
Even beer isn’t safe. Tabloids across the globe have been drumming up the fear factor in recent weeks, harping on about a CO2 shortage that looks set to affect beer availability across the globe. Frankly, the only thing more terrifying than a bunch of sunburnt, pissed up football fans out on a mad one is a bunch of sunburnt football fans out on a mad one who’ve been deprived a delicious fizzy pint. You know what else CO2 does? Keeps ice cream cold. No, this is not a joke. We’re screwed.
Oh, and in case you’d forgotten amidst all the searing heat and booze-riddled footy antics, we’ve got fucking Donald Trump popping over for a jolly this week. He’s finally making that trip across the Atlantic to have a chinwag with Theresa May (more on that wrinkled country tanker in a sec), and the protestors are preparing their battle axes. Professional hunk (and apparently also Mayor Of London?) Sadiq Khan himself has approved the flying of a giant, nappy-clad balloon Trump to fly over London while he’s in town. This is a real thing. Not a Viz comic. We’ve all lost our minds. Even sexy Sadiq. God help us all.
At least, thankfully, amidst all this chaos and confusion, we’ve got a strong and stable governHAHAHAHA EVERYONE’S FUCKING QUITTING THE GOVERNMENT AND BREXIT IS DISINTEGRATING. THE ACTUAL REAL-LIFE GOVERNMENT IS FALLING APART. ON THE WEEK THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA IS VISITING. WE’RE PROBABLY GONNA HAVE TO HAVE ANOTHER GENERAL ELECTION. ANOTHER ONE. ANOTHER FUCKING ELECTION. VOTE SOUTHGATE.
That’s right everyone, Theresa May’s lumbering, wheezing semi-corpse of a governmentis in absolute meltdown. The Brexit secretary quit yesterday morning (July 9), and Foreign Secretary Boris Johnson followed suit, noting in his resignation letter that, thanks to that Brexit thing that he campaigned for extensively, we’re still going to be impacted by European laws, only this time we’re going to have no say in the formation or development of aid laws. Almost as if those pesky Remainers were onto something with their ‘facts’ and ‘research’, innit? Ol’ Maydog’s still not called an election, mind. Or even hinted at sodding right off, the way she probably should after sending the country into a nosedive more times than even Rainman could count. With hanger-on skills like this, maybe she should become a fucking trapeze artist.
So, this is it, everybody. Enjoy it while it lasts. Football, Tories and Trump are going to kill us all. This weekend may just be the end of days. The eternal sleep. Good riddance.