BY BEN PENSANT
Three weeks ago Theresa May visited Newcastle. Yes, really. Not content with squatting in PM Jezza’s house for the past twelve months she also craps all over his proud history by delivering a sermon to the proles from the same venue that hosted one of his greatest triumphs.
Indeed, the assorted resting actors, non-binary creatives and unemployed craft beer entrepreneurs who witnessed Jezza’s triumphant rally on the Sagebrush carpark last year are known to speak of it in the same reverential tones as ageing punks reminiscing about that seminal Clash gig at the Soho Hippodrome in ’79.
Freya, a young friend from the Communist Party of Lowfell, summed up Corbyn’s speech in the starstruck manner you’d expect from a turbo-woke millennial with purple hair and a chronic painkiller addiction: “He was like ‘yeah!’ and I was like ‘yeah!’ and we were all like ‘yeah!’”. In fact, Freya confessed to me she was so bowled over by Jezza’s spine-tingling performance she celebrated by rushing home and playing with her penis.
I bumped into another comrade that night who was still staggering around in a euphoric daze an hour after Corbyn had left the stage to a 20-minute ovation. Marcus told me had no idea what he’d just witnessed but knew he had to write a song about it. “Is this what heaven tastes like?” he mumbled between mouthfuls of mungbean tea, smirking deliriously as the ethically correct beverage dripped down his elongated chin.
We hugged, Marcus assuring me of his commitment to crushing capitalism before adjusting his GoPro, fastening his Kashmir scarf, and hurtling down the road as fast as his Trek Madone 7 could carry him. (He would’ve stayed for the aftershow poetry session but had to be up at 11 o’clock sharp to show an Iranian diplomat and his 12-year-old mistress around the Baltic.)
But most memorable of all was the call-to-arms from the gravel-voiced immigrant orbiting the hypnotised crowd from a lamp-post while gargling with warm Merrydown, who yelled ‘AM GANNA FUGGIN BRAY THE BAZDA LORRAYUZ!!’ to rapturous applause before pissing on the back row’s rucksacks.
I’ve no idea what language this brave open borders enthusiast was speaking, nor do I understand the symbolism of the broken bottle wedged down his yellowy-brown underpants. (The temptation for grown men to shed their clothes in Jezza’s presence can be quite overwhelming). But Corbyn’s gift is his ability to turn weather-beaten middle-aged blokes into quivering wrecks, with little time for such fascist concepts as ‘words’ and ‘sentences’.
This swarthy traveller – let’s call him Ibrahim – almost stole the show, with his shaven head, olive skin, and satirical tattoos of tits and swastikas. And I’m certain he spent that night beaming with pride, albeit through mouthfuls of blood and broken teeth after jumping off the lamppost and smashing his face off the tarmac. Few of the lucky socialists present will forget the roar that went up as he tried in vain to kick the paramedic with his shattered ankle.
All of which underlines what a sick joke it was to allow such an iconic location to be soiled by Mavis May and her alt-right shit-show, designed to convince the working-class that Brexit isn’t the worst disaster since the Black Death but actually jolly super.
Thankfully she was gone by nightfall, sent packing by the die-hard Corbynites who sacrificed an afternoon of shut-eye to don duffel coats and wave banners. Sadly, wicked May bribed the local press to publish cropped photos giving the impression barely anyone turned up. So rather than a huge crowd of courageous protesters, Chronicle readers were led to believe the demo consisted of two drama students, three Islamists, and that short-arsed orange-haired yank who looks like Tommy Pesci in JFK, wears a beige flasher-mac, and can be seen lurking in frame every time Corbyn is snapped ‘oop north. Is there any corner of the media not controlled by the Zionist lobby?