Watergate Codswallop


Watching those few who have hung around to try and overturn Brexit is a sport in itself. They are clinically insane.

While the rest of us were enjoying our Friday evening in the real world at dinner parties, down the pub or snuggled up on the sofa watching a movie, the tinfoilers were busy having a Twitter meltdown about Arron Banks, the Leave EU donor and Brexit Bad Boy.

Channel 4 News is watched by 840,000 souls, apparently. The fact they decided to investigate Arron Banks for links to Russia – and found nothing – excited the Tinfoil High Priest:

There’s an amusing echo chamber of nutters who supply data to Jukes – part of the 2+2=7 crowd. You know – there are dots, so they simply must align. And then the conspiracy gets handed to the gullible Carole Cadwalladr at The Guardian who is forever having to make real-world apologies for their amateur investigating. Cadwalladr – Codswallop as she’s come to be known – seems very excitable and has been called mad catwoman. She’s like one of those bonkers, hyper aunts who hasn’t had a shag in ages. Maybe she inhales Gin? Either which way, none of the echo chamber have any significant business experience so have absolutely no idea what crap a deal-maker like buccaneering Banks has to sift through before he strikes a successful deal. Mud thrown against a wall – some sticks. In their satanic panic they are blinkered from what the likes of Lord Sainsbury – and the Government – lobbed into the Remain campaign. The Brexit conspiracy is so exciting to them it’s always “AMAZING” or “DARK MONEY”, “BREAKING” or of “WATERGATE” proportions.

In the world of Codswallop, Brexit is a horror perpetrated on us dim masses by evil, illegally-funded bots – acquired by Bond villains like Banks in cahoots with Putin – who forced us to vote by getting in our brains on Facebook and Instagram. That is the only logical explanation – oh, and some bloke with blue hair from Cambridge Analytica said so. (As I said, clinically insane.)

The dull reality is that Banks is an insurance broker. Britons voted for Brexit because we bloody well wanted to. Simples. But the tinfoilers have to find someone to blame as the Brexit loss stirs their inadequacies.

Talking of inadequacies, this is the same crew that hangs around Hacked-Off – that front for the busted. Rubbing shoulders with fallen celebs like Hugh Grant, John Cleese and that bloke who does Alan Partridge puts wind in their sails and they start to believe their own shit. The newspapers are to blame – “people don’t really buy them”, “they get force-fed them” and “they’re nasty and they lie” even though … err … yes … so-and-so was busted in a brothel and smacked his wife around. Max Mosley is never far away – as if he has no reason to hate newspapers. They have even created their own online publication to print their fake news and conspiracies, which no sensible newspaper – save Codswallop at the Guardian – would touch with a barge-pole. They have their own regulator – Mosley funded – which busts them for lies and errors every now and again (I’m not joking – check out this clash of tinfoil and reality). And even a festival in the summer where Gary Lineker makes an appearance alongside other wingnuts – the kind of festival that same mad, hyper, sexless aunt drags you to; where one can still get away with wearing a Corbyn t-shirt.

Codswallop and her crew of pill-popping tinfoilers are soiling their knickers as they can smell in the air what Brexit will bring – a revolution where the BBC gets opened up to the market and revamped, and the Guardian likely falls with it; where public cash to one-man-and-his-dog propaganda broadcasters like Channel 4 is lost as the channel gets sold off to the likes of Richard Desmond. A post-Brexit world where America gets back into bed with the UK and kicks the socialist Frenchies out. A dystopian capitalist future where their cosy, subsidised, little world – allowing them to spend hours on Twitter as it’s an “investigative tool” – evaporates, along with their moribund libraries, as Britain pulls itself into the future and we still read the newspapers we want to read. To these weird Londoner lefties, who basically hate Britain and would prefer to attend a CAGE meeting than talk to someone from UKIP, their very existence depends on Brexit being stopped. Deep down they know it’s unstoppable. And these are their dying screams.

Of course, back in the real world, the 1000 retweets mean very little. But on a Friday night 1000 retweets mean a great deal to this echo chamber of oddballs – to the #FBPE crowd who follow James O’Brien wannabes like Mike Stuchberry, Gavin Esler, Otto English and other pound-shop scions of bollocks. They don’t understand real numbers like 17.4 million and clearly detest all democracy that goes against them – they are web-empowered, live-tweet little people and so think small numbers make the difference, rather than the millions who voted to get out of the EU because the EU is a corrupt, money-grabbing cesspit:

On Brexit night remember to raise a glass to these fruitcakes. Most of them are harmless muppets but, alas, some are nasty stalking types whose names appear repeatedly on Government and police databases – really, it’s not a conspiracy that they found themselves there. (But don’t tell them that – the real world is like light to these vampires.)

Britain is still a free country – despite the efforts of their pals Damian Collins and Tom Watson – and these anoraks need to feel like they have some worth. Anyway, they are fun to watch, especially during Twitter meltdowns, when they are being publicly humiliated by the press regulators they helped create, and when they are busy coughing up costly apologies where their delusions crunch with reality.