Book 2
The Woke Laureate being proclaimed, the solemnity is to be graced with public ceremony. Thither stumble from their beds the acolytes and hierophants of the cult, hastily reassembling their wits following the debauches of the previous evening at Formal Hall. Wokeness is pleased for her disport to propose games - which combine the exercise of crude bodily functions with vicious duplicity. The game of Farting described, with its diverse accidents, in which two scribes of Woke Books Ms. Fudge and Ms. DeRangelo connive and compete, but are overcome when Ms. Sarker the Communist acting at the behest of the Woke Laureate Master J____ ignites the ignis fartuous of that gentleman while he treats a grateful audience to the undoubted bounty of his squealing. The game of Farting being followed by that of Chundering, in which Master J____ outwits Professor Zizek’s situationist challenge to basic hygiene by the tactic of an oily emesis; and finally a third game of Burping, in which Master J____ is again blessed with triumph, on this final occasion over the eructations of the tribunes of the plebs Mr Muscle-Royle and Ms. Abottom, which he achieves by dint of belching the Woke Alphabet. A Woke Feast being held to commemorate Master J____’s victory in the Games, in the hour of his triumph the victor and the assembled company are overwhelmed by the keynote speech of the famous antisemite Mr Hitler Livingstone.
In the small hours, with modesty and grace
And lucent glow of pale averted face,
Who else but fair Aurora Columbine
Usurps the screech owl and the saturnine?
What though the old day shrivelled up unshrived
A thing to be endured if not survived?
Banish the spectre of the headless ghost
With Fair Trade coffee and sliced sourdough toast!
Aurora glides in with the morning dew
Broadcasts indulgently o’er pavement spew. 410
The burglar sighs and homeward softly steals
To smoke his crack and microwave his meals:
Morlock goes down, Eloi comes out to play
In Boden frock of unassuming grey,
And when the early morning refuse crews
Clang dustbin lids, and folk switch on the news,
Now the Woke Twitterfeed cranks into life
And twists again the wound with rusty knife.
Behold the scholars who imbibed too much
And talked of Kristallnacht and leftist Putsch, 420
And shot their mouths and shamef’ly overslept.
’Mongst whom yet earworm Twitterfeed now crept,
Updating them with news of Wokeness Games:
Instead of Honour, prizes are for Shame,
This being most fitting to commemorate
The coronation of Woke Laureate:
For gross abasement - burping, spitting, farts -
While practicing the sophistical arts;
A golden shower poisoning the well,
A bait and switch with an unseemly smell, 430
Juxtaposition of the choicest mot
With left up lid and brimming chamber pôt.
Hungover, forcing down the Andrews Salts
Lamenting yet the absence of John Galt,
And in the grip of unspeakable dread,
Woke Politburo stumbles out of bed.
Oh for a blissful afternoon of pharms,
Free from the panic pipes and woke alarms,
But forced instead into proximity
With thrice cursed spoken woke turd poetry. 440
The first Olympic game is for Best Fart.
Each petomane displays their nether part,
Oh chocolate starfish! Wrinkled petit trou!
Amass the hydrogen, the sulphur too,
And when the buzzer sounds, rectum let rip
With sphincter tightened and with puckered lip,
And each emission rigorously judged:
how long, how loud, how odorous and fudged.
And finally, the scores being totted up,
And gases siphoned off for Thyssen Krupp, 450
And Duckworth Lewis weightings square deployed,
And Preparation H rubbed into ’roid,
The victor garlanded on dais stands
With book deals, soothing cream, and krugerrands.
The game’s contestants are a pair of scribes
With all the defects of the Wokeness Tribe:
A sophist by the name of Udder-Fudge,
Typhoid of dialectic, logic’s smudge,
Proud author of woke racist anal squeak,
“Why I’ll No Longer To The Paleface Speak”. 460
Her rival is Rabid DeRangelo:
Grifter’s feigned piety and face full pô,
Paid huge amounts for her ability
To bloviate on white fragility.
Now does each athlete squat and flex, and rub
Her bum with liniment got from a tub.
DeRangelo downs gallons of brown ale,
While Udder-Fudge chews cabbage, prunes, and kale.
A murmur rises up among the crowd
About how many baked beans are allowed. 470
They’re under orders, and the whistle blows!
Each Grub Street maggot holds her breath, and goes
A puce which wouldn’t shame Farrow & Ball.
But neither grub considers this at all,
Turning instead her thoughts to rumbling bowels
And ordering of consonants and vowels.
Rabid is first to bleat but Fudge to fart,
A syncopation of the classic art,
The rich contralto and the alto sax,
Sulphur dioxide and distorted facts. 480
Oh wrinkled nose, thou slave to pot pourri,
Who from the thunderbox recoils and flees,
Imagine what Nirvana ’tis to judge
The rant of Rabid and the fart of Fudge:
Unreason mingled with a bottom’s scent.
But Rabid’s rant and Fudge’s fart are spent.
Open at once the door! Switch on the fans!
And stimulate the stunned adrenal glands
Of nodding audience of narcolepts
O’erwhelmed by noxious fumes and false precepts. 490
But woe! Hope of deliverance is cursed
As the status quo ante is reversed:
Now Rabid’s gut expels clouds of methane
And Fudge becomes increasingly inane.
Switch off the fans! Close once again the door!
Choke in the perfume, listen to the bore,
A non-ecstatic mumbling and some gas,
colloid of Zizek suspends Habermas.
And in such vein for hour after hour,
All hope forsook of respite or succour, 500
First one and then the other swapping roles
Contaminate the air with both their holes,
Until - Gaudeamus! - both wells run dry,
Both natural gas and noisome orat’ry.
The room, though, has its looming elephant:
Which grifter, which race-baiter, which pissant
Should wear the laurel garland on her brow.
Concerning this, a most unseemly row
Erupts. Some say the farts of Udder-Fudge
Are more melodious, but others judge 510
The Rabid dirge foremost in speciousness.
The parties rage, prevaricate, digress.
The judges threaten to restage the game
And redistribute the full share of shame.
The audience most forcefully protests.
“Please talk no more of this even in jest.”
Just then is heard a weedling petty voice
Familiar to the ear, though not by choice.
“What’s missing’s thrill, the headiness of risk.
Instead the scowling blue-hairs go ‘tsk tsk’. 520
Let’s shake things up. Let’s push the envelope.
Unleash the Twitter horde to tweet their tropes.”
So said, unbuttoning his sagging drawers,
J____ “takes the knee”, then crouches on all fours.
Ash Sarkar, literally communist,
Grasping a lighter in her girlish fist
Awaits the shouted signal: “Gas girl, quick!”
Guts rumble. “Thar she blows!” The lighter’s flicked.
Now from J____’ fissure comes a mighty roar
As of a cataract or rutting boar. 530
Greek fire or North Sea gas, no one can tell
Prostrated as they are by the foul smell.
No wind of Satan, nor his foetid breath,
No cellar where an old rat met his death,
Bears a comparison to such disgrace.
All full of puking is that sorry place.
Nor are the ears from punishment exempt:
The bum trombone, lit at the first attempt,
A Handel’s Fireworks in cacophone,
Volume intensified and lowered tone; 540
While J____ on all fours starts a porcine squeal
Piercing enough to make the blood congeal.
Now doth Aeolus inside J____’s arse
Brew up a further helping of the farce.
How very Anglo-Saxon of young J____
To steal Jove’s thunder from his awful throne.
New gas expelled, and by nymph Ash enflamed,
Apollo contemplates art’s final shame,
While Artemis scornfully blocks her ears,
And Pallas Athene blinks back the tears. 550
Oh weep, DeRangelo! Udder-Fudge, rage!
J____’ pyrotechnics your conceits upstage.
What lager hath he quaffed, what cabbage munched!
Just think of all the beans on which he’s lunched!
A man for smorgasbords in green cafes,
For lentil bakes and spinach canapes,
A connoisseur of figs and fennel juice,
For whom pink rubber tubing has its use.
To cap it all, his squeal of neutered boar
Strips bare amygdala and flays nerves raw. 560
Surrender, Fudge. Give up, DeRangelo.
There’s no point striving against this Wind Bro.
The ballot papers in, cheered on by tribes
Of partisans, the judges take their bribes.
Watch as they open first the sealed bids:
The Oxbridge place for feckless failson kid,
Courtesy car and Seychelles holiday,
Gold bullion gorgeous on its gleaming tray,
The grace and favour flat with concierge,
Champagne and Kir in Meribel auberge. 570
A brief hiatus, then the whitened smoke
Provokes another protest by the woke,
Subsumed however by the mounting joy
Of the supporters of the Wokest Boy.
All hail the probiotic bactereme,
Yoga, green tea, and purgative regime
Let white men blush and Tories hiss and tut,
A nice clean mind starts with a nice clean gut.
So triumphs the Woke Laureate’s nether mouth
With lambent perfumed flambé of deep South. 580
Rest not upon your laurels, Ganymede,
The Court is wearied by your rehashed deeds.
A new game is announced, a thing so lame
You see them writhe disgustingly with shame.
No raging Zeus hurls now his bolts of thunder.
Instead sociologists examine chunder,
For daubing canvases with carrot diced,
for puke-stained metaphor, pungently spiced:
The Bridge at Arles in duodenal bile,
The pavement pizza on the Golden Mile. 590
Alongside J____ the sophist raves and gags:
Zizek, in yolk-encrusted beard and rags,
Fount of inanity and spoken spew
And has of what he speaks but little clue,
Dishonest signifying priapist,
Always post-coital and always triste.
See now each athlete munch emetics, bloat,
Each stick his thumbs and fingers down his throat.
Now Zizek contemplates Bede’s Book of Turds,
A thing monks made of images and words 600
To stimulate the vomiter’s hormones,
An aide memoire disdained by steadfast J____
Who wolfs down puffa fish and ancient eggs,
And barrel scrape and maggoty old dregs,
While Zizek on his own lung’s mucus dines,
And cheap cocaine and vinegary wines.
They’re under starters orders, and they’re off!
Zizek’s first gambit is a hacking cough,
A rumbling’s heard as of church organ’s swell,
Poor tortured bronchioles enduring Hell. 610
Now Slavoj wipes off snot with t-shirt sleeve,
And spittle squirts like water through a sieve.
Poor J____ begins to look a mottled green,
While Slavoj’s gone completely tangerine.
Who’ll be the first to prostitute the truth,
Vomit on verity, corrupt the youth?
Professor Zizek is the first to speak,
A veritable smorgasbord which reeks
Of fallacy and sophistical cant,
Delivered with a lamentable want 620
Of etiquette: with back of hand, he smears
His greasy locks behind his waxy ears,
Burps up a specious, inane apophthegm.
Pursued by some hastily swallowed phlegm.
No more emetic spectacle than this:
The trouser front stained with its patch of piss
The drool that glistens on the unwashed shirt,
The fingers crusted with the grimy dirt.
Now, as he hearkens to the hypocrite,
Woke Ganymede - the ghastly little shit - 630
Assumes the glassy stare of manse gargoyle,
And starts to vomit up a kind of oil.
No spermaceti this, no Ambrose curd,
Instead a ruptured sac reeking of turd;
Beige semolina from a ripened cyst,
Jettisoned bronchiole of Communist,
Discourse’s clog, the fallacy in re,
The black and white dissolving into grey.
What comet’s flight, what psychedelic drug,
What Sybil’s croak or tea-leaves in a mug, 640
Foretold this thing that ought not to have been,
Hallucination born of fevered spleen.
To chambers with the judges for their lunch
to nibble Stilton and sip Pimms fruit punch,
There to determine who deserves the prize,
Spewed the most nauseating calumnies.
Some advocate Zizek’s apologism
For Robespierre’s Terror and for Stalinism.
While J____’s herring’s redness wins acclaim
Among the grifters speaking for the BAME. 650
Now once again sleek lobbyists arrive,
Form factions, haunt the corridors, connive.
Scraped is the barrel now for all its pork,
Geldings are traded in a slough of talk.
Gifts are exchanged, goodwill intangible,
Flash of gold Rolex and white mandible.
After the pleasures of this interlude,
And breaking wind - since not to would be rude -
The chief judge now resumes his awful throne
And, in his typically abject tone 660
Of whimper flatulent instead of thunder,
Announces who has won the prize for chunder.
This is, wonderful to relate, young J____.
Now see the woke kids order buzzing drones
To bring organic champagne, gluten-free.
And blue-hair scolds snarling triumphantly.
Now see twice-garlanded woke athlete J____,
Crowned with the ceremonial traffic cones,
His purple nylon robes all vomit-flecked,
The plastic toilet seat slung round his neck, 670
Accept the adoration of the crowd:
Formal congrats from Glastonb’ry and Stroud,
Homage of delegates from Oregon,
And eminences grey of Islington.
J____ on his dais simpers like a gimp
Freed from its box by an indulgent pimp.
Who’d not swap places with him for this hour,
The heady psychopathy of woke power?
If Conscience in his ear whispers her ruth,
His narcissism trumps her with his truth 680
Yet all his celebration’s premature.
A proclamation cuts through the manure:
That Wokeness honoured be with one more game,
Of burping like a bullfrog with no shame.
Garlic’s repeat, metempsychosis, fate:
Who will step up and dauntless eructate?
What lunatic escaping from his shrink
Will gulp the air and glug the fizzy drink?
A brace of politicians volunteer:
Voyde Muscle-Royle, Camptown’s gay dalek. Hear 690
The grim metallic rasping of his speech:
You’d think the Klingon Marxist gargled bleach.
Abottom in her trademark two left shoes,
Fresh from her latest car crash interviews
With glacial stare and diction tortoise-slow,
Painstaking … emphasis … just … so … you … know.
Now shall each athlete swallow diet coke,
Force down legumes, on green bell peppers choke.
Now shall each gen’rously upholstered rump
Be introduced through tubes to cycle pump. 700
Oh let them quaff their Perrier and ale,
Chomp ripened figs, and prunes gone slightly stale,
The beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
The distillation of the sweaty gym.
The judge tosses the coin up in the air,
And Voyde goes first, and offers up a prayer
That Hesper might blow from his gastric bag.
On final mouthful of San Pell he gags,
Swallows a metric ton of heated air,
And bloated like a toad begins to blare. 710
Instead of Hesper, what satanic gale,
What prison stink now breaks out of its jail,
What reek of corpse exploding with a squelch.
Speak not of the sound of the dalek’s belch,
Death rattle of embittered communist,
Woke phalangist saluting with limp fist.
That metal gauntlet down the blackboard pulled,
Disgusting gurgle of the sleeper’s drool,
Don’t mention seagulls shrieking, nuclear trains,
Heavy artillery or bad migraines. 720
The impudence of Brighton’s flame-haired twerp!
Abottom for Stoke Newington must burp!
She pond’rously about her business goes,
With oxygen arriving chilled at nose
Heated by engines in stupendous gut,
great tub of acid mixed with scuttlebut.
At length, Abottom with her Gorgon stare
Begins the broadcast of her hot stale air.
Now shall the dryads vanish and the nymphs all flee
From her drawn out and grim prolixity, 730
And those who stay and listen to her moan
Shall doze, and as they slumber turn to stone.
But now’s the turn of the Woke Laureate;
Watch as he gulps the fizzing carbonate,
Pours the libation of stale orange juice
Down Halitosis Lane into red sluice,
Seizes a canister of compressed air,
Puts tube to lips and offers up a prayer.
Now with a mighty squeal Squealer inflates
Beyond all Health & Safety estimates, 740
Woke Laureate becomes Woke Zeppelin,
Kim Jong Un’s clone, Abottom’s bigger twin.
So lend your ears as the Woke Laureate
Belches the whole of the Woke Alphabet”.
Now, mark you this, our friend the ABC
Falls foul of modern sensitivity,
In J____’s version “L” comes first, then “G”,
Punctiliously trailed by “B” and “T”.
Then “QUERTY”, and soon after “UIOP,”
And lest we dare to hope that he might stop, 750
“Two spirit,” and further proclivities
Confided to us by his gastric breeze.
Dalek’s dumbstruck, Abottom stands amazed.
Both sing of the Woke Alphabet the praise.
“Who could with good integrity compete
Against an eructation quite so neat?”
So for a third time J____ on dais stands,
An ending happy with relief of hands,
Wokeness approaches bearing bogroll crown,
Skulking abjectly with her ugly frown, 760
And in conclave with her chief hypocrites,
Opinion-formers, sophists, and halfwits,
Crowns J____ the Champion of the Woke Games.
Rejoice, non-binaries! Exult, ye BAME’s!
Now hoist upon your shoulders Squealer J____,
Bear him in triumph to his awful throne.
And when he’s finished with the thunderbox,
Vaccinate him against the Wuhan Pox.
They celebrate the Games with a woke feast.
Abundant kale and artificial yeast. 770
Macrobiotic yoghurt, Quorn, wheatgerm,
The fruit fly larvae and the writhing worm.
Surplus of rhubarb wine not sold to Krupp,
Warmed for an epoch in a plastic cup;
Vomit-resembling orange lentil dal,
The virtue-signalling beyond banal,
Rye loaf convincing as a concrete slab,
Halloumi gibbeted on its kebab,
Ice cream of hippies boycotting Israel,
All gluten-free is the organic ale. 780
Dropsical hour arrives for keynote speech
When Hitler Livingstone stands up to preach,
Casual anti-semite of hard left,
Of ill repute but still some cult’ral heft,
Cringeworthy egotist who drones for hours,
Raising remorselessly his Babel Towers,
Tsunami of concocted stats, bald lies
Confident nasal tones and shifty eyes.
And as he preaches, all the sniv’ling creeps
And Antifa phalangists fall asleep. 790
And as they slumber still the windbag drones
And even vanquishes our hero J____.
No more unto the victor cede the field,
Now victor doth to filibuster yield,
Until that bitter hour when boringness
Subsumes the boor in his own puddled mess.
And as the horloge tolls, the senses numb,
The blue-haired termagents are stricken dumb.
For all except the odd degenerate,
The gurgle and the snore predominate. 800