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How to Get Lucky at a Protest Rally

Some people engage in extreme sports, others enjoy starting fights or travelling to Covid hot-spots and licking lampposts, but for my money there can be no greater thrill-seeking activity than infiltrating protest rallies with the sole purpose of getting laid. You may call this cynical, manipulative or even irresponsible behaviour, but after living under virtual house arrest for nigh on eighteen months you've got to get your kicks where you can. And since to all intents and purposes nightclubs no longer exist and bars have become nothing more than adult creches, it's only natural that strapping young bucks like myself should turn our attention to other kinds of social gatherings in the pursuit of slap and tickle. Indeed, protest rallies are ideal for hook-ups. For one thing, you're surrounded by thousands of people at a time, which means the chances of scoring are far greater than your average Saturday night at the Dog and Trumpet. Then there's all that infectious, pent-up energy bubbling away amongst the demonstrators, and since energy can neither be created or destroyed but simply transformed from one state to another, why shouldn't it change from righteous anger to hot, steamy love action?

Now I imagine at this point you're probably saying, "Yeah, this all sounds very attractive, but aren't you leading us into a woke lion's den?" Well, I'm pleased I pretended you asked me that because if you follow the guidelines I've drawn up for you here there's absolutely no reason why even the most hard-right or resolutely non-ideological culture war veteran shouldn't find themselves dancing the pink starfish with a member of the self-styled progressive left.

The first rule for getting lucky at a protest rally is don't appear too flash. Aftershave, well-polished shoes and anything smarter than a jeans-tee shirt/hoodie combo is a dead giveaway for what you're really up to. You think that Extinction Rebellion protester in the two-piece suit who held up the tube at Canning Town station got his tummy banana sucked that night? No, you need to cultivate a chaotic, devil-may-care look that implies you threw on the first thing you saw when you got out of bed that morning. I'm not suggesting said clothing should be unwashed or you should forego wearing deodorant, but it doesn't hurt giving your natural body odours a chance to really let rip when you end up packed in the back of a police van on the way to the cells. It creates the illusion of hard, honest toil setting the world to rights - the ultimate aphrodisiac for that girl with the purple hair who insists on leading her fellow detainees in a chorus of "The Times They Are a-Changin'" while secretly wondering how pissed off daddy's going to be when he has to fork out for bail.

But, of course, dressing down doesn't mean you can't use props to draw attention to yourself. This is where logos and slogans come in, either emblazoned across your clothing or, better still, a placard. You should try to be inventive, though; it's no good attending an anti-Brexit rally with a sweatshirt or banner that reads 'NIGEL FARAGE IS A CUNT' as chances are at least another 200 people have turned up with their own crudely made variants on this Anglo-Saxon epithet. It's better to go for something witty like 'MY COUNTRY EXITED THE EU AND ALL I'VE GOT LEFT IS THIS CRUMMY SHIRT'. Introducing humour into the mix not only detracts from how dishonest or willfully misleading the statement is, it also makes for the perfect ice breaker. If you're having trouble coming up with your own slogan, I recommend checking out ones used by historical movements and altering them to fit today's cultural climate. If you're attending, say, a Black Lives Matter rally and you want something punchy that reflects the current state of race relations, why not take the anti-Civil Rights mantra 'RACE MIXING IS COMMUNISM' and change it to 'RACE MIXING IS COLONIALISM'? No one'll ever know you nicked it from some brain-dead Alabama Klansman. Besides, if it worked for Ibram X. Kendi it'll work for you. I've heard that guy's knee-deep in pussy. Then again, I've also heard people refer to Robin DiAngelo as an academic, so it's probably best to take that with a pinch of salt.

So, anyway, you're at the protest with your scuzzy clothes and provocative placard: what next?

Demeanor is everything. Playing it cool like you would in a bar or nightclub isn't going to work in this environment. It gives the impression you don't care enough, which is a massive turn-off to your average social justice warrior. Plus each protest group has its own set of codes and practices, so it's absolutely vital you familiarise yourself with them before trying your luck. If it's a climate crisis rally, you should be prepared to cry your fucking eyes out. We're not just talking getting misty-eyed here or summoning a lump in your throat, we're talking full-on emotional breakdown. You must whimper and wail like a soy-boy who's accidentally scolded himself with a vegan pumpkin spice latte. If you're having trouble in the waterworks department, try imagining everyone you love drowning in a lake of molten lava. If that just makes you giggle, however, you could always think about that scene in The NeverEnding Story when the horse dies. Conversely, if you're a white guy at a BLM or police brutality march any tears you shed will be dismissed as evidence of white fragility and you may be accused of appropriating black grief. In which case the best thing to do is keep your cool, but make sure you show the requisite dedication to the cause by aggressively shaming anyone who isn't taking part into raising their fist as a mark of solidarity. This generally works better with someone smaller than you or sitting quietly outside a restaurant or café with their family. No one wants to be tarred with the racism brush, least of all some shelf stacker on minimum wage who's been busting his hump all week to keep you in enough Fairtrade coffee to fuel those late-night Twitter rants.

Either way, by this point you'll have ingratiated yourself with your fellow protesters and had a chance to check out the talent. If you've caught someone's eye, don't assume you can just go up to them like Jack the Lad and trot out a variation of your usual patter. "Have you been protesting long?" is likely to be taken as a micro-aggression, invalidating their lived experience and suggesting they're a fraud, while asking straight-up if they want to go for a drink is the surest way to blow your cover. And if you're an arty type, you can forget serenading them with half-remembered quotes by activists or artisans from yesteryear; these days they're all either dismissed as 'dead white men' or, in the case of someone like Martin Luther King, naive fabulists who had no idea what they were talking about. Just to illustrate my point, I have a friend who managed to get up close and personal with a gorgeous, rainbow-haired vixen at the George Floyd demonstrations in Portland last year. Everything was going hunky dory until he let his guard slip and carelessly paraphrased that deeply embarrassing passage from On the Road where the Jack Kerouac character wanders the streets of Harlem wishing he was black. I won't bore you with the details, but one riot, millions of dollars worth of property damage and an emergency airlift from a police helicopter later, my friend's now willing to admit it was probably a mistake.

The trick is to find something polemical and direct, with just a touch of self-abasement to give the impression you care more about whatever cause it is you're supposed to be backing than you do for your own life or happiness. A solid, all-purpose opening line would be, "Don't you just hate [white people / systemic racism / fascism / capitalism / cops / climate change denialists / Brexit / Republicans / Tories / the AfD / the IDF / Islamophobes / Trump / Putin / Boris / Assad / Marine Le Pen / J. K. Rowling / anti-vaxxers / TERFs / homophobes / pro-life advocates / Christians / zoos / pet owners / meat-eaters / vegetarians / fatists / people who diet / Chick-Fil-A  / etc]? [It/They] fucking make[s] me sick." Practice saying this a few times in the mirror, altering the tone of your voice with each attempt until you find the appropriate emotional pitch. As mentioned earlier, this will vary depending on the movement you're associating with. Screaming it in someone's face is perfectly acceptable, as is saying it mournfully like you're willing death upon the entire human race, but never say it with even the hint of a smile. You're not down the Slug and Lettuce with a Stella in your hand trying to make the rack on that cute little number from Primark jiggle with every desperately laboured pun; you're meant to be saving the world, remember? Well, that and get your end away.

Now, as the conversation flows and you find yourself bombarded with terms like 'cis-het privilege', 'internalised whiteness', 'liberatory praxis' and so on, it's very tempting to let your eyes glaze over and just agree with whatever your potential shagee is saying. This is a mistake. As long as their adrenaline's pumping - and believe me, it will be - yours should be, too. It doesn't hurt throwing around a few trendy, pseudo-sociological buzzwords yourself, but the problem is they're much better versed in this kind of crap than you are and, given the opportunity, can spew it up for hours on end. A wrong move here will place you squarely in the 'ally zone', and that's not somewhere you really want to be. Ever. The answer? Go Extreme. A good example is using racial slurs to describe people of colour whose politics don't align with current protest movements. You should feel absolutely no guilt referring to public figures such as Tim Scott, Candace Owens, Kemi Badenoch, Calvin Robinson, Thomas Sowell, Inaya Folarin Iman, Coleman Hughes, Glenn Loury et al as "Uncle Toms", "House Negroes" or "Coconuts"; after all, if liberal media pundits and the Blue Ticks on Twitter can get away with it then why shouldn't you? It's not as if they're really black, anyway. (Okay, they look black, but then so did Al Jolson. Sort of.) The best thing about this approach is you can apply it in any number of mind-bendingly absurd and outrageous ways. Caitlyn Jenner? Transphobe. Germaine Greer? Misogynist. Bernie Sanders? Anti-Semitic. You see? It makes it look like you're so committed to social justice that you're willing to completely reshape reality. And for a green-haired maiden sporting a 'SMASH THE PATRIARCHY' tee shirt and an $800 pair of Adidas sneakers that's damn near irresistible.

If you follow this advice to the letter you'll be well on the way to making the sign of the two-headed aardvark in no time. But before you rush into anything, it's important to remain mindful of current year sexual etiquette. If you're a heterosexual male, NEVER take the lead when it comes to the initial kissing and fumbling stage. I really can't emphasise this enough. Any attempt on your part to initiate physical contact will be considered an act of assault and you'll suddenly find yourself about as popular as Bill Cosby at a beauty pageant. In this scenario, you must always ask permission. Ceding control of the situation increases the horn factor for them and allows you to keep your testicles. You could even try prefacing your requests with statements that assert your commitment to social justice. I usually go for something all-purpose like "I have nothing but the deepest respect for your gynecological autonomy, but would it be okay if I put my hand in your knickers?", however you may wish to come up with your own variants. (I'm told "Procreational sex is ecological fascism" is a pretty good opening salvo to use before asking a climate change protester for a blowjob.) But don't worry if this all sounds like a long, drawn-out slog: after a while your fellow squidgee will be so eager to get off she'll let you drop the beta-male act and grope to your heart's content.

Perhaps the most important consideration, though, is where to do the deed. Taking them back to your place is fraught with risk as it's not always possible to know how they'll react to the contents of your bookshelf, DVD collection, or even the pictures you have up on your wall. Just because you've taken the time to replace that poster of John Wayne with one of Nelson Mandela and hidden your well-thumbed copies of 12 Rules for Life, Irreversible Damage and The Madness of Crowds in the wardrobe alongside your League of Gentlemen and Russ Meyer box sets doesn't mean they won't find something triggering or problematic. That's just what they do; they can't help it. I mean, if To Kill a Mockingbird is now considered a white supremacist novel how do you think your conquest is getting to react when they see the DVD case for Conan the Barbarian on your coffee table? One minute you're tearing each other's clothes off, the next you're being denounced as an alt-right piece of shit. And don't think going back to theirs is going to be a safer bet, either. They may wish to put on some music that means something to them, which is a guaranteed way of dampening your ardour. I once copped off with an animal rights activist who insisted on playing Joy Division while we got down and dirty. Let me tell you, it's a job keeping your stroke up when you've got Ian Curtis bellowing "This is the way, step in-siiiide!" on every thrust. But even worse is what happens after you've made the beast with two backs. Unless you're the sort of bastard who makes a break for it the the second your erstwhile skin-buddy gets up to use the toilet, common courtesy dictates there has to be some form of pillow talk - and since these people only ever want to discuss their grievances or objections about society in general, you can expect more blather about 'racism-adjacency', 'structural inequality' and so on. You've suffered through this already, so why put yourself through it again now you've had your oats? It makes no sense, especially since you're just going to give them a fake number and a noncommittal promise to see them at the next Friends of Stalin general meeting.

No, the solution is a simple one. Do it outdoors - right there in the middle of the protest. As a concession to current public health sensibilities, wear a face mask; it'll make you feel like you're in an even kinkier version of Eyes Wide Shut. Other than that, shirts off, trousers down and get to work. Trust me, there's nothing more liberating than dipping your wick in front of thousands of strangers to the clatter of batons on riot shields and the hiss of tear gas. Even moronic chants like 'PIGS IN A BLANKET, FRY 'EM LIKE BACON' have a handy rhythm when you're horny enough. And who knows where it might lead? There you are in the middle of the street, bare arse rising and falling as the nubile cutie beneath you digs her nails in your back and squeals with delight; others may take your cue and join in. Just picture it: a mass of sweaty, scrofulous bodies of all shapes, hues and persuasions writhing in a sea of orgiastic delight. Now that's what I call a demonstration.

What You Didn't Miss: Anne Boleyn (Channel 5, 2021)

We open on a jousting match. Two combatants in full battle armour charge each other on horseback as the crowd roars in excitement. At the point of contact, one of the steeds suddenly raises itself onto its hind legs and throws off its rider. He crashes to the ground in a clatter of metal, causing great panic among spectators and squires alike. Watching this from the royal box is Anne Boleyn. She rises from her seat and holds a silk handkerchief to her mouth as a crew of armourers rush over to assist the fallen warrior.

ARMOURER #1: Art thou hurt, sire?

HENRY VIII: [raising his visor; angry] No nag road rashes me! Wet its neck, bruh.

A groom draws his sword and walks over to the horse, now being tethered to a post by stable hands. After a short struggle he cuts its throat. We focus on Anne's horror as geysers of blood jet from the wound and over the courtyard.

HENRY VIII: I ain't tekin' that shit from no one. Believe.

Close in on Anne's face as the King's words start to echo...

Cut to the royal bedchamber. Anne wakes from her sleep, rousing her husband as she raises herself upright and catches her breath.

HENRY VIII: [drowsy] You prangin' out or sum'ink?

ANNE: Apologies, my lord. I was... dreaming about the joust yesterday.

HENRY VIII: Oi mate, that was, like, well deep! Can you believe that nag dissin' me?

Anne gets out of bed and stares moodily out the window.

HENRY VIII: Ain't nuthin' to get gutted about. Steed had it comin', yeah?

ANNE: It's not that. But I fear, my lord, there are many in the ends who would wish to see your loyal wifey meet a similar fate...

HENRY VIII: Who?

The bedchamber doors open to reveal a privy servant and a very important guest.

SERVANT: [announces] Thomas Cromwell, first Earl of Essex.

HENRY VIII: Good Essex. Wag-one?

CROMWELL: My lord, I needs must talk to thee most pressingly on thy Jack Jones.

HENRY VIII: Why?

CROMWELL: [looks at Anne] 'Tis... a delicate matter, blud.

HENRY VIII: You givin' me batty boy chirps, bruh? In my yard?

CROWELL: Nah, blud! I-

Henry suddenly gets a text. He picks up his phone off the bedside table and opens his messages. The text appears onscreen à la Sherlock:

'FROM JANE SEYMOUR: WNT 2 GO RIDIN 2DAY... 😉'

HENRY VIII: I's chock today, man. Tek it up wiv Anne, yeah?

CROMWELL: But, sire-

HENRY VIII: Allow it.

He gets out of bed and crosses over to Anne.

HENRY VIII: Sorry, wifey. Stuff goin' down, init.

They kiss.

HENRY VIII: Know this, yeah? You's made my winter of discontent into bangin' summer.

ANNE: [smiles] Your majesty's sweet words envelope my soul like a pair of Christian Laboutin stilletoes on a Kardashian.

HENRY VIII: For real. Thou's well pengin'.

As he leaves the bedchamber he pauses to address Cromwell.

HENRY VIII: Laters.

As the door closes, Anne and Cromwell glare at each other in an uncomfortable silence. Finally-

ANNE: Come to poison the King's heart against me, Essex?

CROMWELL: [mockingly] Me, my lady-?

ANNE: It is well known that you bitterly disapprove of my proposals for the charitable redistribution of church wealth and an alliance with our dear French cuzz, King Francis.

Caption: 'THIS SPEECH WAS SOURCED FROM WIKIPEDIA'

CROMWELL: For shizzle. But thy beauty is slandered with a bastard shame far more egregious than thy damnable wokery.

ANNE: Then give a name to this perceived ignominy, or kindly stop chatting shit.

CROMWELL: [indignant] I know not whether thou art a gold digger, but thou ain't messing with an insolvent Tudor. Thy violent delights have violent ends, and soon, before God, righteousness shall make amends...

Pause, then-

ANNE: ...Is it 'cos I is black?

Don't forget to tune in for tomorrow's exciting, historically accurate episode, where Henry breaks a leg after falling off his e-scooter and Anne reports lute player Mark Smeaton to the HR department at Hampton Court for referring to himself as a minstrel - with horrifying consequences.

In Memoriam: Michael Collins (1930-2021)

"Man has always gone where he has been able to go, it is a basic satisfaction of our inquisitive nature, and I think we all lose a little bit if we choose to turn our backs on further exploration. Exploration produces a mood in people, a widening of interest, stimulation of the thought process, and I hate to see it wither. Our universe should be explored by microscope and by telescope, but I don't believe the argument that less emphasis on one will cause a more powerful focus on the other. When man fails to push himself to the possible limits of his universe in a physical sense, I think it causes a mental slackening as well, and we are all the poorer for it. Space is the only physical frontier we have left, and I believe its continued exploration will produce real, if unpredictable, benefits to all of us who remain behind on this planet. That one cannot spell out in any detail what these benefits will be does not contradict or deny their existence."

                                                           - Michael Collins, Carrying the Fire (1974)

Be an Idiot

 

'Be More Alice!' the Guardian's culture section implores us today, explaining how literary characters from novels such as Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Jane Eyre and Mrs Dalloway can (presumably retroactively at this point) help us navigate our way through lockdown.

Yeeeah, that's not a bad idea - but how many people will find the fortitude of Charlotte Brontë's heroine, who accepts an emotional void because previous experience has taught her the value of love? Or that of the eponymous character in Virginia Woolf's masterpiece, who resigns herself to a future she never imagined because the wisdom that comes with age has allowed her to cast off the expectations of youth and embrace new possibilities? And as for the little girl who followed a rabbit down a hole, we're already living in a world where we're expected to believe six impossible things before breakfast and words are constantly changing their meaning at the behest of whoever's using them at any given moment, so I'm not sure there's a great deal she can teach us, either.

Let's face it, in a world where most of us are under virtual house arrest, mental health is on the wane and the only people out protesting are more interested in tilting at windmills than addressing actual problems, the only literary characters any of us can associate with right now are Lady Deadlock in Dickens' Bleak House, staring out of the rain-streaked window of her country house and reflecting on the callousness of a society founded on stifling behavioural mores; Prince Myshkin in Dostoevsky's The Idiot, whose intellect and compassion are at odds with a world where neither of those virtues apply, isolating him in madness and despair; and, last but not least, the narrator of Proust's In Search of Lost Time, whose entire existence revolves around going to bed early and conjuring up remembrances of people and places from a past life that now exist purely in the extratemporal realm of memory. These may be tragic characters, but through them we can see parallels to our current physical circumstances and socio-cultural mindset. Unlike the Guardian's choices, which essentially encourage us to be good little girls and boys, Myshkin and co. get us to ask the sort of questions lockdown enthusiasts and people who refuse to read Dr. Seuss to their kids anymore would rather not hear.

'Course, I could be barking up the wrong trouser leg entirely, but it's something to think about next time you're stood at the checkout with a soggy cloth on your face.

What You Didn't Miss: Can't Get You Out of My Head (BBC iPlayer, 2021)

God help me, I tried to make this funny. Sadly, this kind of self-indulgent, pseudo-documentary is no joke.

So, critics everywhere are losing their collective shit over 'experimental' filmmaker Adam Curtis' latest documentary series Can't Get You Out of My Head: An Emotional History of the Modern World, which premiered on BBC iPlayer last week. It's been called everything from a dazzling work of genius to a terrifying masterpiece, with many predicting awards on the horizon. As for the content, I'll let Curtis himself explain:

© BBC Radio 5 Live

Sorry for being predictable, but I'm afraid I can't join in the orgy of backslapping and critical slobbering. I have no problem with the anti-narrative, 'collage' technique Curtis uses (I'm a great champion of filmmakers like Peter Watkins and Chris Marker who invite audiences to question how they receive information by breaking with conventional audio-visual grammar), but the combination of found images and sometimes ambient, other times discordant, electronic music never lets up on telling us how to think and feel at any given moment, making deliberate subliminal associations to cement Curtis' thesis that we're all going out of our minds with paranoia and anxiety as an inescapable, objective truth.

"Ah!" his champions say, "But it's an emotional history of our times, so it's perfectly legitimate to take this approach..."

No, it's not. It's his truth we're seeing played out, and he never makes that apparent. "We all feel like this," he says in his voice of God-style narration, failing to realise the irony of his central claim that the rise of individualism over collectivism cancels that out. As for the specific forces he cites as responsible for our post-millenial malaise, bizarrely economics doesn't even merit discussion. Never mind that the end of the Cold War and the rise of US hegemony has led western governments to dismantle - or, in some cases, sell off - the more benevolent apparatus of state since the 'triumph' of capitalism makes the need to present itself as a more humane ideology entirely redundant because that's not important, apparently: we all somehow became individuals, and in Curtis' mind the how and the why is immaterial. How this relates to the rise of China and Russia's 'Pivot to the East' (both of which occupy a sizeable amount of screen time) also goes without adequate analysis because, again, economics and its relationship to geopolitics is a moot point in Curtis' worldview. In fact, the impression I've formed watching this is of someone who's read a lot of Wikipedia articles but doesn't have the critical faculties to tie the information together. Instead of seeking out the 'grand narrative' (or, more sensibly, trying to reconcile conflicting narratives) they throw their hands in the air and say, "None of this makes sense, so don't even bother trying," before concluding, "My case is... I rest my case: we're all bonkers, so make the best of it."

This is the laziest kind of documentary. It poses questions it doesn't know how to answer, glosses over subjects that contradict its central argument and manipulates the audience's emotional responses with every audio-visual trick in the book while pretending it's actually doing the opposite. Okay, I get why critics have been blown away by this series (it's resolutely left-of-field in its approach, and it assumes a fair level of intelligence on the part of the viewer), but there's no interrogation of the form, much less any attempt to challenge Curtis' position. If I was being paranoid, I'd say it's almost as though this is the BBC's 'approved' message on how we should view the current state of the world, admonishing less palatable conspiracy theories (QAnon, etc.) while actively feeding others (populism is elite-sponsored, and so on). The problem is, as Ben Shapiro's made a whole career pointing out, facts don't care about our feelings, and when you've got a documentary that tells us only our emotions matter while forcing the 'correct' feelings out of us - say, resignation and acceptance - we're opening ourselves up to a whole host of problems for the future.

Perhaps it would've been cheaper for Curtis to film himself declaiming his message on top of a soapbox in Hyde Park for 8½ hours, but that wouldn't have had the same hypnotic effect. Indeed, without the use of film library footage and Aphex Twin remixes, he'd look a bit of a tit.

You can watch the entire series here, but don't say I didn't warn you.

WordJam Presents: Snog, Marry, Elect!

Nicole Minetti: member of the Lombardy regional council and Silvio Berlusconi's former dental hygienist. Make your own punchlines.

According to a recent joint study by the Centre for Economic Policy Research and the World Economic Forum, countries led by women displayed "systematically and significantly better" Covid-19 outcomes than those with male leaders due to more "proactive and coordinated policy responses." In an interview with the Washington Post, European Central Bank President Christine Lagarde attributed much of this success to honest communication and natural empathy. "I think the caring dimension is something that they manage to express well," she told columnist David Ignatius, "and that was considered by viewers and voters as probably authentic."

Throughout the pandemic, media outlets and news agencies have been awash with articles and opinion pieces measuring female politicians against their male counterparts, analysing everything from body language to risk management in an attempt to answer the age-old question if things would be better if more women were in power. Naturally, this has drawn its fair share of controversy with some journalists questioning whether their peers are relying on stereotypes to push identitarian agendas, but it's also gone hand-in-hand with another phenomenon: namely, male politicians and public figures being transformed into unlikely sex symbols.

Don't believe me? See for yourself:

Click to enlarge

Ditto

And once more (feeling optional)

Take that, patriarchy!

But, y'know, this sexualisation of politicians really is nothing new. Who could forget this remarkably puerile headline from the Daily Mail in 2017:

Or this oh-so risqué scene from the oh-so edgy BBC sitcom Fleabag:

© BBC/Two Brothers Pictures

As far as this current trend goes, I can't work out if it's meant to be some form of acceptable reverse-objectification or just a bunch of sex-starved weirdos getting whatever kicks they can out of a bad situation. And at this point I have to confess, I'm afraid I'm a fully paid-up member of the latter camp. As a thirty-something (no, I'm not telling you how old) heterosexual male (all right, then, 39) I carry the behavioural hallmarks of my 'intersectional demographic' - which is to say, I frequently make lists of my all-time favourite things and sometimes find myself noting the sexual attractiveness of women on TV. Given that the last few months have led to many of us exhausting our viewing options on Netflix, getting into staring competitions with inanimate objects and fantasising about bludgeoning the people next door for playing "Dance Monkey" on repeat for what feels like six fucking hours, it's entirely understandable our libidos are going to make one last desperate effort to kick back against the encroaching existential ennui, almost as a matter of survival.

So, in no particular order (I'm not a complete bastard), join WordJam as we combine these two fads and cast a beady, lecherous eye at some of the top talent in politics today. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Snog, Marry, Elect...

* * * * *

Jacinda Ardern

 

With that warm smile and knowing twinkle in her eye, New Zealand's Prime Minister has inflamed the passions of leftists the world over, but is she really the girl next door-type she seems?

 

Her government's 'wellbeing' budget may be presented as a means to improving mental health, curbing child poverty, reducing carbon emissions and addressing the inequalities faced by the indigenous Maori and Pacific Island populations, but refocusing the economy from hard political realities like increasing GDP towards a program where people are told what's worth spending money on smacks more of a repackaged austerity bill than a genuinely progressive economic policy. As for her handling of Covid, while other leaders have faced intense scrutiny for imposing - or even just proposing - border restrictions, Jacinda seems to have escaped censure for closing off the country to all but those who can afford the rather steep NZ $3,100 mandatory quarantine fee. This policy, originally proposed by the right-wing National Party and cheered on by New Zealand First, has left at least one million New Zealanders to face the pandemic overseas, while the expats who have returned have reported abuse and intimidation from the three-quarters of Kiwis who enthusiastically back this isolationist legislation.

 

So much for Jacinda the Progressive Sweetheart: Jacinda the Political Cougar, more like.

Verdict: Snog

Dawn Butler

 

WordJam loves strong, assertive women, but is the backbench UK Labour Party MP and former Shadow Secretary of State for Women and Equalities just too assertive for her own good?

 

In 2009, Dawn published an enthusiastic letter of endorsement from none other than Barack Obama, but was later forced to admit it was written by one of her aides when sceptics questioned why the President had used House of Commons-headed notepaper and appeared to have difficulty spelling his own name. This tendency to play fast and loose with facts for the sake of winning plaudits or, in some cases, support seems to be a recurring feature in Dawn's political life. In 2019, she boasted of reducing the number of rough sleepers in her constituency by 3,000, which is a truly staggering claim given there are only around 5,000 homeless people in the UK. The same year she told a baffled audience at the PinkNews awards that 90% of giraffes are gay, and made a similar gaffe during an appearance on Good Morning Britain in 2020 with her assertion that babies have no biological sex. Last August saw another bombshell when Dawn released video footage of her car being stopped by police in a blatant case of racial profiling. 'Course, it turned out the officers in question had incorrectly entered the registration number into their database as part of a routine search for out-of-town cars in a high-crime area and couldn't possibly have known the ethnicity of the car's occupants due to the tinted windows, but that's by the by.

Looks like Glenn Close's character in Fatal Attraction has a new rival. Proceed with caution.

Verdict: Snog

Betsy DeVos

 

The billionaire philanthropist and former United States Secretary for Education has come in for a few knocks in recent years, but is she really the ditzy blonde everyone makes her out to be?

 

First there was her confirmation hearing, where Betsy tried her best to convince key members of Congress that despite having next to no experience of the public school system she was the right choice to oversee the nation's educational needs. Plagiarising quotes from an Obama administration official in her written answers to the Senate committee turned out to be the least of her problems, however, when she failed to demonstrate basic knowledge of the growth versus proficiency debate and bizarrely advocated for guns on campus to protect students from grizzly bear attacks. But this was nothing compared to her disastrous 60 Minutes interview with Lesley Stahl, during which it became painfully obvious she had barely any knowledge of the schools in her home state of Michigan let alone those on a national level. The crunch came when the conversation turned to the charter-house-expansion project, spearheaded and bankrolled by Betsy as a means of creating competition for funding between public and private educational establishments. This, Betsy maintained, could only be a good thing as it pushes up achievement in public schools. Stahl asked if this had been demonstrated in real terms, "I don't know," Betsy shrugged, about to launch millions of facepalms. "Overall, I - I can't say overall they have all gotten better."

There's nothing like a bubbly MILF with more money than sense.

Verdict: Marry

Sviatlana Tikhanouskaya

 

She declared herself Belarus' president in a contested election, but is the pint-sized human rights activist a keeper or just a summer romance?

It's a difficult one, this, because it's hard to find much information about Sviatlana's background. From what I gather she was an English teacher, interpreter, and worked with children whose families were affected by the Chenobyl disaster, but that's where the trail ends. As for her political ambitions, she seemed to enjoy support amongst opposition figures who were barred from running in the 2020 election, so there's some legitimacy to her candidature. With regards to her claim of receiving 60 to 70% of the vote, I can't help wondering if this is a replay of what we saw in Serbia back in 2000 where evidence of election rigging was never proved and instead relied on the goodwill of international observers. Either way, when protestors started to overun Minsk and the EU began imposing targeted sanctions it looked like another color revolution was in the works, presumably with the intention of breaking Belarus' Union State with Russia by ousting President Lukashenko. Joe Biden and Mike Pompeo made public announcements about "political freedom" and "the right to choose one's leaders," and then... nothing. Sviatlana's since gone into hiding in Lithuania, the protests have died down and once again the west seems strangely quiet about Belarus' Soviet-style gerontocracy.

It's better to have loved and to have lost than never loved at all. Or something.

Verdict: Snog

Kim Yo-jong

Those shapely cheekbones and beautiful brown eyes are enough to melt the heart of even the iciest cold warrior, but is the Deputy Director of the United Front Department of North Korea and Kim Jong-un's sister too hot to handle?

 

Tipped by some to succeed her brother as General Secretary, Kim has worked her way through many key government offices in the DPRNK, including the National Defence Commission, the Department of Propaganda and Agitation, and the Supreme People's Assembly, all in a relatively short space of time. Indeed, her high profile led to her being a significant presence at the 2018 Inter-Korean summit and Kim Jong-un's subsequent meetings with Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin, garnering her a considerable amount of international attention. As with Sviatlana, though, it's difficult finding much information about this saucy minx, so I'm once again forced to wing it somewhat. In Kim's case, however, we must err on the side of caution. While the idea of knocking boots with such a fine specimen of womanhood would be tempting, the thought of ending up in a re-education camp with rats gnawing at your bollocks is enough to dampen anyone's ardour.

After all, this is the face that could launch a thousand ballistic missiles.

Verdict: Elect