By Alex Robson, Staff Writer
Oh, Zohran Mamdani, won’t you save some freedom for the rest of us? Lady Liberty shines in her city once again, but across the pond, we’re becoming weary. Tired of the politically unconscious who shout, ‘Batten the hatches.’ Oh, Zohran Mamdani, we are foolish, deaf; we cannot understand your language. We speak only in loathsome bureaucrat and pseudo-politician; we want to learn your dialect, we really do, but our radio waves have not yet received your policies.
Mr Starmer is ever-idle, Mr Farage continues to connive, he smokes cigarettes- sure, ‘he’s relatable’- a culture destroyer. And if you don’t support Starmer, then you must be a Conservative, right? But Badenoch won’t take you, I can promise you that. Even purple-nosed Piers still cannot come to terms with: ‘Men can’t protect you anymore’, as he brushes his manhood aside and in the direction of Mr Farage, who says, “Oh, we’re just in between houses right now.” Kneeling beside his delegates: three-syllable shmucks with more money than knowledge. We’ve seen it before, we’ve seen it before. What happened to UKIP? Regurgitated faces, painted anew with glossier metallics, Cirque Du Soleil, it never ends. Politically charged, politically targeted. Maybe it’s a placebo? Did we take the wrong pill?
Oh, Zohran, we are so lost, can’t you see? My peers, my peers, they become claustrophobic. It’s getting difficult to breathe down here. ‘These men’, ‘These men’, these men are haunted, by the past, by their failure, by their hypocrisy. We can’t stand, never mind crawl at your feet. Their retort is weak, unsubstantial, maybe we’re aliens. Hasn’t this ocean’s tide thrashed and whipped enough? How much longer must we take two steps in, decide it’s too cold and run back to the soft sand. Such desolation.
The Mayor of New York, I beg of you to hear our calling, make it end, share the gold, lecture the deaf. Zohran, please, can’t we just copy your homework instead? ‘$30 minimum wage by 2030’, ‘Affordable housing’, these are all great answers, but our teachers mark them wrong. Maybe they know we cheated? Maybe. Maybe it’s because I said this place is getting less Barbie, and more A Tale of Two Cities. Come on, kids, put down your Letterboxd, it’s time to start practising your best Victorian child. It’ll take some time to get used to, but you’ll get the hang of it, eventually.
Image via Rolling Stone.