Though I die, la resistance lives on...

Despite continuously bitching about the Royal Wedding pretty much since the day it was announced, this morning I woke up feeling fairly benevolent. Or bitched out, depending on your point of view. You know, they're just a pair of crazy, over-privileged in-love kids. And he lost his mum. Know how that feels. Get your happiness where you can, kid, hope it goes well.

Then I assimilated myself painfully with the world as is usual in the morning and realised that yet again, 10 miles down the road, there have been petrol bombs and police brutality. Squat raids, again, sneaked in under the radar of general frothy kerfuffle over dresses and protocol. Snipers trained on the crowd, with a shoot-to-kill mandate. NHS cuts and university fee sanctions whipped through quickly today while nobody was looking. And we're not even allowed to take the piss out of the whole thing to relieve the grim tedium in a flashy show of gallows humour. Tis a satire free zone, kids.

This is the sharp end of the cutting irony and slashing of our rights and freedoms. The filling of the drudging Tesco Basics sandwichy outsides which are cuts, recessions, police treachery and general civil degradation. And to this collection of festering wounds slowly poisoning our bloodstreams, we're heartily encouraged to apply the patriotic band-aids of street parties, celebrity gossip and wishing the lovely young things well. Their happiness s our happiness. They will be the new modern monarchy of this nation, the mother and father of our glad patriotic hearts.

Well, you know what? Screw this, guys, I'm a going home...