An Irishman’s Guide to British Politics: The Looter as Victim.

It's the Tories, innit?

It's the Tories, innit?

“It’s the Tories, innit? The cuts, like, an’, like, no, social justice, like.” He announces, as him and Stammo manoeuvre a 60 inch plasma screen TV through the shattered window of Currys. It’s just not his fault. There’s nothing to do around here, other than drink Dutch Gold, get out of bed at 2 in the afternoon, collect the dole, and knife the odd peer, and he’s not talking member of the upper house either.

The fact that most unemployed people don’t cave in the windows of high street stores, and lob rocks at the constabulary is not the issue. In fact, you’re a racist for saying it is, because you’re being classist and racist and, well, generally an ist. Young, working class and white, it’s the new black, innit? What can we do, with all the foreigners coming over and takin’ our jobs because we can’t get out of bed before Jeremy Kyle because of our disability? It’s not our fault that I get massive headaches when we down a tray of Dutch Gold, that’s our genetic makeup, isn’t it? Nothing to do with us? Think we want to have a raging hangover, and watch geezers from Poland and Pakistan walking pass the house on the way to work when we’re getting up for a piss? It’s just not fair. Where’s our dignity, eh?

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