I see your huffy, pink little face, the air escaping out of it in an indignant screech as if your entire head is a whoopee cushion. You’re pretending to be livid again, aren’t you? We hadn’t been talking about you for close to a whole five minutes, so you’ve hopped out of bed and found a target with the aim of pushing your name up the Trending list. This one is a home run for you. Those fucking hippies are at it again, winding you up with their personal choices that have absolutely no impact on your individual consumer habits. It’s time to put them back in their place, even though they were nowhere near you and didn’t ask for your attention.
It looks like 2019 has started as it means to go on – yet another year of the desperate blowhard, the media desperate to latch on to the loudest voice no matter how self-serving or pathetically tedious. In a few short days Theresa May is going to try and lure the entire country to a Holiday Inn so she can thumb in her turgid Brexit. Chris Grayling has seen fit to award his no-deal contingency planning contracts to that bloke off The Apprentice whose entire business plan was just pictures of boats. Universal Credit has been proven to be the sort of poor-culling catastrofuck it was always designed to be, its one true purpose to give the palsied corpse of Ian Duncan Smith its annual ideology boner. Meanwhile, Jeremy Corbyn continues to sit on his hands in the hope that when he does raise one to protest they’ll be so numb that 52% of people will feel like somebody else is doing it. In the face of all that, what are we all debating?
Vegan sausage rolls.
It’s the perfect storm in an ethically sourced teacup, an absolute non-starter of a story that you, Piers Morgan, chief provocateur and clickbait-shitter extraordinaire, can jump right on with just a few choice buzzwords. Whereas before it would’ve been nothing more than a sensible business shift into a rapidly expanding market, now it’s Political Correctness Gone Mad, a sea of gender-neutral snowflakes coming to steal your bacon in the narcissistic wilderness that passes for your mind. It’s an ouroboros of publicity, with both you and Greggs represented by the same PR firm. Greggs get to look like the ethical heroes whilst continuing to use and abuse more pigs than David Cameron on a stag weekend and you, Piers Morgan?
You get to be you, that is truer than true, for there’s no-one on earth more Piers Morgan than you. You’re all raised hackles and fake outrage, lambasting the liberal weaklings for their inability to let others just live their lives. The irony isn’t lost on you, because the blatant hypocrisy is your favourite aggravating factor. We wouldn’t be talking about you half as much if you weren’t deliberately disingenuous, lamenting the ‘bullies’ with one hand and dishing out abuse with the other.
Honestly, I’m not even vegan and even I’m tired of the same redundant arguments against them for how ridiculous they are. More power to your elbow if you make the conscious choice to deprive yourself of something for the greater good, and if you’re of the honest opinion that meat is murder I can understand why you might get a bit preachy about it. I’d probably write the odd protest tweet if I felt there was a genocide going on outside my doorstep.
Having said that, I’ve not once been confronted with the screeching militancy vegans are constantly accused of and even when it does happen, if there’s one person on the planet who can’t accuse anyone else of being sanctimonious, it’s Piers fucking Morgan. We get your unsolicited opinions shoved down a plastic funnel into our throats on a daily basis, fattening our outrage until we burst into a mental breakdown and find ourselves as grown adults protesting outside a fucking bakery because they sell something we personally don’t fancy eating. It’s an absolute crash course in how to make a twat of yourself, as illiberal as it is pathetic.
As for the ‘vegan resistance’ you’re so determined to start, Piers Morgan?
I see you, Piers Morgan, as sure as you can be that you’re doing The Right Thing. I see your white apron and your little white hat. I see the plastic covers on your shoes as they slosh through the blood of the slaughterhouse floor. I smell the copper and the shit and I hear the panicked bleatings of a thousand nervous animals.
The resistance starts here, Piers Morgan, with you personally drawing the blade across several hundred throats a day. I’m sure that because you’re a real man, a no-nonsense tough guy who says it like it is, that you won’t be broken by the experience. You won’t be one of the hundreds of slaughtermen toiling away in misery, ravaged by PTSD, the suicide rate spiking as they struggle to deal with the thin end of rampant consumerism.
I’m sure you’ll volunteer to do it, as convinced as you are of the infallibility of your moral position. I’m sure you’ll be able to compartmentalise, to distance yourself, to be as strong as you need to be to get that bacon on those plates.
I’m sure you’ll go home, and you’ll look at those hands, and you won’t see the blood regardless of how hard and how often you’ve scrubbed them clean.
Because if you don’t? If you don’t, veganism will continue to kill insects. That would be abhorrent, wouldn’t it? Better that those insects die in ten times the numbers, just to feed the animals that come before your knife.
I see you, Piers Morgan. I fucking see you.
