The Big Mood: Lar­ry, the 10 Down­ing Street Cat

One week, one mood: Moya Lothian-Mclean’s deep-dive into the feel of the week.

There’s a spo­ken skit at the end of Drake song Child’s Play where two women talk about their fatigue. Moth­er­fuck­ers drunk and tired,” chimes in an unknown man and one of the women cries I’m tired boss!” 

Well that’s me, as I pre­pare to watch the fourth unelect­ed leader of my life­time so far take office. Boss, I am tired.

Any­way, Rory Stew­art tried to pet a cat and it didn’t give a fuck. 

It speaks vol­umes that Rory Stew­art is being wide­ly received as the mav­er­ick of the race of clowns. Stew­art is one of the most Tory peo­ple going; he has an almost impec­ca­ble record for vot­ing in favour of pri­vatis­ing the NHS, squeez­ing already strapped ben­e­fits recip­i­ents and, of course, send­ing our brave troops to fight love­ly, ille­gal wars. Even his drug of choice (opi­um) is Tory to the core; what’s more archa­ic and tra­di­tion­al than get­ting span­gled on a nar­cot­ic last in vogue when Queen Vic­to­ria reigned over an empire on which the sun will nev­er set?

Yet sim­ply by dint of being polite and dis­play­ing a will­ing­ness to actu­al­ly inter­act (or walk… every­where… all the time…) with the mass­es, Stew­art has been cast as some sort of rad­i­cal Con­ser­v­a­tive Jesus. Look­ing at the com­pe­ti­tion, how could he not? 

There’s Jere­my Hunt, a man so unpleas­ant that broad­cast­ers can’t resist swap­ping out the H’ for a C’ while live on air. Sajid Javid, the Home Sec­re­tary who inces­sant­ly reminds the nation how his par­ents arrived on these shores with only £1 to their name – con­ve­nient­ly leav­ing out the fact that he has pre­vi­ous­ly tried to make it impos­si­ble for any­one to repeat the feat if they have less than £30k in the bank. Andrea Lead­som, the ulti­mate snob­by mum­my. And Boris. Fuck­ing Boris. The car­toon bear with a teflon exte­ri­or who can weath­er being the most incom­pe­tent states­man of the last decade, drugs scan­dals, infi­deli­ty, just being a gen­er­al tow-head­ed, con­niv­ing prick and STILL come out as the fron­trun­ner for PM.

Fuck these bray­ing elites. Lar­ry the cat, shy­ing away from Rory Stewart’s gnarled and grasp­ing claws is us; Stew­art rep­re­sents the entire coterie of self-inter­est­ed, insu­lat­ed, pow­er-hun­gry politi­cians vying for the chance to be the next leader to bring Britain fur­ther to the brink, to real­ly take the crow­bar to our col­lec­tive kneecaps. 

We are Lar­ry; we can make our dis­plea­sure known but we’re ulti­mate­ly pow­er­less in the face of what is appar­ent­ly democ­ra­cy. Soon­er or lat­er there’ll be a new sher­iff in 10 Down­ing Street, elect­ed by only 160,000 of the UK pop­u­la­tion. And they’ll con­trol the Whiskers Chick­en pouches. 

And like Lar­ry, we can­not bear it. Big mood.


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