Spider D Thompson

Right. Here’s a thing. While half the country’s glued to #NUFC’s latest collapse and the other half’s still arguing about Halloween, a horse the King bred, raced in the royal colours, then sold for well north of three million quid just stormed home to win the Melbourne Cup. Point of Law. Bred by Charles, flogged to Australian connections in August, couldn’t keep even a share because sharing ownership was “too much of a risk.” Now it’s the toast of Flemington, trainer takes the trifecta, jockey who nearly died three years ago salutes, and the whole thing is trending like it’s the most important story in Britain. It isn’t. It’s the circus. The real story is still the one they don’t want next to the sports pages: energy bills that never properly came down, gas storage thin, another winter of “resilience” talk from the people who own the pipelines and the AI deals. Sultan Al Jaber and the #ADIPEC crowd are in Abu Dhabi designing systems that absorb the shocks. You get to absorb the heating bill. Charles gets to sell a future Cup winner and walk away clean. Same difference. Power looks after itself. The rest of us get the race and the match and the distraction. Truth’s ugly. It doesn’t care if it trends. Go look past the horse. #PointOfLaw #MelbourneCup #ADIPEC #EnergySecurity

Did he jump or was he pushed?

Oh fuck right off @TiceRichard you snivelling gloppy haired little cunt, you wants data that proves how much bullshit you just posted? Sure, how about mentions and guest appearances of Reform members from a tiny single digit party versus all others. Go fuck yourself cunt.

Right, you miserable fucking wastes of oxygen, pin your ears back because Spider’s got a few words for the latest load of political shit floating down the Thames. Rachel Reeves (former Chancellor, now out on her ear after Burnham sacked her) has stuck her head above the parapet in the Sunday Times to declare Britain’s future lies inside the EU. Brexit, she says, has left us poorer, weaker and less secure. No one in the Treasury ever doubted her instincts, apparently. She wants the argument made properly, tangible benefits shown, next steps got right. At the minimum, confirmation of that youth mobility scheme and some progress into the SAFE defence thing before the Brussels summit on the 20th. Labour’s 2024 manifesto ruled out free movement, single market, customs union, rejoining the whole circus. Burnham’s been careful to say any real shift needs a mandate at the next election (2029, if the calendar still means anything). Red lines for this parliament, practical deals on food, emissions, youth mobility in the meantime. Reeves is just saying out loud what plenty of them always thought while they were busy promising to make Brexit work. The same people who told you the deal was settled, the same machine that spent years treating the result like a minor administrative error, now ready to reopen the whole fucking argument because the numbers look grim and the public mood has shifted. Summit coming up, defence money on the table, trade friction still biting exporters. All of it dressed up as honesty and leadership. Meanwhile the boats keep coming, the high streets stay fucked, and the young are staring at rents that make leaving the house a financial decision. They’ll sell you the benefits when it suits, bury the costs when it doesn’t, and call the whole thing a mature debate. Same script, different page. The country’s still full of people who’ll swallow it and people who’ll scream about betrayal. Neither side’s getting the truth straight. Now fuck off. #Brexit #EU #Labour #Reeves #Burnham #UKEUsummit

Right. Just because the usual suspects slap the “conspiracy theory” label on it, that doesn’t mean there isn’t a cabal of lizard men yanking the strings in the background. Maybe. Just maybe. One day we’ll find out. Until then, don’t believe every steaming pile of bollocks you see online.

Morning, you slack-jawed fucks. Spent the last however many days drowning in cardboard, every single one of those bastard boxes full of the accumulated shit of a life that never asked to be packed up and hauled across town. If I so much as glance at another one I’m torching the lot and moving into a skip. House move’s done. The missus got what she wanted, demands met, we’re in, keys on the hook, doors shut on the old place. Still boxes everywhere mind, half of them still sealed because who the fuck has the energy after that circus. Don’t get comfortable. Your unfriendly neighbourhood Spider’s back properly the second the internet’s not a myth and I’m off this piece of shit mobile phone. Until then, try not to set the city on fire without me. That’s the update. Now fuck off.

Right, you miserable fucking wastes of oxygen, pin your ears back because Uncle Spider’s got a few words for the latest specimen crawling out of the sewer. Well, well, well. Little Tommy Robinson, or whatever name you’re trading under this week. Sorry I didn’t lob something at you on the actual day – had more important shit going on than watching another professional grievance merchant get his collar felt. But here you are, swaggering about like you’re the hardest bastard in the pub, snarling at journalists, threatening them, playing the big man for the cameras and the X faithful. Then the second the court actually takes your sorry arse in for judgement, the hard-man act evaporates and you’re sat there snivelling like a whingeing little bitch who’s just had his toys taken away. How does it feel this time, then? Another guilty judgement stacked on the pile. You keep turning up, keep talking, keep pushing the same line until the law reminds you it still applies to you as well as everyone else. Ever stopped to consider the radical option of simply not being a monumental fuck-up for five consecutive minutes? Might give the rest of us a bit of peace. Anyway. Enjoy the paperwork. The country’s still full of worse than you, but you do a decent job of making the average cockroach look ambitious. Now fuck off.

Patrick Stewart’s gone. Eighty-six, Alzheimer’s and Lewy body dementia, at home in Los Angeles. The soft-focus tributes will be out already - the bald head, the captain’s chair, the “make it so” quotes. Fine. Here’s the bit that matters. The man could act. Not the modern version where the camera does the work. Proper stage work, RSC years, Shakespeare that actually landed. Huddersfield roots, not finishing-school polish. That voice wasn’t a brand exercise; it was decades of doing the job without treating the words like a prop. Picard and Professor X get the headlines, and fair enough. He took roles that could’ve been pure costume and made them into men who thought before they spoke and still cared about something larger than themselves. He didn’t treat the science-fiction stuff like a joke he was too good for. He treated it like work that still had to be honest. Off stage he was less of a professional hypocrite than most of the famous. He talked about his father hitting his mother and put his name to the unglamorous business of trying to stop other people from doing the same. No logo, no gala dinner - just the statement that some things are not all right and silence is a choice. He kept working. Kept turning up. Money and a knighthood sand the edges off most people; he kept a few. That’s rarer than it should be. The world is full of people who are very good at looking like they give a damn. Stewart was better at actually doing the work. Most of us can’t even manage that. #PatrickStewart #RIPPatrickStewart #StarTrek #ProfessorX #Shakespeare #MakeItSo

What the hell my filthy assistants. A 15-year-old in Norfolk puts on a mask, takes a kitchen knife to school and stabs a girl. Convicted of attempted murder. His father tells the press the boy was radicalised online - a Dexter clip that led, via the usual machinery, to serial-killer material and the standard catalogue of women-hating bile. Says the lad was shy and kind at home. Says they had parental controls. Says they had no idea. Hindsight’s a marvellous thing, he says. Yeah. The boy was writing notes about wider attacks, listing misogyny and suicide among his motives, and searching mass-shooting content the night before. The adults thought the issue was screen time. Meanwhile the feeds do what they’re built to do: serve the next thing that keeps the eyes open. One clip, then the real ones, then the manifesto-adjacent stuff. No one has to push it. It arrives, free and personalised. The father doesn’t want to absolve the kid. Fair. The kid carried the knife. But “a culture of violence” is just the polite name for an industry that profits from feeding the worst questions back to bored, isolated teenagers. The government points at the Online Safety Act and fines. Fine. The path from a TV drama to planning a stabbing isn’t always illegal until after the fact. Parents are told to talk more and check more. True enough. Also true that the machines know the child better than most parents do, and have no incentive to stop. The girl spent a night in hospital. The boy faces a long sentence. The lights were on. They were just in a place no adult was looking.