on the box



Get me out of here, I’m just an Oxbridge snob:

man trained to scorn, man nauseated by it all,

the popular parade, the Saturday charade,

the unctuous judges, the Pavlovian applause.


They’re strictly for the masses,

families on their squelching couches,

yet I goggle Gogglebox and feel faint hope

that even squelching Brexiters are moved

by broken hearts and broken bones.


And yes, I even take faint pride

in how my fellow countrymen

can deprecate themselves

and laugh away the rage

that eats us all alive.


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