Britain’s New Messiah


We built the perfect human because there was nothing else to be done, harvesting the best features as voted for by the same demographic who gave us Brexit and a million years of white boys with silver spoons. No one had read Frankenstein, or even watched the movies all the way through, but surely someone should have anticipated the sickening dissonance of small perfections stitched to an ill-matched frame; that voice like a talent show runner-up, over-emoting about properties with possibilities, signature dishes, and the hot bods of other contestants? But there was the patchwork Premier, in his mottled motley and slap-on grin, flopping his marotte from side to side as he chose between the war-torn hunger at the border and the cute border collie pup with mismatched eyes. The dog won every time, though the music became more intense and the pauses before announcements became longer   and     longer       , and to freshen up the format we voted for a name for this messiah that we’d made. There was never any challenge to Deathy McDeathface, and we laughed at the memes and catchphrases, bought the merchandise, and acquired regrettable tattoos on stag weekends in cities we didn’t bother to pronounce correctly. But somewhere in a bustling, sun-baked bar we’d lost our new blue passports, just as we’d lost our shame, our discernment, and our sense of perspective. What were these rags? Where were our own clothes? Why were we starving amongst these millions of imperfect humans? My phone jerks me awake with a TikTok clip of Deathy McDeathface, dancing like Jacko, with a white-gloved fist and a face that comes unravelled, and for three minutes we are all winners, we are all perfect, and there is nothing else to be done.




Oz Hardwick 
Picture Nick Victor

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