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What is Nigel Farage’s secret? That would be telling - May 2019 The Observer - By Stewart Lee - May 19th, 2019

“It was one of those things they keep in a jar in the tent of a sideshow on the outskirts of a little, drowsy town. One of those pale things, drifting in alcohol plasma, forever dreaming and circling, with its peeled dead eyes staring out at you and never seeing you” – Ray Bradbury, The…

With the end in sight… Brexit pulls into a layby - March 2019 The Observer - By Stewart Lee - March 31st, 2019

The March to Leave is a sparsely attended, fortnight-long, 200-mile protest ramble, aimed at securing Brexit, a trembling parliament its final destination. I wanted to see it in the flesh so I could tell my grandchildren “I was there”, before taunting them with descriptions of toilet paper. Nearly three years ago, during the week of…

Possessed by Brexit? Time to call an exorcist - March 2019 The Observer - By Stewart Lee - March 10th, 2019

A newly discovered birth relative of mine, a Catholic priest, is an exorcist, from County Cork. The Exorcist came to stay on Wednesday. The next evening he was doing what he called “a fairly straightforward overnight identify, isolate, subdue and expel job” in Angel. He wasn’t allowed to talk about it, and knows I’m an…

Why did the BBC let Andrew Neil combust? - March 2019 The Observer - By Stewart Lee - March 3rd, 2019

Last week, supposedly unprecedented spring wildfires raged across dry, bushy and exposed areas. On Monday, having dealt with serious incidents at Saddleworth Moor and Hundred Acre Wood, teams of specialised firefighters also attended the small piece of Shredded Wheat that lives on top of Andrew Neil’s head. Dozens of grateful weevils were saved from certain…

It’s the thought that counts with Brexit gifts - January 2019 The Observer - By Stewart Lee - January 6th, 2019

The new year slips in, tailgating quietly through the closing crack of the old, and the elderly Brexit-voting racist relatives you tolerated through gritted skull over the festive season, their presence turning Christmas into a three-dimensional LBC phone-in, to be survived only by the anaesthetic of alcohol, have departed. But blood is thicker than water.…

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