A Fool And His Money Are Easily Parted

Written August 2024

This week, the great British press machine has told the citizens what the next big thing to be excited about is: an Oasis reunion. Swifty fever has not yet broken, and we are already being primed for the new variant, Gallagher-itis. Exploiting the serious FOMO that so many humans are afflicted with, the airwaves are buzzing with this apparently super exciting news, that two middle-aged men have decided to reunite, and take to the stage together again to belt out the classics that made them millionaires a few decades ago. The cynic might speculate that this timely reunification might be partly motivated by the knowledge that the fanbase who so loved the swaggering, sweary Manchester brothers the first time around are now also middle aged, many likely on fat salaries, and with a hankering for reliving their youth. But here we are, unable to move for Oasis mania. The tickets for this nostalgia-fest went on sale in the last couple of days, and, predictably, the face value price of £150 (still obscene in my view) was subject to Ticketmaster’s ‘surge pricing’ – which would be more honestly called ‘greed pricing’ – and were immediately raised to £360 due to ‘market-based’ demand. Hundreds of thousands of people, their FOMO in full swing, sat for the entire day in the virtual queue on their mobile phones, for the privilege of being robbed of their hard-earned cash. Then, within hours of the gigs selling out, tickets could be found on resale website, Stubhub, for upwards of £6,000.

There is nothing organic about the fervour that engulfs certain people or events. The hype is crafted by an unseen hand that is herding the people, using psychology and manipulation. The same technique was no doubt employed for Taylor Swift. During her sellout Eras world tour, Swift has enjoyed more than her fair share of column space and airtime. Journalists have been relentlessly pushing the Swifty narrative, at once painting her gigs as must-see, and the woman herself as some kind of musical virtuoso. I’m no aficionado, but at the risk of being lynched by some of her fanatics, she appears to me to be a pretty average pop star, rather than a cerebral, lyrical master. However, hyped by every media outlet going, Swifty mania has possessed many hitherto reasonably sensible human beings, who found themselves willing to part with absurd sums of cash for a golden ticket. Articles abound, churned out daily, gushing with praise for the concerts, and crediting Swift for bringing generations together. Who knew that a scantily clad songstress could hold such power, uniting humanity with natty ditties and sparkly eyeshadow? All you need is a spare grand or two, and you too can bring your family to Swifty therapy, which will heal all your wounds and make you fulfilled and happy.

Anyone who has been following closely these last few years will, of course, know that the Press is anything but independent, and that they are in fact the propaganda department of the puppet masters who seek to enslave humanity. And sadly, the public are, it turns out, very easily manipulated. It is, therefore, essential to keep this in mind when the Press go into overdrive on a particular issue, and must-see music events seem to be the current go-to for the purposes of mass distraction.

And let us not forget, the Gallaghers cosied up close with the vile monster that is Tony Blair. Hardly an endorsement for their working class, for-the-people credentials. But keep doling out that cash, folks. Pretty soon, you too may be unable to afford your heating bill, it won’t just be the pensioners. Food will become scarcer, red meat only for the very rich, and you’ll have to get used to eating bugs. Oh, and no cheeky little cigarette while you enjoy a pint in the pub garden, for a much-needed break on a Friday night, after a hard week grafting. That avenue of pleasure will also be closed. But never mind, eh. While the world slowly falls apart, at least for the likes of us plebs, and becomes ever more controlled by evil, you just pop those blinkers on and focus on a band from three decades ago, and bitch at anyone who pisses on the Oasis parade. Following the crowd and directing your anger at those speaking truth about some very real concerns for humanity is easier than directing it at Big Brother, after all.

I’m afraid if you have paid the extortionate prices for Oasis tickets, they’ve seen you coming. Cool Britannia? I don’t think so. More like Fool Britannia.  

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