You – of course – know and love John Oliver.
With his NHS glasses, grindingly annoying voice, and inane sub-sixth form politics, he has comfortably held the title of ‘world’s most punchable man’ for over a decade now. Indeed, his revolutionary brand of satire has tackled countless taboo topics, from banker’s bonuses to Donald Trump.
It seems that nothing is sacred to this shithead Oxbridge weasel. That’s why we’re at Oliver’s gleaming mansion on the outskirts of Dudley to discover what makes this ingenious comic tick.
When we arrive at Oliver’s chateau, we find him seated behind the breakfast table, whirling his little legs around, and yelling at his wife about the Republican party.
“Can you believe this Edna,” he says, snorting up a Frostie while reading from a book, “the Republicans are strong proponents of social conservative policies. Can you believe it!!! ‘Social conservative policies’??? Those idiot Republicans!!!”
We are floored by the quality of political critique we are hearing. It’s just like being on his show. It’s so authentic we can almost hear the self-satisfied chuckling of a packed studio of smug middle class liberals in the background.
At this point Oliver sees us come in and quickly sets down The Ladybird Guide to American Politics.
“Ah, come in, come in, make yourself at home. We have lots of comfy chairs here for you to sit on …not like in those horrendous sweatshops in Asia. They have no comfy chairs there. Did you know that massive corporations such as Nike, Gap, and H&M do not provide comfy chairs to their Bangladeshi sweatshop employees?”
We confess that we did know that – we’ve known it since we were 7 years old.
Oliver looks puzzled.
“Oh, really? I just found out about it today when reading a three week old copy of the Metro I found in a bin.”
John Oliver in the flesh is a truly striking sight. His appearance somehow melds the features of every child that got bullied at school into one uber-form. He is the ultimate vision of a bullied school child. Indeed, it takes all our willpower not to immediately perform a wedgie on the acclaimed late night television host.
We discuss his revelatory expose of the 18th century slave trade (“until I sat behind a desk yelling about it no one knew it was a bad thing” says Oliver), before turning to perhaps his greatest achievement yet – his decision to call Donald Trump “Donald Drumpf”.
This is a truly bold piece of satire. Firstly, there’s the faintly xenophobic edge to it. Then there’s the terrible taste the joke is in, given the persecution that originally forced the Drumpf/Trump family into the name change. And, finally, it also completely fails to notice that ‘Trump’ is actually a much funnier name.
The incredible success of Oliver’s abysmal ‘Drumpf’ satire speaks for itself. Three months later and Trump is almost certainly guaranteed the Republican presidential nomination.
Oliver listens to our analysis, tears brimming behind his ridiculous spectacles. “Thank you for your kind words” he yells while performing his signature move – sitting behind a desk, waving his stupid head around, and shouting in an annoying voice.
And with that our time it up. Yet, as we turn to leave the Oliver mansion, we overhear John one last time – yelling at his wife about Republicans.
“Edna, get this. The Republican party is ideologically disposed towards strict constructionism!!! Unbelievable!!! Strict constructionism??? Those idiot Republicans!!!”
As the sound of politics that would embarrass a 12 year old reverberates down the corridor, we smile to ourselves. We know that the ancient, essential art of satire will never die, so long as John Oliver is here to shout bland, mainstream platitudes into an echo chamber of mediocre, brain dead liberalism.
Never change John old boy, never change.