Hi there, Ray Winstone. I note you’re feeling rather sad, having witnessed what you no doubt consider to be a horrific sexual assault. The violent predator, Mr High Taxes, viciously violated Britain in an aggressive rape lasting for…
I’m sorry, I can’t even continue trying to sarcastically repeat what you said because FUCK OFF FUCK OFF FUCK OFF FUCK OFF FUCK OFF YOU VILE SHITTING DICKBURGER FUCK OFF AND BURN.
Rape is rape. Taxes are taxes.
Sure, it might make you a bit annoyed that you have to pay a bit of money to the state. I’m not exactly happy about it either. At least you got a hefty tax cut in the last budget–at least, I assume you did, despite one of your more recent film credits only taking the princely sum of £747.
Sorry, I digress.
Paying tax is somewhat trivial in comparison to rape. It really, really is. I’ve experienced both, and I should know. Fuck it, even if you haven’t experienced it, you should fucking well know this.
Every time another smug prick with a tedious opinion compares whatever their whiny cause is to rape, it trivialises rape, makes society take it less seriously. It is turning to countless survivors and shouting in their faces “Well, you think you’ve got problems? I have to pay some of my loads of fucking money, just like everyone else does. Also, there’s a windfarm near my house, and windfarms are also worse than that.” It is saying that violence doesn’t matter, that what really matters is making things comfier for those who are already comfortable.
It betrays a staggering ignorance at best, and, at worst, a willful lack of empathy so severe that you deserve to be swallowed by a horse’s anus.
But I’m feeling merciful today, Ray. I’ll tell you what, you go and fuck off and educate yourself. You go and fucking apologise for your shitty comments and genuinely learn why your comparison was a nonsense. You sort your fucking life out.
And then, come the revolution, maybe we’ll be merciful. Maybe we won’t inflict the worst punishment imaginable on you. Maybe we won’t raise your taxes.