Pies and Prejudice

Just Passing Through Podcast

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Episode 157
Ah, Britain—a land of rolling hills, quaint tea shops, and, apparently, rioting racists who couldn’t run a mile even if you promised them a free sausage roll at the finish line. Yes, the recent uproar in some corners of the nation has done more than just disrupt the peace. It’s exposed the far right for what they truly are: a motley crew of pie-pinching, high-blood-pressure enthusiasts who wouldn’t look out of place on the set of a particularly greasy episode of "Britain’s Got No Talent."

Let’s be honest here—nothing says "serious political movement" quite like a bunch of middle-aged men huffing and puffing their way down the high street, red-faced and sweaty, looking like they’ve just polished off the last steak bake at Greggs. If you squint, you could almost mistake them for disgruntled customers who’ve just found out that Greggs is all out of cheese and onion pasties. But no, these chaps have a cause, though it’s hard to take them seriously when half of them look like they’d trade their Union Jack flags for a half-price deal on sausage rolls.

It’s not just the waistlines that are expanding; it’s the irony too. Here we have a group of people who, on the one hand, preach about the purity of the nation, and on the other, seem to spend an inordinate amount of time loitering outside Greggs, clutching brown paper bags filled with the very pastries they’ve just nicked from under the nose of the bewildered cashier. Their so-called "uprisings" often seem to coincide with a shortage of steak bakes, as if their fury is fueled not by some misguided ideology, but by hunger pangs.

You can almost picture the scene: a local pie shop, the heart of the community, suddenly overrun by an army of red-faced, heavy-breathing blokes in ill-fitting tracksuits. "Give us our country back!" they bellow, but their words are muffled by the mouthfuls of flaky pastry they’ve just inhaled. It’s a sight to behold—a patriotic protest turning into a pie-eating contest before your very eyes. If only the revolution were televised; the nation could tune in, popcorn in hand, to watch as these self-styled saviors of Britain struggle to button their trousers.

One can’t help but marvel at the sheer audacity. These are the people who claim to protect British values, yet they can’t seem to walk past a Greggs without succumbing to the lure of a hot, buttery pastry. Perhaps they’re just misunderstood; maybe their entire movement is just an elaborate ploy to protest the lack of gluten-free options. It’s not xenophobia—it’s dietary distress!

Their rallies, if you can call them that, are less a show of force and more a parade of poor life choices. The aftermath often resembles the aftermath of a particularly rowdy office Christmas party—except instead of photocopied body parts and bad karaoke, you’re left with a trail of discarded pastry wrappers and the faint smell of indigestion.

And so, as Britain watched these "patriots" huff and puff their way through the streets, one thing became clear: the far right isn’t just dangerous, it’s also delightfully absurd. They may talk big, but their actions—particularly the ones involving baked goods—speak louder than words. In the end, it turns out that the greatest threat to Britain’s far-right isn’t immigration or multiculturalism; it’s a well-stocked Greggs and the rising threat of heart disease.
Music:
The Loving Spoonful - Summer in the City
Three Dog Night - Joy to the World

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