My Old Mate Fred

My mate Fred, he’s got loads of opinions, right? Gets his news from that Daily Mail, thinks it’s the bee’s knees for matching his views.

He’s a bit of a grump, high blood pressure, and hates a truckload of things.

But when you get him chattin’ deep, he’s got these fears, proper scary stuff, like something out of a horror flick, or maybe more like spooky ghost tales. Either way, it’s a rough ride.

Fred’s got this hunch that Trump’s onto something. Doesn’t care much for Meghan Markle, mind you, never met her, just read about her in his only newspaper.

Fred’s no spring chicken; he’s hitting 74 soon. High blood pressure, only ever votes Tory.

Not a fan of the Telegraph, all them fancy words. Doesn’t touch the Sun ’cause his missus didn’t like it. Says his kids are alright, but his grandkids, they splash too much cash on lattes and Netflix. Can’t even rent a closet, let alone own a home.

Fred’s the kind who’d go to the moon and back for his mates and family. Talks about how he’d lay down his life for ’em, a lot. Oh, and did I mention he’s got this arthritis thing called ankylosing spondylitis? Sometimes needs a cane, head hanging low.

Fred’s an old buddy, bit stuck in his ways, a tad misinformed, jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof. That newspaper of his, it’s got a knack for making him seethe, like it’s playing him like a fiddle, and it’s taking a toll on his health.

His political party and his paper, the Tories and the Daily Mail, they’re doing him in, see? Fred can’t swing private health insurance, needs the NHS, but he won’t have as many days as he could’ve had. His grandkids won’t have much to recall when they grow up.

But can he change his tune, you reckon? He’s old, he’s hurting, he’s become the very sort his folks fought to save the world from. He can’t quite recall why his world’s falling apart.

His trusted Daily Mail tells him it’s only the Tories who can save the day.