Here’s What the Tweets of Nigel Farage, Cher and the LAD Bible Look Like as Poems

It's weird how the internet turns fleeting fads into ancient history within a countable number of hours and days, isn't it? Oppa Gangnam Style! Pharrell Williams' hat! Menshn! All dead, crumbling, expired former jokes. Husks of humour blowing around the landscape of recent history like snake skins in the desert wind.

Maybe it's linked to our weird fetishisation of the 90s, the drive to boom and bust memes within a matter of days to accelerate the process of nostalgia, so we can look back and sigh with misty eyes about "Chocolate Rain" ("Didn't he have a funny little voice?") and Alex from Target ("The joke is his life! It will never be better than it is now! He is doomed to fall from his pedestal!") and MySpace ("The website was bad! People are bad!") without having to go through the requisite 15 years of distancing.

Maybe I am overthinking it. Maybe we just all have short attention spans and are doomed to consume content in ever more feverish ways, until, like the oil lurking deep beneath our feet, the reserves are depleted, and the planet dies.

Anyway. Remember Poetweet? It happened a fortnight ago now, which is the equivalent of roughly 100,000 years in internet history. Essentially, it's a simple tool that turns your turd-like tweets into a compacted diamond of a poem, using robots. Try it. You'll probably find the results really, really funny and nobody else will like it much at all.

But what if…

…What if instead of the Poetweet being rendered from the tweets of a nobody like you…

…What if they were taken from… A FEW WEIRD CELEBRITIES AND POLITICIANS' TWITTER FEEDS?

This Indriso starts like a break-up poem: Nigel Farage, infatuated with David Cameron for months before they kissed – those furtive glances, the electricity between the crackling nylon of their suits – but those feelings faded to grey now, after years of sitting on the sofa watching Netflix together, chastely in bed by 10pm. "David," he's pleading. "We are [trying]… it's not good."

But with the break-up done and dusted by the end of the first line, onto more pressing matters. He accompanies Mark Reckless around the doorsteps of Rochester and Strood. He prays about a lorry crash. And lo, he is reborn again: that prankster, that jokester, that walking Dad joke, guffawing plumes of sprout gas out of his body as he cracks wise about foie gras.

And Members is a love poem – the leading title alone makes that clear – but at its core it's a story of hope, of rebirth, of finding yourself after you allowed someone else to get their hands on your map and compass. Stay strong, Nigel Farage. You'll find someone new.

Shelley, Baudelaire, Miliband: throughout the ages, poets have written while rolling around in an opium blitz or boozed out of their mind. Three Decades hints to stormy waters approaching Port Miliband. He is tugging back and forth, between clarity (he promises to scrap "callousness and incompetence" altogether) and madness (he suggests the route to a fairer Scotland is to destroy productive investment). Bit wither vice does Miliband honk on? The pipe or the bottle? The needle or the can? Sadly, Three Decades cannot tell us.

In Three Decades, Miliband paints himself as a wild creature, torn between two opposing viewpoints, his warm sausage roll of a body the battleground for the duelling demons within him. His mind is saying yes; his heart is saying no. He's kind of like Gollum, if Gollum really respected white van drivers.

A thread of tubthumping statements pepper Three Decades, hinting to a sober light at the end of Miliband's fraught life tunnel: he condemns terrorism, has zero-tolerance on abuse. He wants to both stop things and start things. His plan to ban incompetence has its merits, but the message is blurry and indistinct. Maybe Miliband needs to spend a few weeks in a drying out clinic and attempt his Rondel anew.

An experimental effort from the PM, and one that pays dividends. The second stanza in particular hits upon huge themes in flashes. Family, business, vanity sporting events, disease: the big four pillars of the current government, hidden among ampersands and colons.

Fans of structure won't appreciate Peace &, but those who revel in consciousness narratives will see an Indriso full of potential. "& the emergency services. Financial security for them." could have been ripped from the original On the Road scroll. With enough practice, David Cameron could feasibly write the next Howl. "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by a hamstrung benefits system and desperate reliance on food banks," that sort of thing.

Title says it all, really. An exhausted Nick Clegg has had enough of this LibCon caliphate nonsense. Long enough is a Rondel full of defeat, of hopelessness, fraying on the edges of despair. "Don't care, jobs lost?" is a teenage shrug of an admission; with "To have their say and be heard", Nick Clegg puffs out his cheeks and just exhales for days at the thought of even talking to the public and hearing them yapping about tuition fees again. With two words – "Stone Age" – Clegg speaks as though he's been punched in the chest. The rest of Long enough is dismissive: "Dems took lead on equal marriage" is a text reply to the question, "Yeah, but what have you done for five years?"; "The evidence is here: Page 18:" is one final slither of defeat. Distill Nick Clegg's tweets and stretch them out into a poem and he sounds totally, totally sad.

"Well done!!" "Good to hear!" "Welcome in advance!" – the Green Party's leader is the light to Nick Clegg's dark. Lot of exclamation marks though, isn't it. The underlying message of those exclamation marks is: I am not averse to a political chant played on a ukulele. It's: I have been known to scream if someone puts a carrot peeling in the normal bin instead of the composting bin. The subtext is: every year, I try really hard to understand Diwali. The Green Party, in a sonnet.

Though not a political leader, it's safe to say that Cher has morphed anew – through wholesome hippy Sonny & Cher Cher, to grotesquely sexual auntie 80s Cher, through robo-human 90s Cher – into legitimate poet laureate for the modern age and possibly the first ever emoji artist. What will Cher turn into in the next decade, or the one after that? I really can't imagine her dying, so, what about the one after that? Or the one after that? Cher, in the year 2055, will either be president or locked in a futuristic laser-guarded insane asylum.

In Sensitive naturemiss, Cher undulates between joy ("YESS") and despair ("My heart is im inTears"), all while wearing Louboutins, earrings and multiple hats. If that isn't the most Cher fucking thing ever then I don't know what is. It's a glimpse into the mind of Cher, a glimpse that says, "This mind is mostly shouting, emotions, and decorative headwear". Long may you continue, Cher. Long may you continue.

50 Cent technically is a poet, if you're the kind of man who wears chinos on a Friday and has opinions about wheat beer. Like, if you've ever thought even fleetingly about living on a canal boat, you have at least once in your life said, "All rappers are poets". If you see not having a TV as some sort of intelligentsia gold star and not a sign of economic desperation, you're the kind of person who thinks this. That's you.

His tweets-as-poem, then, is an interesting one. The second verse could feasibly be an especially boring G-Unit cameo; the third could be one of his misguided rap-ballads. But throughout, there are the recurring themes that sum up 50 Cent as a person: fighting; weed; haters; being extremely rich; saying "LOL" in capital letters like he's a mum who just discovered Facebook chat. A flimsy effort, but an honest one.

Actually quite a tight little poem. Hold on, I'll try again:

Alright, that's better. Joey Barton is a conflicted character. On one side, Joseph Barton, the literature-loving, Smiths-quoting, goatee-having intellect. On the other, Joey, who went to prison that time. In time incapsulates both Joey and Joseph: the grumpy first verse suggests it was Joey who woke up early on a Saturday morning in a bad mood; with "Against Burnley at our place", the pragmatic, get-on-with-it-and-get-three-points side of Barton comes out. And then, the questioning, prying nature of Joseph, the machine gun assault of questions: "Old balls on a daily basis? Is it true Pulis has left Palace? Head coach and transfer committee?" He doesn't know the truth, but he wants it, badly. Philosophy runs through Joey Barton like a stick of fucking rock.

If you sit and think about it, it's easy to come to the conclusion that TheLADBible's Twitter feed is the closest thing we have to the voice of a generation. Think about it: is TheLADBible quietly one of the leading linguistic influencers in England? YesItFuckingIsLAD. Does it has reach among the core meme-sharing youth of today? 1.14 million Twitter followers say yes. Essentially, if TheLADBible ever calls for a revolution, start worrying. A load of roided up Topman vests will rip Westminster apart brick-by-brick before you can say "bad banter".

And so to To come, which is arguably the greatest piece of art ever generated by a robot. "Is every lads worst nightmare… / Randall Higgins, the KillCameraman! / Shows how idiotic they really are! /The face of a broken man…" is a legitimately good opening stanza; the "RIP Heath Ledger" in the middle of the second adds gravitas and really cools the mood.

Then, three of the greatest lines of poetry ever written: "Lambert comes on for Liverpool / When she says go deeper… / Brilliant tattoo!" TheLADBible just took "I wandered lonely as a cloud" and spaffed all over its face. TheLADBible just took a picture of "come friendly bombs and fall on Slough"'s tits and shared it with all its mates on Snapchat. TheLADBible just shaved the eyebrows off "April is the cruelest month" while T.S. Eliot was asleep.

TheLADBible is the greatest poet that never lived.

@joelgolby

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