VE day has come and gone, depressingly – from my point of view – as I couldn’t mark the occassion with a celebratory tincture owing to my still broken liver.
I am however up and about with the help of Mother’s old sword stick and I was able to hobble to the window and watch the neighbours do a bit of tepid social distance cavorting to the strains of Auntie Vera summoning up images of blue skies, white cliffs and dog-fights over the channel in the time honoured fashion.
To my surprise I see Mitzi has hung some odd shaped red, white and blue bunting over the bay front. It turns out she had dyed old bras in some arcane way and strung them together to cheer things up. If she leaves them there we won’t need to put any additional scaffolding over the windows when they next need painting.
For once I feel sorry for our Westminster prefects. This anniversary was meant to be a time when – as a country – we could try and unite a bit after Brexit and dilute the bad taste in the mouth we’ve all felt over recent times. To hark back to another era of great adversity and capture a bit of the war winning spirit from 1945, that could maybe help us now look forward with a bit more optimism and hope, in a time of great challenge and change through the uncertainty that lies ahead.
Instead the bat plague has put the kibosh on any chance of coming together in memories of times past and the only reason Brexit is off the front pages is because the blight is more frightening. Timing is everything…
Still if I was Bojo and his circus troop I wouldn’t want to draw too many parallels with 1945. The first thing the British public did after getting over the shock of WW2 was to come to their senses and boot the Tories out of power! Happier times!
Bulk and The Devil 