The head clown himself comes on the idiot box at the appointed hour and announces we shall be released. But not yet and not by much and not sure how, but we can go about our business a bit more – but not too far and only a few and we should try not to catch bat flu while we are about it.
Drunk the whole issue was just about bearable, but sober… I am past despairing over the whole thing, because everything is simply living down to my low expectations.
I was brought up in a Tory household, under a Tory heaven, in a Tory World of solid middle class values that said the blue prefects would look after us, keep the faith, abide by the rules, and make sure there was a bit of extra jam on our bread come Christmas. The World would always be grateful there was a Conservative Great Britain to give it a steer.
But I remember watching my father’s complete disillusionment set in slowly, gradually over a number of years… Suez, the end of the Empire, Profumo, Harold Wilson – for which the old goat blamed the blue brass – the failure of the economy, the rise of the Unions, the 1960’s, the 1970’s, Punk rock – the list never ended.
My father watched it all with mounting horror and blamed the leaders of his own set because there was no one else he respected enough to carry the can. And on that journey his pride in himself and his country slipped into cynicism and contempt for his leaders who lived not just in another country, but on another planet, where nothing he valued seemed to matter as his World turned to dust. His faith in his tribe broken, he died a political agnostic and deeply bitter at what the blue custodians had done to his country.
And I have made the same journey. Margaret Thatcher – the leaderene of blessed memory – arrested the slide in my lack of belief for a while, mainly because I did so well out of her bourgeois financial tendencies. But my father’s example left me to see straight through the politicians rhetoric and into their black hearts and I wouldn’t give any of them the time of day – whatever side of the house they sit.
I know – given my own professional graces – this is a case of the pot calling the kettle sable – but in my lean defence I have never gone around making promises to the masses I have no intention of keeping or writ my incompetence and greed on such a large canvas that everyone can see my inadequecies for what they are. In spite of which the mob still vote for these clowns because in the end they don’t have a choice and they want the lesser of two evils. Democracy my arse. Choosing between a sh*t and a p*ss is not going to improve anyone’s life, just deal with a necessary short term problem.
So watching Bojo bumble through his half-thought out ideas, like a first-year who hasn’t done his homework, just reinforces my lack of faith in the whole issue.
I wish I could hear something, anything that makes me think somebody, somewhere has the brains and the courage to take this on. But however hard you scour the halls of the mighty you wouldn’t come up with enough brain cells to power a frog.
So we might as well all go back to work, reopen the souks and bazaars and unleash the confined from their cells, because quite frankly it’s better than waiting around for the Circus Clowns to kill us all and bankrupt the country in the process.
Bulk and The Devil 