Its coming down around our ears.
Have been very stressed. There have been a number of reasons and you don't care so I'm not going to go into it here.
Oh, alright then...
Most of it has been work related - the sheer endless unrewarded mass of it - some of it has been money related too. Some has been down to things that I can remedy (the generally parlous state of my far too human body), and some of it is down to jealously as I see inadequates, the talent averse and the nepotistically enhanced cruising to glory while quaffing fine wines and chowing down on confit canard, while I doggy-paddle around a rock-pool sifting krill through a rudimentary baleen plate. And I know and you know that there's no krill in this fucking pond. And I'm allergic to sea monkeys so I'm basically starving in ever decreasing circles.
Most of the above is metaphorical. I'm not a strong swimmer.
The other thing that's stressing me out is the notion of a new Prime Minister being voted for, democratically, by 0.03% of the population. Professor Tim Bale breaks down the stats for you: 70% of this voting population are men, 97% white, 60% southern, 86% higher social classes, an average age of 57 and a high proportion of people who no longer work. Six out of ten want the death penalty back. A majority would sacrifice Northern Ireland and Scotland to an at-all-costs hard Brexit and only 6% would be cool with a Muslim Prime Minister (or say they would). This is democracy in action.
There are now only two candidates: the worst health minister ever and the worst foreign secretary ever are both looking for a lick of that shiny brass ring. The pair of them, monied ex-public schoolboys, are almost identical in terms of their beliefs and differ only in presentation. One is a gimlet eyed sadist who looks subtly incomplete, as though somewhere out there there is a duelling scar with his name on it. The other looks like a James Gillray cartoon of a debauched polar bear, who would fuck a tree if he thought the tree didn't like it. The former is trailing badly because his face would fail the Turing test. The latter couldn't lose if he tried. And by god is he trying: avoiding all press, having a drunken altercation with his girlfriend which involved the police being called, refusing to discuss it during press junkets and when finally doing interviews in support of his candidacy talking distractedly and incoherently about making model buses out of wine boxes. He must be thinking: what can I actually do to lose this thing? If he took a shit in Prince Phillip's pocket the British public, and rather more than 0.03 of them, would still say: "That Boris. What a legend!"
He's an ugly, posh, amoral, racist, apparently violent yobbo who cares about nothing, certainly not the people of the UK. He would barter off the NHS, he would sell us down the river with a no deal Brexit, he would destroy the country and still find people to cheer him on and slap his back. And so would Jeremy Hunt except no one would want to slap his back.
This is where we are. We seem to be powerless to stop it. A juggernaut of idiocy has broken loose and nothing seems to be able to stand in its pathway. More people in the UK don't want Brexit than do want Brexit. If we hold off for another couple of years and let the elderly die: the wealthy from natural causes, the poor because they can no longer afford medicine after the introduction of American style healthcare, practically no one will want Brexit. It will be too late. We've accepted this - somehow - as a fait accompli.
I'm glad I don't have any kids. I wouldn't be able to look them in the eye. Which would make treating their glaucoma with a poultice of dog's milk and wild herbs I found down by the glowing canal that bit trickier.
Oh, alright then...
Most of it has been work related - the sheer endless unrewarded mass of it - some of it has been money related too. Some has been down to things that I can remedy (the generally parlous state of my far too human body), and some of it is down to jealously as I see inadequates, the talent averse and the nepotistically enhanced cruising to glory while quaffing fine wines and chowing down on confit canard, while I doggy-paddle around a rock-pool sifting krill through a rudimentary baleen plate. And I know and you know that there's no krill in this fucking pond. And I'm allergic to sea monkeys so I'm basically starving in ever decreasing circles.
Most of the above is metaphorical. I'm not a strong swimmer.
 |
| Game over, man. |
The other thing that's stressing me out is the notion of a new Prime Minister being voted for, democratically, by 0.03% of the population. Professor Tim Bale breaks down the stats for you: 70% of this voting population are men, 97% white, 60% southern, 86% higher social classes, an average age of 57 and a high proportion of people who no longer work. Six out of ten want the death penalty back. A majority would sacrifice Northern Ireland and Scotland to an at-all-costs hard Brexit and only 6% would be cool with a Muslim Prime Minister (or say they would). This is democracy in action.
There are now only two candidates: the worst health minister ever and the worst foreign secretary ever are both looking for a lick of that shiny brass ring. The pair of them, monied ex-public schoolboys, are almost identical in terms of their beliefs and differ only in presentation. One is a gimlet eyed sadist who looks subtly incomplete, as though somewhere out there there is a duelling scar with his name on it. The other looks like a James Gillray cartoon of a debauched polar bear, who would fuck a tree if he thought the tree didn't like it. The former is trailing badly because his face would fail the Turing test. The latter couldn't lose if he tried. And by god is he trying: avoiding all press, having a drunken altercation with his girlfriend which involved the police being called, refusing to discuss it during press junkets and when finally doing interviews in support of his candidacy talking distractedly and incoherently about making model buses out of wine boxes. He must be thinking: what can I actually do to lose this thing? If he took a shit in Prince Phillip's pocket the British public, and rather more than 0.03 of them, would still say: "That Boris. What a legend!"
He's an ugly, posh, amoral, racist, apparently violent yobbo who cares about nothing, certainly not the people of the UK. He would barter off the NHS, he would sell us down the river with a no deal Brexit, he would destroy the country and still find people to cheer him on and slap his back. And so would Jeremy Hunt except no one would want to slap his back.
This is where we are. We seem to be powerless to stop it. A juggernaut of idiocy has broken loose and nothing seems to be able to stand in its pathway. More people in the UK don't want Brexit than do want Brexit. If we hold off for another couple of years and let the elderly die: the wealthy from natural causes, the poor because they can no longer afford medicine after the introduction of American style healthcare, practically no one will want Brexit. It will be too late. We've accepted this - somehow - as a fait accompli.
I'm glad I don't have any kids. I wouldn't be able to look them in the eye. Which would make treating their glaucoma with a poultice of dog's milk and wild herbs I found down by the glowing canal that bit trickier.
Comments
Post a Comment