The Hunting of the Snark.
We lost. I haven't got over it.
I expected a bad result and a by bad result I mean a win for the Tories and by the Tories I mean Boris Johnson. Because that's what you have to do now, isn't it? Its Boris vs Corbyn. That was what the election was. Boris maybe devious, feculent and unreliable but what a personality! Not that you saw much of it on the hustings as he blathered and bullshitted his way through interviews or just ran away from them. Its been a long time since Boris (always Boris) has actually said something funny. But then he hides in a fridge and its hilarious. He drives a truck through a wall and steals a journalist's phone to avoid looking at a sick child on a nest of coats on a hospital floor. What a character. The Tory machine then carelessly sent out a load of fake tweets about the photograph being Leftist propaganda not even bothering to change the text and it was obviously bullshit but they didn't seem to care.
And why should they? Fuck it. The public will just lap it up.
But on the other side you've got that dry as a bone party pooper with his social-worker beard and that irritating little cough, and with his inscrutable opinions on Brexit. Corbyn, always Corbyn, is not the sort of go-getting, drunken party guy that Britain can get behind. Boris will be trying to push a speaker stack into the swimming pool with a bra on his head, screaming "Toga!Toga!" while Corbyn is in the kitchen. He's done the washing up and is now boring the arse off a buck toothed girl to whom he apologises every time he thumps the table, spilling her cooling instant coffee into its saucer. Look at him. He means it. There's a hole in elbow of his cardigan. He's so pinched and sincere. Why isn't he funny? Everything must be funny and relatable and aspirational. I bet you've never fallen asleep trying to blow cocaine up the arse of a pretty girl through a fifty pound note like Boris just has, but I bet you'd like to. It'd be a great story at least.
The Yeoman-breed of old England want to back a winner not some tramp scratching away at a feudal strip, straining a glass of prune wine through his dentures as a reward at the end of the day. So they have voted in Boris Johnson as the Prime Minister of Great Britain. He now has a mandate to govern. Which to Boris Johnson is a license to do what the fuck he likes. And he will. And it won't go well for people like me.
I have to declare an interest. I've just come back from looking after my mother after she broke her hip. She was in hospital for several weeks. When she got out she got all manner of bits of kit: nurses came round to assess her, they delivered walking frames, grabbers, all manner of stuff. Workmen arrived and added a raised loo seat and arms at either side of the toilet. It was incredibly impressive. A slick, fast, neatly coordinated operation. And free. Because of the NHS, the absolute acme of British Society. The best thing that ever happened to our country.
And Boris Johnson will get rid of it. He says he won't so you know he will. Tory MP Damien Green has already said that we will all need to start paying into an insurance scheme to pay for our care. The day after Johnson was elected. There it is.
I'm nearly fifty. I have no money. I'm not entirely convinced I will ever have any money. In this new future if I ever get ill - and obviously I will because that's what happens when you get old - I'm going to die. There will be no safety net. I will die. And before I do everything will get a lot worse for a lot of people and you'll being tucking into some low end snack-foods at my wake: "Is this Coronation chicken?" "No, its chlorination chicken. There's a lot of breast meat because it can do a length of the pool under water."
The Yeoman-stock of dear old Blighty have voted for my death and the deaths of thousands of people like me. Thanks guys. Because you wanted to get "Brexit Done". Whatever that means. Its a nonsensical phantom you're chasing down and whatever happens you're not going to be happy. But Boris will be and so will all his friends. You've been hunting the Snark but all you've found are bodies. Bodies lining the streets like sandbags against the oncoming floods. My body among them.
I expected a bad result and a by bad result I mean a win for the Tories and by the Tories I mean Boris Johnson. Because that's what you have to do now, isn't it? Its Boris vs Corbyn. That was what the election was. Boris maybe devious, feculent and unreliable but what a personality! Not that you saw much of it on the hustings as he blathered and bullshitted his way through interviews or just ran away from them. Its been a long time since Boris (always Boris) has actually said something funny. But then he hides in a fridge and its hilarious. He drives a truck through a wall and steals a journalist's phone to avoid looking at a sick child on a nest of coats on a hospital floor. What a character. The Tory machine then carelessly sent out a load of fake tweets about the photograph being Leftist propaganda not even bothering to change the text and it was obviously bullshit but they didn't seem to care.
And why should they? Fuck it. The public will just lap it up.
But on the other side you've got that dry as a bone party pooper with his social-worker beard and that irritating little cough, and with his inscrutable opinions on Brexit. Corbyn, always Corbyn, is not the sort of go-getting, drunken party guy that Britain can get behind. Boris will be trying to push a speaker stack into the swimming pool with a bra on his head, screaming "Toga!Toga!" while Corbyn is in the kitchen. He's done the washing up and is now boring the arse off a buck toothed girl to whom he apologises every time he thumps the table, spilling her cooling instant coffee into its saucer. Look at him. He means it. There's a hole in elbow of his cardigan. He's so pinched and sincere. Why isn't he funny? Everything must be funny and relatable and aspirational. I bet you've never fallen asleep trying to blow cocaine up the arse of a pretty girl through a fifty pound note like Boris just has, but I bet you'd like to. It'd be a great story at least.
The Yeoman-breed of old England want to back a winner not some tramp scratching away at a feudal strip, straining a glass of prune wine through his dentures as a reward at the end of the day. So they have voted in Boris Johnson as the Prime Minister of Great Britain. He now has a mandate to govern. Which to Boris Johnson is a license to do what the fuck he likes. And he will. And it won't go well for people like me.
I have to declare an interest. I've just come back from looking after my mother after she broke her hip. She was in hospital for several weeks. When she got out she got all manner of bits of kit: nurses came round to assess her, they delivered walking frames, grabbers, all manner of stuff. Workmen arrived and added a raised loo seat and arms at either side of the toilet. It was incredibly impressive. A slick, fast, neatly coordinated operation. And free. Because of the NHS, the absolute acme of British Society. The best thing that ever happened to our country.
And Boris Johnson will get rid of it. He says he won't so you know he will. Tory MP Damien Green has already said that we will all need to start paying into an insurance scheme to pay for our care. The day after Johnson was elected. There it is.
I'm nearly fifty. I have no money. I'm not entirely convinced I will ever have any money. In this new future if I ever get ill - and obviously I will because that's what happens when you get old - I'm going to die. There will be no safety net. I will die. And before I do everything will get a lot worse for a lot of people and you'll being tucking into some low end snack-foods at my wake: "Is this Coronation chicken?" "No, its chlorination chicken. There's a lot of breast meat because it can do a length of the pool under water."
The Yeoman-stock of dear old Blighty have voted for my death and the deaths of thousands of people like me. Thanks guys. Because you wanted to get "Brexit Done". Whatever that means. Its a nonsensical phantom you're chasing down and whatever happens you're not going to be happy. But Boris will be and so will all his friends. You've been hunting the Snark but all you've found are bodies. Bodies lining the streets like sandbags against the oncoming floods. My body among them.
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