Revenge of the BoJo
Just when you thought that politics in the UK could not get any worse... you find you were wrong. That slow dawning upon the soul that a clown might soon be running the country. I know this is not new for some other countries around the world who seem to like comedians in the countries most powerful position but seriously, the UK being run by a real life, red nosed, messy haired, oversized footed clown!
Even the clown name, BoJo has an eerie creepy sound to it, the sort of clown name that Steven King would consider and then discard as simply too preposterous!
But the reality is creeping forward. Coming towards the people of the UK with a doom laden sense of foreboding and shock. It will be the shock and awe equivalent of British politics.
The day the worlds press gathers in the newly erected big top on College Green with master of ceremonies BoJo cycling in with a squirty water flower in his lapel and red box full of state secrets hanging open from the rear cycle rack, its contents long lost over Westminster Bridge fluttering in the wind like a confetti of lies. Nothing much new there.
The cycle would of course collapse with wheels flying in every direction once BoJo arrives and as Jeremy Corbyn splutters and stutters into life whining about something or other that is completely unintelligible and swipes at BoJo with a little red book that he's never actually read but likes to keep hold of as a management consultant likes to reference a long dead Japanese warlord who's idea of man management was to execute his best and most respected general just to keep people on their toes.
And so British politics will move forward, the big top tent with pennants fluttering from its poles while the old parliament building across the road is slowly refurbished over the coming two decades, at least and for a cost equivalent to a new aircraft carrier or two.
Will anybody really notice? I suspect not. I suspect also the annoying guy with the megaphone voice and the slightly odd wardrobe will look confusingly appropriate standing next to BoJo. The two of them making a better meal of political discourse than poor old Jeremy with his halting speech problems.
Never has a man reminded me quite of a super-car that won't quite start. The motor turns and the beginning of beautiful sounds burst forth only for something in the engine to kick in and throttle it back with the odd misfire here and there just for good measure.
And if not BoJo... then who? There is a list of candidates almost as long as the list of broken manifesto pledges. It will be whittled down, little by little until just a cokehead and a clown remain, probably. And then a few dozen septuagenarians around the country, well, the south of the country, in the more exclusive, non-immigrant, private gated parts of the country where green belt exists in abundance but is covered in little holes with numbered flags sticking out of them flanked by the finest white sand mini beaches shipped in from far far away then raked to perfection by labourers bussed in from other parts of the UK at the crack of dawn to perform their duties and then are hidden from view lest they offend the old cavalry officers who still think India is part of the UK but couldn't actually point it out on a map and have never actually been a cavalry officer at all but if we were in 1919 well they probably would be!
Even the clown name, BoJo has an eerie creepy sound to it, the sort of clown name that Steven King would consider and then discard as simply too preposterous!
But the reality is creeping forward. Coming towards the people of the UK with a doom laden sense of foreboding and shock. It will be the shock and awe equivalent of British politics.
The day the worlds press gathers in the newly erected big top on College Green with master of ceremonies BoJo cycling in with a squirty water flower in his lapel and red box full of state secrets hanging open from the rear cycle rack, its contents long lost over Westminster Bridge fluttering in the wind like a confetti of lies. Nothing much new there.
The cycle would of course collapse with wheels flying in every direction once BoJo arrives and as Jeremy Corbyn splutters and stutters into life whining about something or other that is completely unintelligible and swipes at BoJo with a little red book that he's never actually read but likes to keep hold of as a management consultant likes to reference a long dead Japanese warlord who's idea of man management was to execute his best and most respected general just to keep people on their toes.
And so British politics will move forward, the big top tent with pennants fluttering from its poles while the old parliament building across the road is slowly refurbished over the coming two decades, at least and for a cost equivalent to a new aircraft carrier or two.
Will anybody really notice? I suspect not. I suspect also the annoying guy with the megaphone voice and the slightly odd wardrobe will look confusingly appropriate standing next to BoJo. The two of them making a better meal of political discourse than poor old Jeremy with his halting speech problems.
Never has a man reminded me quite of a super-car that won't quite start. The motor turns and the beginning of beautiful sounds burst forth only for something in the engine to kick in and throttle it back with the odd misfire here and there just for good measure.
And if not BoJo... then who? There is a list of candidates almost as long as the list of broken manifesto pledges. It will be whittled down, little by little until just a cokehead and a clown remain, probably. And then a few dozen septuagenarians around the country, well, the south of the country, in the more exclusive, non-immigrant, private gated parts of the country where green belt exists in abundance but is covered in little holes with numbered flags sticking out of them flanked by the finest white sand mini beaches shipped in from far far away then raked to perfection by labourers bussed in from other parts of the UK at the crack of dawn to perform their duties and then are hidden from view lest they offend the old cavalry officers who still think India is part of the UK but couldn't actually point it out on a map and have never actually been a cavalry officer at all but if we were in 1919 well they probably would be!
Comments
Post a Comment