Staggering to think that less than 2 weeks ago I was up in Buttermere with my friends, celebrating Dr S’s 60th birthday marking him out to be the oldest man in the world, and yet so much murky water has gone under the bridge since then, descending as crystal clear lake water full of life giving hope, and plummeting into the depths of the dark earth stealing away the hope as we wake up this morning to the beginnings of a very worrying and fatal war started by some mentalist in the East. Putin, his face an unmoving fixed mass of surgery, not giving anything away aside to look down at his chief of this and chief of that with disinterested pity and say forcefully, but not enough to see his jaw move, “Kill Them” in a bastardised voice of the Count from Sesame Street.

He’s a dangerous man for sure and his propaganda paints him as such, or at least from what we see over here in the western media, to me, and I’m no expert, but he has the look of a man totally unhinged and without scruples. I imagine him to have been working this out for years, playing some wretched game with the world as the west impose whet they think as robust sanctions and penalties over him. But the tendrils run deep, and I feel that he has irons in fires all over the world. The more you listen to the experts, and there are many all over social media and the like, many more Russia experts that I would have ever imagined could exist and make a living. But as someone one a film once said “I’ve got a bad feeling about this”

Our woefully unfit prime minister imposed sanctions on 3 of Putin’s mates in the UK yesterday morning, 3? But thankfully gave his pal Reece Mogg enough time to move his money from the companies which would be affected to somewhere else; phew that was close. We can’t have the minister in charge of Brexit oportunities with financial worries, he’s got to be able to concentrate oil bringing back feet and inches in line with no one else in Europe, god knows we need to increase our quaintness in the eyes of the world, its what we used to be very good at and with some work we could once again rule the waves in moving this country backwards in time so, with a good wind behind us, we could open up after the war has finished as an enormous countrysized black country museum, where tourists can come and change their euros for florins and sample half pints of frothy bitter in themed pubs served by buxom wenches covered in hard work, before walking home through the maze of abandoned cars, long since seized up due to oil hitting a new high of $300 a barrel. So in the mean time the 3 oligarchs who Johnson sanctioned have told all their friends to get the fuck out and the money has disappeared leaving only a vast amount of slowly decaying villas and mansions in London to be populated as squats or workhouses going forward. And as we walk down the streets of Belgravia tripping over the charging cables of electric cars, attached to lamp posts, long since abandoned, we must think to ourselves, in a moment of clarity…

“What the fuck has happened? Where did all of this bad shit come from?”

The world is exfoliating, like the millennium dome in a hurricane, slowly tattering as the latest despot apprentice turns up for his or her 15 minutes of infamy, grimly reaping and skimming the long gone cream from the top of the milk having being long picked at by the vultures who sat in government and now sit on a tropical island waited on by people with different skin tone and a lack of English or Maths GCSE’s. Cushioned by Netto bags full of money drinking Trampagne from Sports Direct Mugs as the world burns outside of their sphere of giving a shit. 

And the civilised world asks.

“But what about the Children”

#johnsonout