Well, we’ve had quite a few days, as the fields and parklands of Britain burnt, the 5 left in the Tory party leadership competition was slimmed down to 4, culled to 3, and now all that remain are 2 utter chuckleheads. Both tainted with the dusty library musk of Johnson (the worst PM in my history) one with a criminal record and one just thick as fuck, not quite as Dorries; Johnsons fluffer, but none the less…
The irony about this leadership competition is that it has drawn many into it, not as a Tory voter, but as a voyeur, a rubber necker ogling a crash on the motorway while speeding past. Its disgusting and compelling, and what it has shown to me is that progressive Conservative politics will have to wait a decade or so as they fall into squabbles and further infighting. What must the Tory politicians be thinking, lining up two old guard, despised by the populous loathed by the party faithful, and smelling of Johnson wherever they sit, a fug of disappointment a hint of casual racism and misogyny.Whichever way you look at it, its not a good look is it. So great news that in two years when our general election is called, Truss or Sunak will have further ripped the party in two, not content to divide the country with Brexit, they’re pulling the same trick again but within their own party, you couldn’t make this shit up. So now this gives Labour the chance to sort their shit out and impress us with some concrete policies so as there can be no doubt that they get in. #toriesout.
And as the ground burned, and peoples homes were razed to the ground, Johnson delivers his final PMQ’s speech in the Commons without a mention of the poor desperate folk who have lost everything, this is a familiar and standard trait of this rotten man, “Me, me, me, me” Screw everyone else and make a joke out of whatever we’re talking about, because as long as we can all meet up at the “Old Boys Of Eton” club (The Oboe Club, named the Pink Oboe by some) and continue to throw insults and abuse at the staff working there then the star of Parity among old School buddies will have been resolved, “Let the Skivs dare to raise their eyes to me…” Thats how it goes until another shipment of 1787 Chateau Margaux arrives and they can start this banter all over again and Johnson can assume that someone pouring his wine and smiling politely would want to shag him around the back of the bins, its a Joyless place, the Pink Oboe.
But lucky for you, dear reader I’ll aim to lighten the mood by telling you I met a man in the Forest of Dean yesterday (It’s not a metaphor and I habit been dogging) but this chap owned a lot of property, rental property, I assume you could call him a pleasantly spoken slum lord, who told me that when Fred West had been caught and found guilty for the heinous crimes down in Cromwell Street in Gloucester, and as the back gardens and cellars of his house and his neighbours were being dug up to look for Human remains, his estate agent friend mentioned to him that now may be the time to purchase property in Cromwell street, because you couldn’t give it away, cunt bought 5 terrace houses down near 25 Cromwell Street. I was speechless but he told me he had met West a few times and told me “he was pretty sinister, didn’t have a good way about him, shifty eyes, dark eyes”. Then he told me he had several barns full of cars, mainly Fords all collected by himself over the course of his 72 years, “Couldn’t throw them out, see. All stashed on a farm which I own, the wife has no idea, and i’d like to keep it that way”
And as London burnt and peoples lives lay in tatters, Johnson tells us, “Asta la Vista, Baby” We’re living in truly bleak times, money has value and very little value to many and to a few, and unfortunately that money is going to get tighter and tighter as the summer fires turn to winter hailstorms and potentially a Billionaire PM tells us that we must tighten our belts a bit and probably that we’re all in this together and that he understand how we feel, simultaneously patronising us while not at all understanding the meaning of empathy.