The Judge RANTS!
"With Our Ammunition Gone And Faced With Utter Defeat..."
I'm so glad that I decided to blog as little as possible on contemporary politics.
I mean, aside from the fact that it was - as my friend and colleague Sara would put it - "doin' me cake in", it is now absolutely impossible either to describe events factually in any coherent fashion or to satirise them; the latter endeavour would be as superfluous and futile as taking a whole can of Vim to a self-cleaning oven.
And maintaining my determination that there won't be one of those tortuous, torturous end-of-year pieces this year has done a power of good to my sense of well-being; the last few weeks of 2018 are speeding along very nicely, thank you.
However, the sight of the Prime Minister of Greater England ("Rah, rah! Pomp, pomp!") going around the leaders of Europe (a category into which, Brexit or no Brexit, she could never seriously be placed) like some mad old bag-lady, or like the political equivalent of a Jehovah's Witness (in that, when she knocks on their doors, the occupants know that she is there, but none of them wants to talk to her, let alone allow her ingress) peddling a similar mish-mash of mythology, wishful thinking and outright batshittery; as I say, the sight of Theresa May being given short shrift by the people in Europe who matter (and, Tessie dear, when you are given the finger by the Prime Minister of Luxembourg, it may just occur to you that you're on the wrong track), reminded me of one of the great songs from the Golden Age of the Musical.
The more I hear this song (although I'm afraid that the volume is very much on the low side in this clip), the more I realise that Theresa M. May will come to be seen by the Rare Olde English Gammonne in times to come as the Jubilation T. Cornpone of their unreconstructed (and deconstructed) ahistorical delusions.