It’s Mourning in Brexitania
Stop all the clocks, turn off your phones,
Prevent the plebs from snarking with tearful moans,
Silence the twitters and be mawkishly glum
Bring on the coverage, make the viewers come.Let helicopters circle filming overhead
Streaming on Sky the message, She Is Dead,
Put black throws round the set like the punditry loves,
Let the well-armed policemen wear black combat gloves.She was our landlord, owned the seabed, no jest,
Red carpets all week, loved her paedo son best,
From dawn, past midnight, breaking news, awful song;
This can’t go on forever: BBC – “You are wrong.”The scandals are not wanted now: strike out all but one;
The Press don’t want Charlie, so they’ll big-up his son;
No room for the hungry, starving kids are no good,
For nothing else matters, “Now that One is wormfood”.And that’s basically all I’ve got to say about that.
This United Kingdom (for really-reals now, down with that Woke appropriation) has had an absolutely stonking time of it, and I don’t just mean my whole holiday/birthday exhaustathon. Change is in the air, but unfortunately this is Tory Britain, so that air is thick and oily and has the stench of old eggs and fracking fumes about it.
On the plus side, Flobalob is, at long, long last, finally oozing his way towards the back benches of Parliament, but only after being allowed to spend two whole months basically rubbing his pig-arsed lazy refusal to do anything as plebian as work into the nation’s collective face by jetting around the world enjoying more millionaire funded jollies than Philomena Fivefanny, the double-jointed courtesan. One thing I will say in ungrudging praise of the Windsor Woman, though; she read the room and obdurately refused to die until Cartoon Churchill was officially out of office, something I’ll bet he’s utterly fucking livid about. No terribly moving speech from the steps of Downing Street to epilogue his biography, no glittering opportunity for his flibbery-flobbity take on the vomit worthy ‘Princess of Our Hearts’ speech Blair got to give about Saint Diana the Rugger Fucker back in 1997. Biggest set piece captive audience of the past 25 years and the bottleslurping slapdick missed it by a matter of days. What a thing, eh? So sad.
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