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Like growing numbers of others, I’m so irritable and grumpy, I think I’m cut out more for antisocial media than social media. I’m much better at making enemies on Facebook than making friends. I’d feel more at home with something like antisocial media. As things stand I’m left with a stubborn core group of ‘friends’ I can’t shake off no matter how unreasonable my comments get or how off the rails my rants are. Well, I’m about to change all that by dipping my toe into the UK election. And not just on Facebook.
I expect to make enemies of around half the voting population of an entire nation to start off with. Give or take a couple of hundred thousand “can’t quite make up my minds” here and there. I don’t want to be seen as putting personalites above pressing political issues but why would anybody want to be friends with someone who thinks a fruitcake running the country is a good idea? Unfriend me if you like, but a man who can’t be trusted to comb his own hair, wipe jam off his face, or tie his own shoe laces without help from Nanny, is a good idea as prime minister? And don’t tell me that’s just the scrawny Moggy bloke, they’ve all got nannies. No, no, no, old Blighty’s got to be bound for the toilet with that one. For Chrissakes! None of us voted him there, so, if he’s batshit crazy enough to give you the chance to get rid of him, grab it, no questions asked. It’s like being offered Black Friday every day of the week, you don’t say no. Come to think of it, every day has been Black Friday for the last month or more.
Despite knowing all that, it seems as if many more than half of Brits are batshit crazy enough to vote for the blond blob to stay put. And I do mean stay put. Like that bit of yesterday’s dried shit in the pan, he’s the kind of bloke that’s last to leave a party. The guest that never goes. The sort whose own family moves house without telling him, while he’s nipped down the road for a pint.
From what I’ve heard, I bet if Nanny was still around he’d have his sticky fingers up her jumper and all over her dumplings. I mean, would you give a job to someone that turned up for an interview looking like that? Half the time he looks as though he’s been left out on the lawn overnight. You’d have to spend most of the day keeping your eye on the petty cash. When you weren’t telling him to tuck his shirt in, that is. He gives shiftiness a bad name. And yet millions of British voters are about to allow him to carry on looking after their most vital concerns. I wouldn’t even trust him with the neighbour’s cat. And I don’t like the neighbour’s cat. Those same millions seem to think a man who can’t be trusted with the key to the pantry is fit to be in charge of a nuclear arsenal. Just goes to show that in some countries you don’t have to be in full possession of your marbles to vote, let alone lead it. You only have to look across the Atlantic to see where that sort of looniness leads.
Talking of the man with the golden quiff, just the other day he threw a bit of a tantrum when Nanny’s little rascal had the cheek to stand in a corner sniggering with his snooty Euro pals at a big NATO bash. Giggling, they were, like naughty schoolboys at the back of the classroom. Giggling and snorting behind the back of a man who overthrows foreign governments he doesn’t fancy as often as he runs his hand through his quiff. Not only that, a man who just happens to be far more unpredictable and dangerous than a huddle of prime ministers on the cackle. Come to that, what use is NATO? Let’s face it, they’d have more luck basing their biggest decisions on the flip of a coin than waffling on about intelligence reports for days. Thinking about it, maybe that’s what NATO has been doing over the last couple of decades. Heads we invade Ukraine, tails we don’t. Oh, bollocks, I had my money on Christmas in Kiev. Looks like we’ll have to be satisfied with a coup in spring.
With smoking prohibited at international meetings, and just about everywhere else people want to smoke most desperately, you could be forgiven for thinking military strategy and global economics are worked out on Twitter these days, instead on the backs of fag packs. Are they still called fag packs? Or is that a non-PC description of something entirely different? We boomers can’t be expected keep up with everything. Correct me if I’m wrong, but Twitter’s the one where a growing number of twits snark and titter at a lot of other twits, isn’t it? The 21st century forum for meaningless discourse and for things you’d rather you hadn’t said.
There’s a rumour, some call it a conspiracy theory, circling the alternative media that growing numbers of public transport drivers are addicted to Twitter. They spend most of their time with the steering wheel wedged between their knees while sending offensive tweets to the people they got drunk with the previous evening. Getting to work on the bus or train has become akin to playing Russian Roulette, or Putin’s Poker. Forget driving, it’s the most hazardous of all. Trains are safest, as there’s not so much chance of something coming the other way, and they don’t need steering wheels to keep in a straight line. Mind you, half the passengers wouldn’t notice even if anything was coming was because they’re too busy on Twitter. The other half are so befuddled by a world they no longer fit that they’re developing suicidal tendencies. Part of the “can’t quite make up my mind” brigade they hang on to the desperate hope someone else might do it so they don’t have to. Sort of suicide by proxy.
What can we expect in a topsy-turvy where global banks spend most of their days dreaming up new ways of robbing people? Bring back the good old days, I say. The good old days when just few people spend most of their days dreaming of ways to rob banks and even fewer did it. In the good old days toffs like Boris Johnson would end up behind bars instead of soaking his elbows on them. With no Nanny around to tell him to keep them off what can we expect? Are you really going to vote for that blundering blob of lard? It’s enough to drive me to drink. I don’t know where this bus is going and I want to get off. Pass the cough medicine, Nanny.
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