Looking Back

Has it really only been a couple of weeks since the party conferences?  What a shitstorm they were.  Despite putting up the old dung-umbrella, the sheer corrosiveness of the weasel-crap being spouted meant that it still came dripping through the fabric, making little 'pffts' sounds as it burned holes into the carpet.  On the one hand there was Tweedle-Ed and the rest of the shower over at the Lie-bour party, or should that be Lay-bor, waving a bottle of claret instead of the red flag and shouting 'Long live the revolution, as long as it doesn't affect property prices in north London'.  Ed Balls stood around looking like a small-time thug who has recently had his tattoos removed because he enjoyed the feeling of the laser cutting into his flesh.  Even Tweedle-Dave has resurfaced, making an appearance after his two-year sulk at not being made head boy of Islington Comprehensive, like some budget Iago, the aphrodisiacal scent of power wafting beckoningly from future, 2015 so much closer now than it once was, with plans of doing unto his brother as Cain did to Abel as soon as the election is in the bag.  There are rumours he has a picture of barking Boris on his wall as inspiration.  Then, to cap it all, Tweedle-Ed's 'without notes' interminable drone; 'look at me, I can talk bollocks unaided.'  Yes, and seemingly forever too, grandly making promises about things that he has neither the wit, the stamina, nor the real interest in doing anything about; if elected he'll be doing the same backroom dealing as all PM's do, u-turning more than a chronically-lost learner driver as the boot-boys over at the Treasury turn down every idea flat without even bothering to look up from filing their nails. 

And what of the other shower, who now seem deeply divided between those who loathe Europe and those who merely despise it?  The blasting of Vera Lynn records from public buildings, endless Spitfire flypasts and that overgrown schoolboy Clarkson as Archbishop of Cars seems about all the  Cons-(french)-ervatives have to offer as they march reluctantly forward while looking determinedly backwards.

Theresa May, but I wouldn’t.  And not because she looks like an inflamed appendix in a wig, but because she comes across as a sub-Thatcher, a low rent version, with neither the skill nor the talent, and with all the genius taken out and replaced by unintelligent reiteration, like a tired series that should have been canned two seasons ago but is still aired because the viewers are too lazy to change the channel.

Dismal Dave inspired as much respect as a beleagured stall-holder trying to reason with a steaming gang that's stealing all his merchandise - 'oh, come on guys, is this fair, respect me, please, please.'  but no-one was listening.  Suddenly, it was all leather jackets, snarls and the revving of big motorbikes as barking Boris made his timed entrance and those in the cheap seats turned into a horrible version of the Shangri-Las and started singing 'Leader of the Pack'.  Sniffer's gag reflex was on overload for that one.

Following on from the conference, William Hague's plans for repatriating powers from the EU (after which they will probably be immediately extradited to the US) will start with gangs of the long-term unemployed gathered on the Kent coast with huge poles with which to push the UK further out to sea than it already is.  Makes you weep.  Which is lucky really, considering the price of those little bottles of soda nowadays.

Mine's a large one. 

'Sniffer'