Birvidik

I realise that this is going to be difficult for you to bear listening to. Rest assured, though, that it's equally difficult for me to say it.

Here we go -
Deep breath.
Ready?
OK:

I'm almost starting to feel some sympathy for Boris.

After all those years of lying, cheating, plotting; all those betrayals of friends, colleagues and wives, he finally gets what he wanted and it turns out to be a poisoned chalice.

OK, the man's an unscrupulously amoral chancer; a man who can't get within half a mile of a bandwagon without jumping on it; a man totally out his depth in the high office into which he has been catapulted by a combination of happenstance, external factors and his own low animal cunning and ruthless ambition.

He is a man of such poor judgement that he allowed himself to be recorded agreeing to help a schoolfriend from Eton, a since convicted fraudster, to arrange the beating and intimidation of an investigative journalist. He has such a sense of entitlement that he just shrugged off evidence that could have potentially resulted in his being charged with being an accessory before the fact or, at the very least, with conspiracy to commit assault.

But those who live by the sword etc.

Covid 19 has made plain that despite his allusions (and delusions), Boris is no Churchill. He has accomplished the truly breath-taking achievement of taking an already dire situation, making it infinitely worse, and then rubbing salt in the wound by crowing about how bad things would have been had he not been around to save the day. His record in the hubris stakes is beaten only by that of Donald Trump*, but then Boris has always been Trump Lite.

I suspect, however, that his days may be numbered**. That flapping noise is the sound of chickens coming home to roost. Or possibly circling vultures (AKA The 1922 Committee and the European Reform Group). Buy shares in handcart manufacturers. Never, in the mystery of human politics has so much been fucked up for so many by so few.

The situation is, indeed, grave but its resolution does not need politicians or spads furthering their own selfish agendas. It needs statesmen (& women of course). It needs men (& women) with the interests of the whole nation, nay the whole of humanity, at heart, not just the furtherance of their own grubby self-serving plans. It needs men (& women) blessed with the intellect to understand the problems and the wisdom to listen to expert, informed, impartial advice, even that which they don't want to hear. Which is usually any advice which is expert, informed and impartial.

It is a sad truth that, with a very few noble exceptions, the political class in its entirety has failed this country and everyone in it: It has failed every man (& woman). It has failed every child, every businessman (or woman), every overstretched, hardworking, middle class family, and every one of the 27 people in Britain still working in manufacturing. It has failed every hedge fund manager and every pizza delivery rider. It has failed the top ten percent and it has failed those heroes (& heroines) of the NHS, but do not despair. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. (or woman, of course).

What this country needs is a man (or, at a pinch, a woman) to unite it behind a common cause based on the fundamental English British principles of tolerance, respect and dignity. The traditional English British virtues of hard work, public service and knowing one's place. What it doesn't need is the ability to speak and write in full sentences. It needs a man (OK - enough with the 'or woman' stuff already!) with the strength of character to still the moaning minnies, the doom-mongers and the nay-sayers. Someone (Now why didn't I think of that before?) without previous skeletons rattling ominously in previous cupboards, someone who can lead this once-great nation back to its former glory. Someone who can put Britain back in its rightful place as general top dog and shining example to lesser nations.

But where is our beloved Britannia to find such a man (or woman) in her (or his) (or its) hour of such desperate need? Where is our modern day Saint George. Andrew. David. Patrick. Oh bugger it! -Where is our saviour? Who will put the 'Great' back into Great Britain?

Yes - the gentleman at the back with the blue rosette, the pint of Old Peculiar and a face like a wide-mouthed frog, whom do you suggest?

Who? Me? Oh no, no no no. You are too kind, but no and thrice no. I am just the messenger, the one who comes before ***, the John the Baptist if you will. Please, still your clamour and applause. I am not worthy.

What is that - you insist? All of you? Well then, if I must, then I must. It would be churlish to deny such popular and heart-felt acclaim. Please stand with me and render a rousing chorus of 'Land of hope and Glory' followed by 'All things Bright and Beautiful' with special emphasis on verse three.

Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou. I love you all.

Maestro, if you please?



* OK - and several despots in the Middle East, Central Africa and most of the ex-Soviet 'Stans.

** Possibly wishful thinking, I concede.

*** Unfortunate turn of phrase.