My world nearly ended when Boris Johnson entered the departure lounge
waiting to be jet-propelled towards St Peter at those pearly gates -- clutching
Michel Houellebecq’s book ‘Submission’
thinking there would be turbulence ahead, so better be Boy Scout prepared. Don’t get me wrong, I think he’s a lying scamp,
however, I wanted to hear his chipmunk cheeks squeak when everything he
blustered through in the holier than thou name of Brexit was destined to bite
him on his rotund derriere.
I know for sure, if the PM was an ordinary fellow
just doing one’s duty, playing it safe; I doubt I’d have that fervour of
wanting him to succeed in rugby tackling his corona virus opponent in a real
life football match - minus receiving the red card. There’s something far-wrenching and disastrous
about this corona… possibly the earth-shattering prospect of facing up to your
maker alone, without loved ones beside you and in trepidation truly defies
comprehension. Unimaginable - instead, busying strangers looking as if they’re
working for NASA; alas, checking oxygen levels.
All serious faultfinders of the PM were hushed, each news bullet-in
called for a holding of breath; the enormity of the direst situation was
transforming before our eyes. But what still oddly manifested was the crazy far
right horde on social media thinking I’d wished him no more, they sent
provocative comments, expecting a detestable reaction, expecting me to proclaim my hatred
for the prime minister during his most weakest moment – just so they can
digitally record my comment and make it infinite; naturally, I did disappoint.
Humanity truly matters, it super supersedes politics and an essence of
unbridled compassion for my fellow kind top trumps everything. There’s a
heart-breaking sentiment surrounding a diseased incumbent along with an unwavering
belief and destiny, acutely tragic if it went the wrong way -- no political
opponent wants to see a wrong-kind of demise.
If anything Boris Johnson’s foolhardiness has been exposed, peeled open
like a tin of sardines… his axiom… ‘Take
it on the chin’ prior to corona symptoms will disturb him if he had integrity;
and who knows what the repercussions of his reckless idioms have been weeks /
months later. My problem is I doubt he can stop sloganizing, or being frivolous
when being grave is paramount, for his demeanour, personality doesn’t allow
him; even when his words are somber the body language says different - his
rotund body mass almost appears impelled. Gracious me, it’s notably, peculiar
during a global crisis when Blighty is taking more than its fair share of the
human cost, currently 10% of the global death toll, due to injudicious
negligence. What we know now is Johnson is the wrong man in the wrong job at
the wrong time -- my goodness, I recall fellow Tory henchman and confidant Toby
Young categorically claiming he’s not certain when the Prime Minister is being
serious at the best of times let alone during the corona-era – when death is a
common occurrence, numbers and statistics reeled out in news bulletin format as
if it was a FTSE100 share price. Yet, how quickly we forget… these are real
lives, lost forever, and with loved ones too grief-stricken to kick up a protest,
and if they so dare to comfort one another they’re breaching the social
distancing mandate ‘Corona Virus Bill
2020.’
This clinical sub-existence is a monster creator and much of it is
self-inflicted; UK’s irrational landscape
enabled a malevolent incumbent to rise from the discordance of ineptitude. Not
even the sound of coochy-coo or the patter of little feet can free me of my own
stubborn lock-down - my carry-on… nay-saying and negativity in the era of tragic absurdity. Whereby, there’re calls for pathetic dulling down of scrutiny against an incumbent;
and their herb sounding assemblage of health experts who’ll remain
independently nameless while they lock a nation up with an invisible key.
Knives are sharpened even as I write this for those who govern over us, notably
‘following the science’ not their own
intuition as the stakes are far too high to not seek a SAGE shepherd during the
corona-era.
They’re all deserters the lot of them in our daily briefings, deflectors
of death and devastation among the drip, drip of Conservative Party propaganda;
semblance of the Weimar Republic (1933).
Their informing of the gullible that the dire reality is compliant with the planning;
this sickens me, as the plan dances to the tune to herd immunity without a
vaccine. Although, what’s really frightening is... any deceit against the Boris Cult is treated with disdain. But as Boris Johnson eventually shows his face
I’m yet more determined that everything has to change, namely the personnel, because
in the corona-era all is magnified- such as the worm-eaten old structures of a
failed state, relentless myopic ignorance, document changes to downgrade a
killer virus to cover their sorry backsides – this is the grisly work of an
indolent public schoolboy just when the nation urgently required cohesion,
compassion and veracity.
In my hovel, life is an incessant news beat, in truth, they’ve metamorphosed into the drums of dread. I shift uneasily deliberating if I’m going to sneeze, yes, I am.... bless me… bless me… all for lock down… Temperature is normal - good. And I find myself wondering if it's come to
boiling potato skins yet, and pondering if the incumbent is ever going to
vacate his self-imprisoned metaphor lexicon and escape from fiction entirely.
He seems immune to the purulent present, which begs the question how can anyone
stomach him, with tens of thousands dead and still counting? Still, I despise
myself at 5 pm in the afternoon staring glued at the three flamingos designated
to be absent of responsibility, claiming avidly in parrot form this fella
called ‘Science’ has all the answers, he/she is the guiding light and he/she is
flattening the curve night and day.
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