The Bin Bag of State
Not so long ago, people in the media, among other arse-lickers, used to describe our government as the Ship of State. This image was, I suppose, intended to suggest a large, sleek container filled with important things, moving majestically towards some desirable location. I notice we don't hear the phrase anymore so perhaps that ship has sailed.
May I suggest, then, an accurate 21st century equivalent would be the Bin Bag of State. The modern UK government is
perfectly described by this image : a cheap, flimsy sack of ragged plastic, stuffed with useless packaging, junk mail, rotting vegetation and ugly leftovers. It's not moving at all, just seeping quietly on a corner near the river Thames, limp, black and stinking of fat.
It used to take around four years for a Prime Minister to be exposed as a globalist quack-poodle. Since the Referendumkopfs took charge, we have been privileged to see three naked emperors in as many years, each slightly fatter and sweatier than the last. As everyone knows, the distance between such creatures and the real lives of ordinary British people is now too astronomic to be measured within the space/time continuum as understood by Einstein. These pol-bots are cosmically unacceptable, even by the satanic standards of recent decades. Blair, Brown, Cameron, May Johnson, Corbyn, Nicola Sturgeon, what are these things even doing in public?
Sturgeon wags her fudgey forefinger at Woke Scotland, squeaking that "Political power over Scotland from Westminster is tyranny! Political power over Scotland must be handed to unelected foreigners in Brussels!" You what? Come again?
Look children! Daddy is a bad man. Mummy's going to take you to the seaside and leave you there with the ice-cream salesman. He'll give you an apple to drop your trousers.
Corbyn staggers from one side of every argument to the other like a punchy sheep in a cartoon roundup, mumbling about the utter irrelevance of Jews and the importance of diversity.
Johnson inhales his daily bladder of laughing gas and re-inflates his belly, thinking I look like Churchill while the public sees a big fat turd.
May lurks in silence on the backbenches, patiently waiting for her megabuck payoff -the one the banks promised her in return for sticking the first knife into Brexit.
Blair, Brown and Cameron poke their heads up once a month like animated geese expecting a blizzard of shotgun pellets between the eyes.
IS THERE ANYBODY ANYWHERE STILL LISTENING?
Amazingly, the newspapers (that nobody reads) keep reviewing the TV programmes (that nobody watches) in which politicians (that nobody likes) make promises (that nobody believes).
How much more fake news about fake politicians will be broadcast for no purpose?
How many more fake Parliaments will begin and end before the public notices that Parliament has no purpose. Three? Thirty? The so-called "election" that Britain is getting for Xmas will decide who gets to sit where on whatever benches to collect a whacking slab of weekly wonga for doing nothing. Zero. No Brexit means no nothing. Parliament is the No-Brexit party. Johnson is the leader of the "Let's tell them we've done a Brexit and see if they swallow that!" wing of the No-Brexit party.
I've been contacted by a number of people asking why I recently stopped blogging about all this but the fact is there's nothing more to say. I've covered the whole utterly predictable farce about five times in the last two years. Here. And Here. Or here, if you like clicking on archived articles that foresaw this unending dog and pony show. In short, there will be no Brexit (or change of any consequence) until and unless the joke of UK's fake democracy is crushed and rebuilt. We all need to find a better use for our energies.
Meanwhile, if you're anticipating a visit to the NHS in search of help at any point in the next five years, I suggest you make some sandwiches and start queuing now.
May I suggest, then, an accurate 21st century equivalent would be the Bin Bag of State. The modern UK government is
perfectly described by this image : a cheap, flimsy sack of ragged plastic, stuffed with useless packaging, junk mail, rotting vegetation and ugly leftovers. It's not moving at all, just seeping quietly on a corner near the river Thames, limp, black and stinking of fat.
It used to take around four years for a Prime Minister to be exposed as a globalist quack-poodle. Since the Referendumkopfs took charge, we have been privileged to see three naked emperors in as many years, each slightly fatter and sweatier than the last. As everyone knows, the distance between such creatures and the real lives of ordinary British people is now too astronomic to be measured within the space/time continuum as understood by Einstein. These pol-bots are cosmically unacceptable, even by the satanic standards of recent decades. Blair, Brown, Cameron, May Johnson, Corbyn, Nicola Sturgeon, what are these things even doing in public?
Sturgeon wags her fudgey forefinger at Woke Scotland, squeaking that "Political power over Scotland from Westminster is tyranny! Political power over Scotland must be handed to unelected foreigners in Brussels!" You what? Come again?
Look children! Daddy is a bad man. Mummy's going to take you to the seaside and leave you there with the ice-cream salesman. He'll give you an apple to drop your trousers.
Corbyn staggers from one side of every argument to the other like a punchy sheep in a cartoon roundup, mumbling about the utter irrelevance of Jews and the importance of diversity.
Johnson inhales his daily bladder of laughing gas and re-inflates his belly, thinking I look like Churchill while the public sees a big fat turd.
May lurks in silence on the backbenches, patiently waiting for her megabuck payoff -the one the banks promised her in return for sticking the first knife into Brexit.
Blair, Brown and Cameron poke their heads up once a month like animated geese expecting a blizzard of shotgun pellets between the eyes.
IS THERE ANYBODY ANYWHERE STILL LISTENING?
Amazingly, the newspapers (that nobody reads) keep reviewing the TV programmes (that nobody watches) in which politicians (that nobody likes) make promises (that nobody believes).
How much more fake news about fake politicians will be broadcast for no purpose?
How many more fake Parliaments will begin and end before the public notices that Parliament has no purpose. Three? Thirty? The so-called "election" that Britain is getting for Xmas will decide who gets to sit where on whatever benches to collect a whacking slab of weekly wonga for doing nothing. Zero. No Brexit means no nothing. Parliament is the No-Brexit party. Johnson is the leader of the "Let's tell them we've done a Brexit and see if they swallow that!" wing of the No-Brexit party.
I've been contacted by a number of people asking why I recently stopped blogging about all this but the fact is there's nothing more to say. I've covered the whole utterly predictable farce about five times in the last two years. Here. And Here. Or here, if you like clicking on archived articles that foresaw this unending dog and pony show. In short, there will be no Brexit (or change of any consequence) until and unless the joke of UK's fake democracy is crushed and rebuilt. We all need to find a better use for our energies.
Meanwhile, if you're anticipating a visit to the NHS in search of help at any point in the next five years, I suggest you make some sandwiches and start queuing now.
