There’s a Boris truth.
There’s my truth.
And there’s THE truth.
There’s a Trump truth.
There’s my truth.
And there’s THE truth.
There’s the Media’s truth.
There’s my truth.
And there’s THE truth.
It doesn’t matter who utters it, whose mouth it comes out of, THE truth is THE truth and there is no negotiating with THE truth.
Still pundits will punt, commentators will commentate, and soon the frightful happens that somehow we can’t identify the real truth anymore. Be that as it may on Shrove Tuesday back in 1601 a certain merchant named Shylock hung out of a Gondola, licking his Cornetto, and declaimed ‘THE truth will out.’
The Jews believe it, Tom Cruise believes it, even educated Gnus believe it, so what the piggin Hell is going.
The wool is being pulled over our eyes by the so-called educated. We are being fleeced
by a bunch of self-entitled bully-boys using the tactics of a Windsor common room.
Clamour loud enough, bark, bellow and snarl and the underlings will crumble. Yap, yell and scream loud enough and the fearful will believe the ululations of the baying pack. We are witnessing an Eton mess. We are watching benches full of John Thomas’, and Johnson’s owning their lies, speaking their untruths until they transmutate into a very un-Godly truth. We are witnessing the tyranny of a group of toffs who have about as much understanding of desperation and loss as a Ferrari owning oil magnet.
We’ve been sold the lie that we must ‘Get Out’ at all costs. Ordinary people in Leicester quote it. OAP’s in Grantham mutter it. The Barboured shoppers in Barnstable repeat it, speaking the truth as they’ve been tutored.
But the truth has changed, morphed into the rallying cry for a league of Faragians who want I know not what, and who display the empathy of a black widow spider as she bites off her mates Johnson after their first creepy consummation.
The rain rains, the ice melts, the earth cries out and still this Theatre of Blood plays out nightly before our very eyes. Those prestigididigitators are messing with our minds, juggling with out brains. But fear not because their slight off hand is beginning to wain, their chicanery is beginning to show, we’re noticing their tricks, and soon THE TRUTH will be unequivocal, and the Emperors New Clothes will crumble and fall revealing their sweaty dirty underwear beneath.
Vive la Juge and Brenda Marjorie Hale, Baroness Hale of Richmond.

2 thoughts on “Verity”

  1. You’re a bit special, Jeni. Unafraid to speak your mind in this ‘blend in but look like you’re not blending in’ land.
    Stay as you are. Don’t change.
    Out here, in non celebrity land, we have no voice. No one8 needs to hear us. We’re expendable. The high and mighty in power can’t hear us. We’re nothing. They have their plans sorted.
    Britain’s a funny old place these days, isn’t it?

Comments are closed.