Dominic Cummins, the voice of reason, the speaker of truth? Boris Johnson, the Son of Satan the husband of Charybdis…..Honestly I’ve been waiting for the mist to clear before I even think about it but it’s like swimming in a bowl of scone batter, like I’m standing behind a glass window watching everything that’s happening but not being touched. It’s not detachment so much as a total disconnect. Buzz word methinks.
Matt Hancock, the 42 year old lier in waiting has been savaged, but still smiles and waves at the roving reporters outside his London pad. Whilst Gove is nowhere to be seen or heard. And where is Rees-Mogg? Hiding behind his hyphen praps? But more importantly where is the opposition? Blaming Corbyn seems to be the order of the day. Keir blames Jem, Dom blames Bozza, Bozza blames Jinping. Ping blames Trump, and Trump blames everybody whilst thousands of grieving families don’t know who to blame. ‘Wait for the dust to settle’ say my political friends, because blame who you like we are living in a time when the Emperors new clothes are beginning to fray and we can see the bony torso beneath.
I want to add clarity but I can’t. ‘This is a system of government that has made a list of serious mistakes’. Not my words. Will June 21st open up our lives – probably not. We are an ill nation. Instead of people being able to make their own decisions or take responsibility for their own health, we’re being mystified, bamboozled and hoodwinked by a pack of stray dogs who’re waiting for the dog-catch-pole to swing around their necks gasping as the noose tightens. They don’t know anything anymore than we do but they think they do, so they say they do and we believe they do, so we do what they tell us to do even if it means standing waist high in Dilyn’s doggie do.
We are not independent beings anymore we are a nation of fearful pill takers who are looking to a leadership that couldn’t organise a piss up in a covid testing centre.
Plagues of mice in Australia.
Plagues of locusts in Africa.
Plagues of rats in Westminster.
I’ve just had a coffee in our local Deer Park Caff. Tables of grey haired women letting their sleeping dogs’ lie, all amunchin’ and achattin’ and asmilin’. It’s as if a whole generation of females have decided it’s better out than in. Not watching the lunchtime news, not wondering who is pulling the wool. All the lady lips wrapped around big, doorstep sandwiches of bacon but mostly halloumi. Four women arrived separately, smiling and supportive talking of funerals. Two women, one with an Irish Greyhound and one with a poodle, sunk their teeth into huge sausage sandwiches their dogs eyeing them with the love of the greedy.
I sat alone and watched as the tables filled up with but one man between them. I wondered whether he bit his lip and thought about Dominican beliefs as the women chattered on.
The sun came and went, off with my sweater on with my sweater. I spread thick Jersey cream on my scone and topped it with a dollop of big seedy raspberry jam. I followed the scone with a swallow of rich coffee. Then a glass of icy water to rehydrate. When I arrived home the old git had been searching for a speaker for the car. The dawter arrived holding three big courgette plants which I’ve just planted. She’s now painting in the cellar, he’s pootling about being very Bank holiday-ish whilst I’m trying to get my head around who to believe.
Then I happened upon this old African story:
The Truth and the Lie meet on the road one day. The Lie says to the Truth:
‘It’s a marvellous day today.’
The Truth looks up to the skies and sighs, for the day was truly beautiful. They walk together for a while, until they reach a beautiful well. The Lie tells the Truth:
‘The water in the well is very nice, let’s take a swim together!’
The Truth, once again suspicious, tests the water and discovers that it indeed, is very nice. They undress and start the bathe. Suddenly, the Lie jumps out of the well, puts on the clothes of the Truth and runs off towards a nearby village. The furious Truth leaps out of the well and runs to find the Lie and get her clothes back. Villagers, seeing the Naked Truth, are horrified and look away with contempt and rage.
The poor Truth returned to the well and disappeared, forever hiding her shame.
And since that day, the lie travels the world, clothed as the Truth.
That story has been doing the rounds of 200 years.
Will we never learn?
Acting is all about honesty, if you can fake that you can fake anything.