Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells

I studied the British Constitution at school, never concentrated, wasn’t bothered, had about as much interest as learning how to plait raffia palm mats.
But now fifty four years down the line my interest has been sparked by an old Etonian bully masquerading as our First Minister, a clever, calculating, manipulative nincompoop, imbecile, jerk, lummox, moron, ninny, witling piece of shite that has been appointed, by a bunch of oleaginous sycophants, as the mouthpiece of this little island. Mr. Blobby striding down the corridors of power with his hands in pockets forever scratching his brains.
I want to swear and hurl missiles, I want to scream just inches away from his pomposity. I want to throw Shakespearean quotes at him, whilst standing over him and pricking him with a very sharp rapier screaming; You are a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise breaker, the owner of no one good quality. I want to tug on his jacket, and curse at his use of high born connections, scold him as he persuades poor old Betty Windsor to scribble her consent to his unconstitutional shenanigans.
The arrogance, the presumption, the sheer unadulterated oneupmanship of the baby-kin with tousled hair and upper-crust friends. The Redwoods that tower disdainfully, the Reece-Snobs that shower us with supercilious contempt.
I didn’t know I was so angry until a friend wrote a despairing note Will we survive this dictator, she asked. Is he a dictator or just a dick?
As we watch the Etonians sling their privilege around like they own the joint – which of course many of them do – we must remember that when the populace truly wakes up the old school will be given detention and shunted to the back of the class.
For make no mistake this is class warfare that has been refined with the help of Amazonian trillionaires and years of secret dinners.
But do not worry for there are many of us with the muscle to wield our sabres and our rattling will turn the likes of Jacob Reece Snob and John Redwank scuttling back under their rocks. For they are worse than any vermin with their puffed up insolence.
For the first shall be last and the meek shall inherit the earth.
I studied scripture at school, I was taught by a fascist called Mr. Mead who told me Hitler had not finished his job and that I deserved to be in a gas chamber. I picked up my pens and left the room, only then did my legs turn to jelly. He died prematurely – of course he did – rottenness will work from within, he was eaten away by a virulent disease.
The egotistical smug bastards will wither and die and the rainbow children will rise up.
But patience and determination are the watch words. Their certainty frightens me, their distortion of the truth is disturbing, their fumbling under the bedclothes with the likes of Trump, is nauseating, but I keep breathing – deeply – and reread this Cree Prophecy
When all the trees have been cut down, when all the animals have been hunted, when all the waters are polluted, when all the air is unsafe to breathe, only then will you discover you cannot eat money.