Perverse.

Living in Britain nowadays.

 

 

The new budget, 2008. As announced by our Chancellor, our weird Chancellor, with the weird eyebrows, and the weird, postmodern, inescapable, Blackadder, surname connotation. Who’s got the second most important job in the Cabinet, yet so does not want to be part of this government as he knows what all of us know: Gordon is using him, his descendant, a Blairite, to take the flack for worsening economic conditions. 

 

Perverse.

Living in Britain nowadays.

 

 

A political party. A political ruling party. Ruling. Completely lost. In Translation. Amongst their own dialect, regiolect, bureaucratic and electorate speak.

  

 

“Wakie, wakie. Gordon … Ooh sweetie … your nightmare is over. Tony is gone. He really is. He’s gone to the Middle East. And other very well-paid corporate jobs. In the West. Far, far, far away. Really. No need to pother and perspire like this, Gordy Bordy Porgy, it will all be all right. Trust Mummy. Come here, you big, colossal, little loser. Let me give you a huge hug … Ahhh … it feels so good to be close to Mummy’s unattainable bosom, doesn’t it? Look! Mummy brought you some ginger biscuits and hot milk. And if Tony has been too much of a bully on the playground, why don’t you try and make some new friends?”

 

PM Brown needs to realise he should be fighting the forlorn, despairing, despondent electorate. 

 

Not Blair. And Blair’s disciples. Among which: the impotent Conservatives.

 

PM Brown needs to realise that lessons can be learnt from history/recent events. Historically/Recently see John Major. That is, if he wants to win the election after the next shambles. 

 

 

Maybe, he doesn’t. The Labour Party doesn’t. Too much hassle. Being in government. Having to deal with the nitty gritty.

 

 

Raging wars and all that.

 

 

 

Not that I care. I’m not British. Don’t have an allegiance. Neither left-wing nor right-wing.

 

 

Just.

 

Sitting on the fence. 

 

As always.

 

Yet.

 

But.

 

Iraq is getiting on me tits.

 

So is this government. 

 

 

Sorry.

 

 

Too intelligent, no, too academic thus too sitting on the fence. 

 

Let me clarify. I want PM Brown to f… who cares what I want … I’m on fire.

 

 

 

Perverse.

Living in Britain nowadays.

 

 

The-quite-not-so-nicely-aged-but-he-wants-to-conceal-it-by-either-wearing-a-terrible-wig-or-dying-his-hair-in-a-very-unnatural-colour BBC journalist Andrew Neil claimed on tele that after the 2008 budget it will be cheaper to sniff a line of coke than to drink a pint of your finest, say, Timothy Taylor’s, in your local. 

 

Claimed. Andrew Neil did.

 

Wouldn’t know. Me.

 

 

 

Perverse.

Living in Britain nowadays.

 

 

Yet, I do like my perversities. Love ‘m, in fact. When I’m on fire. Love this, completely insane fact of future British life. After the 2008 budget.

 

If true.

 

 

But I do prefer my ale to my coke. 

 

So.

 

 

 

Perverse.

Living in Britain nowadays.

 

 

My media days in Soho are so long far gone. Well, a couple of years and, I certainly don’t miss it. Though miss living in Soho now and then. The odd sniff. Especially when having retreated to a North East deadly dead fisher town. 

 

Yet. 

 

The Timothy Taylor’s that is served in my local is much much better than the one I used to drink in the The Dog and Duck, where I regularly hang out. As did Madonna she was keen to claim on tele (”Late Night with Jonathan Ross”) when she was still keen to announce to the whole world she had moved to fashionable London. Which was pretty much the same time as when I was living in Soho. When I was on fire.

 

 

Never saw her there. 

 

Probably too drunk. Too coked-up. Too fired-up.

 

Me that was.

 

 

But I do prefer my ale to my coke.

 

 

As if that is a good thing.

 

 

 

 

Perverse.

Living in Britain.

 

 

 

Who needs cocaine, alcohol, London, when you have got the young’ns?

 

 

“Who is Alistair Darling? Was he in one of them dodgy foreign French films you pretend to like?”

 

 

 

 

Who needs cocaine, alcohol, London, when you’re lucky enough to have A?

 

Who knows who Alistair Darling is.

 

 

 

Who needs cocaine, alcohol, London, when you’re lucky enough to have A? 

 

In a fisher town. In the North East of England. 

 

 

Where no one knows the number of your landline except banks/companies/local councils when they want money of you.

 

 

And A. 

 

 

 

 

 

P.S.

 

Question: A straightforward one. Really, so simple.

 

Addressed to: Labour people, Blairites, Brownites and particularly this pathetic, so-out-of-steam government.

 

Where the fuck did your LOVE go?

 

Honestly.

 

Where did it go?

 

 

Your passion?

 

Your conviction?

 

Your ideas?

 

 

Above all: 

 

YOUR IDEAS