So – it’s Sunday December 13th, 2020. Decision day for Brexit. Terrified of a no-deal exit there is talk of ‘kicking the can down the road’. A likely non-outcome. But the ‘can’ of relief from Brexit, amoral government, fiscal cruelty and simpleton jingoism seems forever to get a kicking. Down that long-winding-road to one-party rule that has occasional rest-stops of Labour administrations – who duly get their kicking for delaying the dread journey.
Kicking the arses of those who voted for ’Boris’. Kicking the arse of the journalist too lazy to kick his own. Kicking the arse of history that decided on our moral and economic collapse. Kicking myself for being born the wrong way around – I should have been born now and have the 1960s to look forward to. When is this scramble going to remake itself into whole eggs?
My mood on a Sunday morning even darker than it was at midnight.
A few years or days ago I voted Brexit – not to leave the EU. I imagined the political and corporate establishment not so incompetent as to allow it. But they plumbed the depths of ineptitude and personal advantage. I voted to inflict a mortal wound on the Tory Party. The wound was duly inflicted, but owing mainly to the parallel incompetence of Jeremy Corbyn the still walking dead drag themselves through the zombie wilderness of no-values.
Today, The Guardian publishes violent attacks on ’Boris’ by Tory ‘grandees’ who turn out to be Michael Heseltine and Chris Patten. Who cares? They have as much political influence as the gravitational pull of a pea against the earth.
Still. We have friendships and cowering camaraderie. These are the uppers on which we are down.