Is Biden their Last Straw in a show of pantomime proportions?
Published: 4 November 2020
Because I write this blog and update my diary, absolute avoidance of COVID-19 news is impossible, and I must confess that recently I have fallen off the UK media wagon and relapsed into the inexcusable habit, which I managed to kick for three or four months, of ruining my day with Google News.
That is how I know that Boris Johnson’s 3 Tiers ended in tears …
Tiers for souvenirs are all you’ve left me
Memories of a love you never meant
I just can’t believe you could forget me
After all those happy hours we spent (together)
Tiers have been my only consolation
But tiers can’t mend a broken heart I must confess
Let’s forgive and forget
Turn our tiers of regret
Once more to tiers of happiness
Thank you Ken Dodd for this inspiration
… that open-door immigration policies are again in the spotlight in countries such as France and Austria and that there is an election going on in the USA.
How close is Biden to the brick house?
Regarding that election, I gather from Google News that has-been Biden appears to be on track to get his left-wing rump into the seat of power. At 12.30 (Kaliningrad time) today, the UK’s liberal left press is already teetering on the cusp of a great collective orgasm, albeit slightly ruined by the fear that if Mr B does not win by the landslide they hope for, then a further shadow of doubt will be cast on the liberal media’s ability to translate ideological bias into hard support, which, let’s face it, after years of banging the anti-Trump drum they desperately need for their own reassurance.
Consolation is that if Trumper is ousted, at least we may at last be spared the relentless barrage of vitriol and belligerence that exudes from the West’s anti-Trump lobby, together with all those go-nowhere stories about collusion and hacking; all we will have to stomach is a fat dollop of the sweet and sickly ~ the same thick icing atop of the stodgy pseudo-democracy cake that we had to endure when Obuma was in the hot seat (or was that on the very cool fence?)
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don’t think that I can take it
‘Cause it took so long to bake it
And I’ll never have that recipe again
Oh no!
Thank you Richard Harris
As for ‘he will do their’ Biden, is he having another one of his ‘senior moments’ or is he really that out of touch? I suppose that he has been just too busy winning the election to keep up with events in Europe. I see from The Daily Express* today that he has condemned Hungary’s Viktor Orban and Poland’s Andrzej Duda as “thugs”. Hmm, could this be because they have refused to back down to the EU’s demands that they unlock their borders and take in thousands of migrants? Why, whatever next! Holy Perfect Phobias, Batman!
Well, it’s their lookout isn’t it. I mean, if they want to miss out on enrichment, of the kind experienced by France, Austria, Sweden and the UK, then they only have themselves to blame.
Trump’s drainage plan has siphoned some off
Sometimes, in times of trouble (no, not Paul McCartney) you need to go looking for solace. And with Bill’s Bar closed (‘I’ll go down to Bill’s Bar, I can make it that far …’ ~ Thanks Mr Cohen), I went looking in the most unlikely of places, you’ve guessed it ~ Google News UK. And it was there that I found it, in The Guardian** of all places.
Bogs are not the usual place where solace can be found, but for some reason, call it another mischievous effect of coronavirus, I was in the mood for old clichés. I was not disappointed. I waded through the slush of appeasement and capitulation and derived a peculiar sense of déjà vu from the tired, sad and, in these post-liberal days, weary and worn out apologetic tone, before I arrived at Pipe Dream Station, just in time to see the last deflection train leaving for Desperation. “This is the last train to Desperation, calling at Propaganda, Political Correctness, Tony Blair’s Legacy, Vigilsville County, and Somewhere Nowhere Never Over their Rainbow (obsession).”
It was here that I read the writing on the wall, in a sentence so hollow that it echoes incredulity, “In the UK last year, police warned that the fastest-growing terror threat was from the far right”.
Far right? Yeah, right …
I have had this recurring dream, since 1997. I am trapped in a grotesque pantomime, every bit as fantastic and disturbing as Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘theatre’, The Conqueror Worm†. On stage, the plot, and the plotters, coerce me into looking in the wrong direction. It is Poe’s ‘bidding of vast formless things that shift the scenery to and fro …’ Fortunately, fortunately for me that is, there are still people in the audience who are not afraid to tell the truth. ‘Look Out! He’s Behind You!’ they cry.
The first time I had this dream I awoke at this very moment, and I have been awake ever since. Insomnia is not an easy condition to live with, but it is better than the alternative.
Wake up! They will never give you your money back, but at least you can leave the pantomime before it is too late!
And here is the happy ending you wanted:
You have heard it said, no doubt, that every cloud has a silver lining, but what hope is there of finding one if has-been Biden accedes to the [ ] House? Oh but there is one ~ to be sure, to be sure. It may not be much, but it was flagged in a media article today*** [4 November 2020]. Allegedly, Meghan Markle has vowed that if Trump wins the election, she will leave America. Now, come on, don’t let’s be too hasty!! Besides, the boats are full.
So, if you cannot find any other reason for rooting for, what’s his name(?), you know what’s his name, for the next U.S. president, then this has got to be it!
References
†The Conqueror Worm
Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.
By EDGAR ALLAN POE
Image attribution:
This image is available from the National Library of Scotland under the sequence number or Shelfmark ID Weir.8(6). You can see this image in its original context, along with the rest of the Library’s digital collections, in the NLS Digital Gallery, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=33869245
Copyright [Text] © 2018-2020 Mick Hart. All rights reserved.
