This is a member centric, 646, unravelling so get ready. It is at most T+36 days until the death of democracy as we knew it and a new age of assassination and freedom administered by the Lead Pill Pharmacy turns up.
In the good old days when I was a lad I always got all expectorant when the general election was heaving into view. From about 18 months out from the theoretical end of a 5 year parliament I would join in with the big boys & girls of punditry on radio, TV and the column inchers telling us who the fart sacks were and who were the fragrant posies of the soon to be election day.
If there was any sign that the government of the day was crapping itself about calling a general election and cutting it close to the wire then the telly went ballistic.
Robin Day el al. would go gyratingly bat shit crazy. There would be screaming and yelling, jumping up and down and gibbon like gibbering, braying and pissing on the dandelions to bring to our attention the fact that the Mother of Parliaments was kecking it pants.
That’s why in those days the television studio crews had major hair units. The broadcast studio air was full of proteins. They didn’t need jojoba and avocado shampoo. Oh no. 24hrs in a studio near the GE was enough to style you for life.
If it wasn’t Kenneth Baker’s eye water, it was Robin’s man oil or Anna’s lady batter flying as the election fever and rut got everyone into one great big electo-organsmic jizzfest. Columnists mating cries would fill Fleet St and in the papers scribblers' spunkings & spankings would fill the pages. Frank Bough and Selina Scott would be slumped, incoherent, comme le petit mort, over their auto cues. Drained of any further activity. Snow’s swing-o-meter would spiral out the studio after day after day after day of unbroken heavy swinging, leaving a deflapped Snow comatose.
Ahh the good old days.
So let’s have a look at today.
We are virtually out of time, T+36 days and closing, and the media has gone all chaste. No more BDSM for the MSM. No more flogging the errant parliamentarian until the truth comes. Oh no the days of a penetrating dominatrix like Sheena are long gone. Unrequited emotions and the heat of political intercourse have been chilled.
The three tenners waffled yesterday about nothing. The 3 Priests of the Prostate are soon on screen, swollen and dried up. No one in the MSM is saying much. Why is a hung parliament being touted quietly? Predictive Programming?
Well I reckon the reason is clear. Swamp us with meaningless MSM coverage of staged nonsense in the hope that no one will notice that the members are now limp dicks. UKplc attention is to be cooled on the national front. A cold bucket of ice water has been chucked on our national libido. A hung parliament is desired to ensure that there is no roll back of the EU centric agenda peddled and stiffed to us by previous UKplc administrations.
The real hard on and foaming gash is to be saved for the EU elections. These will be getting the super hot jiggy on the MSM. EU is hot and sexy we’ll be told. UK plc is clapped out.
That is the new MSM message.
Once again they’ve got it wrong. They’ve spent too much time plotting, blotting and butt welding. The pantechnikon of fiscal debauchery will not hang together because it is a dishonest enterprise, corrupted to the core. Dead children.
We cannot stand the ogre’s face; there is no dimension worthy of our affection. Just look at the faces in the EU secretariat and parliament, our MPs aren’t pretty, but these EU placefakes look like a bag of spanners negotiating their way out of an aardvark’s birth canal in a car crash. You cannot stand to look at them.
It may have been peculiar for a young lad to get his fluid pressures up and raise the mercury to dangerous levels because a general election was coming up, but that was one of the good things about UK plc back then.
The EU leaves me cold.
Ode to Joy, barph zentral.
Britannia’s my kind of gal.