Blessed are the decision makers

Now that we are slowly but surely sinking backwards into the safe, warm and secure arms of feudalism, with all but the decision to squeeze one’s own pus-filled Black Death scab or to risk transportation to fly infested colonies by trying to purchase a steak bake in Solihull with a Scottish twenty pound note, Michael Gove (I still can’t believe it’s not butter, or that he’s Scottish) making decisions on behalf of the Scottish fishing industry to sell out post-Brexit access to Scottish waters to Cnut the Great, son of Sweyn Forkbeard, without feeling the need to consult anybody remotely involved beforehand, doesn’t really come as much of a surprise.

Flip-flopping and blatant improbity are the standard strategies of our beloved masters (touch forelock). We must trust them to know what’s best for us. It’s not our job to think or make decisions, we are here to serve them. We’re safe with them.

Just wait until they’ve successfully negotiated the best possible deal, a deal that will benefit all of us in ways we never would have considered possible, two spoonfuls of gruel each per day instead of just the one an obvious bonus. It will be great. A triumph of a magnitude that surely will bring forth a legion of proffered deserving new Lord and Ladyships, the pomp and ceremony of a regal procession, golden hats transported in their own display cases, and in their own Daimlers, Union flagged umbrellas, street parties reminiscent of the end of wartime hardship, and scruffy, but plucky, heavily limping street urchins.

On the surface it may look like our marvellous paternal government have made a complete horse’s erse of the situation, stomping off with their tails between their pin striped legs, with no deal, and the sounds of laughter of a foreign nature ringing in their lugs, but no, trust what the BBC will tell you. That retreat will be all part of the cunning plan, a cunning plan of such monumental cunningness that Tony Robinson could have come up with it.

Have no fear, they are playing the long game, the state broadcaster will assure us. A long game where grotesque fake tanned comic characters will be offered honorary knighthoods and several thousand green and pleasant acres on which to build country clubs for a growing breed of the upper (up themselves) middle class, those who will be tasked with making some of the more mundane decisions for the rest of us, havens to take their rest and relaxation, places to set aside, for a few hours, the heavy burden they carry whilst looking after us, the cattle.

Chlorine-washed chicken filled with steroids and hormones will bring a blessed release. Thank goodness we let others do the thinking for us. We would never cope on our own.

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