Theresa, start making sense

Let the cathedral bells ring, let bonfires be lit on the coastal cliffs and inland peaks, let the blind see, the lame walk, and in the case of the BBC, the perpetually sycophantic sook.

Praise be and all hail, for the crazy dancer has saved the day, austerity measures have ended! We’re rich!

The born again hard war Maybot of recent times, threatening to get all cross with the Europeans for an inappropriate whoopy cushion trick and various EU leaders spoiling every selfie she took in Salzburg by sticking the middle finger up above her head, has had a makeover.

She’s now the hip, self-deprecating cool mamma of groove. She bounded onto that stage at Birmingham yesterday looking like a physically uncoordinated baby giraffe channeling a cross between John Travolta treading the New York sidewalks whilst delivering paint in ‘Saturday Night Fever’ and Talking Heads David Byrne in his 1980’s big suit about to sing ‘Stop making sense’ (although in order for Theresa May to stop making sense she would have had to have made sense in the first place).

I must admit I couldnae tholl her speech. I survived through the traditional first five minutes, the same as every other Tory leader’s speech, where they delve into the past, tell you about the tremendous sacrifices that millions of ordinary people have made, and then try by spin to link that fact positively to the fuck-up that they themselves and their party are currently making of the country.

About another minute or two further on she got to the part where, as they always do too, she praised the fantastic system of democracy in Britain. That was enough for me, the bile was rising behind my back teeth. I could listen to no more.

Strangely the day before I sat and watched a recording of the entire speech of the pretend buffoon who soon will make his bid for the top, (just as soon as he can get someone to extricate him from Ross Thomson’s arm around his shoulder, that is) without flinching.

I thought I was watching an old clip from the 1970’s and 80’s for the first twenty minutes or so as the ex-treasurer of the Bullingdon sus scrofa domesticus fancier club treated us to a rehash of speeches by Norman Tebbit, Jeffrey Archer and Cecil Parkinson. Cooncil Hooses getting pelters? A wee tad out of date that one Boris.

Things returned to what can be described as normal in the current Tory party though when he spent the final ten minutes getting right into EU Johnny Foreigner EU Bad/ Johnny Foreigner Peru ready to be ripped off/ England great mode.

When he mentioned ’the country’ presuming referring to England and the provinces which they govern, being humiliated by Europe on the Chequers deal despite Britain’s ‘power and might’ you could almost sense the palpable sound of a room full of stuck up self-entitled wallies gnashing their teeth and rattling their Bentley car fobs.

Returning to the fan dancer of Downing Street,and having read a few reviews on the rest of her speech this morning, it is clear she is gambling on playing her final cards in the game.

Her advisors must have told her to just go out and say anything you like that sounds positive, you’ve nothing to lose, nobody’s bothered and it might just save you. Hear’s a belter, tell them austerity is over!

If they’d given her another five minutes up there she would have told us a British rocket has landed on Mars and three astronauts educated in the Home Counties have set up a tea room and a multi-storey car park, claiming the planet for England. She’s no’ troubling herself much with the truth right now, not that she ever was, but things are getting desperate.

Thank goodness Scotland is setting itself up to take a better path.

#DissolveTheUnion