C’mon now, stop it. Everything is just fine. C’mon you people of Scotland, stop worrying about your country being governed by our neighbouring country to the south. It’s all ok, hunky dory in fact. They’ve got it all covered.
Heading into the winter months the UK now has the highest rate of coronavirus cases in Western Europe. Also the shops are running out of regular supplies of food and other essentials, and it’s apparently not because of Brexit (you’ve not to mention the B word because Westminister are still trying to convince the general population that Brexit wasn’t the single biggest act of self-harm a government anywhere has done to itself since the mid last century). Don’t mention the buses and the three hundred and ninety million quid a week for the NHS!
No, it’s about a shortage of truck drivers it seems. No, not truck drivers from the EU or Eastern Europe, who previously plied their trade on our roads, and kept the ‘just in time’ wholesale food and drink sector process from producer/supplier to consumer ticking over nicely. No, not them, we’re talking about a whole stack of Anglo Saxon Tommy Atkins types, armed with their “Yorkie’ bars and their Union flagged “You can’t come in, we’re full” bumper stickers, who seem to have disappeared, all of a sudden. It’s a mystery.
Where are they? They don’t have the right paperwork anymore to retire to the sunshine of the Costa full English breakfast’s, so where have they all gone? The shortage has gotten so bad that Ministry of Transport officials have had to start thinking about knocking on the doors of retirees with the skills, begging them to come back to the lure of the cab. They’ve even considered chapping up a wee auld lady in her 90’s in SW1 who apparently had an HGV licence in the 1940’s, with the promise that she’d be able to manage easily two runs a week of frozen onion rings and crispy pancakes from Tunbridge Wells to Stoke because the steering’s no’ as heavy on trucks these days as it used tae be. They are indeed a despicable lot, and her in her twilight years too, as if the poor wee wummin hasn’t got enough on her plate right now.
With panic setting in they’ve done what they always do in such times, only this time without the Green Goddesses, they’ve sent for the army, a sign that things are going well. They UK Government, always keen to share, have also been trying to spin the yarn that the truckie crisis, the empty shelves, the heating crisis, and petrol queues are widespread across Europe, but strangely, despite much searching, nobody can find any evidence of such problems anywhere else but in Britain.
Have you started stocking up on the candles yet?
So, during all of this, what exactly is the leadership of the glorious wonderful precious Union doing to turn all of this round, to steer the ship out of perilous waters, to point this Sceptred Isle in the direction of a golden future?
Michael Gove, still high on the euphoria of the Madchester Tory Conference scene, is taking part in a 7 day silent rave in an abandoned barn outside of Walsall in the West Midlands, he’s some dancer like, he’s got all the moves. The Foreign Secretary, who previously thought trade deals involved mainly jam, and the Deputy Prime Minister, who, up until he had it pointed out to him by an EU delegation, never knew the UK was mainly an island, are fighting over who gets first dibs on a grace-and favour- mansion, Chevening House, donated by the 7th Earl of Stanhope.
The Muppet on top, He’s on holiday again. Hiding out in Marbella (he won’t be the first to have done that) in the luxury villa of his Tory peer billionaire pal Zac Goldsmith, like Nero on his lyre, watching Rome incinerate, Johnson the liar, yet again feels in need of a touch of self-indulgence, whilst sipping large gins in front of Sky News special reports of crisis, shortage, homelessness and misery.
Always keen to exercise his imperial fetish the Beeetlejuice version of Winston Churchill is spending his daylight hours in front of an easel, paints and brushes in hand, capturing the local landscape, in a tribute to the many photographic examples of his hero, smocked up, cigar in situ, paint brush in hand, during his drink sodden weekends at Chartwell, between bouts of what he described as ‘Black Dog”. I wonder if Boris Johnson has any real concept of the level of ‘Black Dog’ he, and his party’s policies are generating amongst the vulnerable peoples of the nations of this very much disunited Kingdom. He hasn’t, and if he did, he doesn’t care.
Independence is normal, being governed by another country, especially when that country is run by a dangerously incompetent cabal of self-serving posh boys and chancers, like this lot, is not.
Time to start the preparations to go folks. Let’s get this started.
itisintruthnotforglory 