It’s an overcast Tuesday morning which, by the summer we’re having is quite welcome. I’m waiting as per usual for payments from gigs past and trying to write an Edinburgh show. The comedy world has obviously gone mental because a couple of Tories have resigned from the cabinet. What an amazing earthquake that’s never happened in politics before. The middle class revulsion of some daft blonde bird walking on an ambulance after a World Cup quarter final win will have to be put on hold as the commentators of our time drop their keyboards in amazement over this latest government bombshell. I can’t wait to hear what brilliant cutting edge satire they’ve got at the fringe this year about Boris and David Davis. If that came over with a facetious tone then well done, you got it and it would appear my impromptu writing has worked as well.
I’m loving how the tone is ‘you can tell how well Brexit is going…..not’, bloody hell it’s hard but you have to remind these people that Brexit hasn’t actually happened yet but still they bang on. They won’t stop, they’ll only stop if the vote is run again and they get a slim victory of say 52 to 48 then I presume they’ll insist that the referenda must THEN stop. Fine let it stop and you can all pull out your Prossecco and say ‘thank god, what an awful dream, it’s the will of the people, now that’s put a stop to all these evil brexiteers’. Expect them to kark it though when the Labour wing of UKIP rise up, the moderates start voting for this semi knuckle dragging party (because there’s no one else expressing their views) and they end up with 100+ seats because believe me that’s what’ll happen. Thank fuck Corbyn and his small band of rejects and misfits (shunned by the Mandelson and Campbell-esque junta) see sense and realise that running the vote again could cause untold damage.
If I was young I’d say please let it stop but I just now say oh fuckin get on with it, but let me know when you’re finished. Rather like a squid when it mates on the last night of it’s three year life then it dies, let these political rookies have their one moment of underpants on back to front, fist shaking whirling dervish-ness and then watch as they slip into middle age and they can complain passionately about how the bus doesn’t stop at their estate or how there isn’t a tuck shop at the park.
Today’s blog is sponsored by When Yer Man Get’s The Ball