A few blog posts ago I said that Brexit would not be the time machine back to a golden past that many Brexiters seemed to think it would be. No derring do, sun never going down on the empire stuff would happen. No land grabbing underpinned by slavery, theft and cornering the market in flags for you, Nigel, you naughty boy.
Although we do seem to have slid back to the Eighties while everyone was looking the other way, which is concerning.
For a start, Theresa May who now looms, positively looms as the favourite candidate for the Conservative party leader, is startlingly reminiscent of Margaret Thatcher, even down to the fierce hair. It’s the Maggie reboot, 2016 style.
The terms fascist and crypto fascist are being bandied about rather a lot, too, but not in a Rik Mayall way, sadly. Although I must iron my dungarees, just in case of a resurgence of Rik.
Please let this happen. I miss Rik. A lot.
Lots of people are marching again. Banner making is going into overdrive. There are marches for Corbyn, against Brexit, for the NUT, against early closing on Wednesdays and for the return of the thruppeny bit.
On this note, I would like to say that one of the most unlikely pro Brexit stories I read was one where a butcher somewhere celebrated by selling all his meat in pounds and ounces. Presumably it was laid out on that weird green plastic grass with the red and white plastic flowers separating various lumps of offal that were de rigeur in the butchers’ shops of my childhood. According to the news report, the shop was thronged with jubilant shoppers demanding four pounds of haslet, two ounces of chitterlings and a guinea’s worth of tripe for the servants, before pushing their unresisting children back up chimneys where they belong.
Back to my time warp.
Given that the junior doctors have binned off the new contract they were offered today, soon the streets will once again pound to the rhythm of a thousand stethoscopes, and delightful anti Jeremy Cockney Rhyming Slang Hunt, slogans.
Jeremy will be a bit annoyed at having to climb back under the bed he’s only just crawled out from under. Thank goodness he decided not to stand for Tory leader. It’s very hard to run a campaign from inside your mother’s wardrobe whilst whimpering about the nasty doctors going away and leaving you alone.
I worry that he will get vitamin D deficiency. If he does, he will undoubtedly die, because let’s face it, who the hell is going to want to treat him, given the way he’s treated doctors? He’s treading a perilous line with his health, frankly.
I wonder if he owns a sun lamp?
He’d better hope there’s no power cuts. I don’t think the candles in the veg basket are going to do anything much for Jeremy in his hour of need.
There are already strikes. My kids were off school today because of the NUT strike.
I’m just hoping we don’t get a resurgence of rioting. I might start listening to The Clash again, just in case.
There is also a resurgence of the politicians of my youth. Both Michael Heseltine and Ken Clarke have popped up in the last few days to say their piece.
Worryingly, I find that both of them have spoken a lot of sense. If Norman Tebbit makes a statement I find myself agreeing with too, I may have to voluntarily commit myself to an asylum on the grounds that I have finally lost the plot. Either that or seriously start building myself that underground bunker, because the end of days really is nigh.