Pease porridge hot, Pease porridge cold

I couldn’t write this morning as I usually do. There were a number of reasons, first and foremost of which was the fact that I needed to get our tortoise into chokey and then pack the car, so that I could drive us to London for our holiday.

I suspect I could have managed to squeeze a blog post into the mix too, except that the news about Nice just made me too sad to find humour in the morning, and when I went downstairs to find that our neighbour has had the tree protection order on the row of trees between our garden and his own overturned, and is chopping down every other tree, I was bereft. So instead of writing, I drank my coffee and had a little weep.

So much has been lost in recent weeks.

I am in a more sanguine frame of mind now, after an afternoon of walking the Thames path around Kew with the kids. London is my happy place. It is the place where I feel most myself, and after feeling so adrift for the last few weeks, it is good to be somewhere that feels like home.

I think the large Bloody Mary I had with my lunch helped a lot too, to be honest.

So we are here, and ready for a week of wonders.

And the country? Well, it’s hanging in there by a thread.

I take comfort in the fact that Sadiq Khan is one of the few politicians I actually like, and should the zombie apocalypse happen while we are here, he will probably have something comforting to say, and possibly useful to do. I have followed him on Twitter, just in case.

In the meantime, Theresa has been busy at Number Ten, having Larry the cat stuffed for posterity, even though he isn’t dead, changing the curtain pelmets and evicting all the Cheese Strings from the fridge. She’s also continued to build her cabinet.

As I watch, I am becoming increasingly convinced that she has a plan, if not for the country, then certainly for herself, for it looks very much like a case of politician’s revenge is a dish best eaten cold to me.

Gove, for instance, is out on his Plug from The Bash Street Kids, ear. ‘That’s what you get for being a turn coat’, said Theresa, briskly, as she ejected him summarily from a third floor window. He is now being punished in his wife’s dungeon for failing to take the country by storm as she instructed him he really wanted to do.

As an aside whenever I look at his face I feel sorry that Spitting Image is no longer on our screens. They wouldn’t have had to do much to his face would they? They could have just done a direct copy, like a death mask.

Then there’s Steven Crabb whose star was set to soar into the firmament when he took over punishing the poor and needy at the Department of Work and Pensions when Ian Duncan Smith’s whip arm was too tired to do any more flagellating. Ian has had to try and claim PIPs for the RSI it brought on. Sadly, he hasn’t qualified, and is now living in the gutter, eating scrambled egg out of a shoe with a comb.

Steven rejoiced at this, and despite being found wanting in the Tory leadership department, was still very keen to make his mark in Theresa’s new cabinet. As we know, he is very fond of funding medical research into curing homosexuality with distilled essence of Jesus’ tears and a hint of electrodes, and had hoped for something in the Department of Trade and Industry where he could channel his talents for scientific innovation.

Sadly, it turns out that he is even more fond of sending suggestive sexual messages to women who are not his wife. Theresa clearly disapproves of infidelity as much as she does back stabbing, so Steven has not so much soared, as plummeted. It is to be hoped that Ian Duncan Smith might budge up and share his shoe, but it is unlikely. Generosity is not a strong trait in the Tory party.

Then there’s poor Angela Eagle. I know Angela is not in the Tory party, but I am beginning to wonder if Jeremy Corbyn is actually paying Theresa to send out a juicy bit of Tory news every time Angela tries to hold a press conference, or even just open her mouth in public. It’s either that or the fact that Angela might have tried to chat Theresa’s husband up at a cross party Christmas do one year, and has never been forgiven. There’s definitely something fishy going on. I don’t think Angela’s actually managed to finish an entire sentence in front of a member of the press since last Friday without Theresa finding some way of butting in.

My absolute favourite piece of revenge though, has to be reserved for what Theresa has done to Mrs. Loathsome herself, Andrea ‘all men who want to work with children are paedophiles,’ Leadsom. Andrea has not been defenestrated. Her punishment is much, much worse than that. Andrea is now in charge of agriculture and fisheries. Andrea now has to spend her time in cabinet dealing with enraged farmers who are about to lose their EU subsidies, and enraged fisherman who are about to realise that they were always going to get a better deal in the EU than out of it and who will now be reduced to what they can catch in a shrimping net off the end of Bridlington Pier.  Andrea will not know what hit her, and hopefully the very least of what hits her will be Bob Geldof wielding one of Boris’ secondhand water cannons.

 

17 responses to “Pease porridge hot, Pease porridge cold

  1. Katy, you crack me up… and I’m so grateful for it, thank you. 😊 Andrea Leadsom will hopefully be ‘sleeping with the fishes’ very soon, politically speaking.

  2. I think you’re in splendid form!! Well at least you’ve a place in UK you feel at home. I don’t have it anymore so we’re actually playing like kids with a world map, pointing to a place randomly and then go from there to search the internet for options about “how to get the hell out of Brexit-UK and make it”. We’ve two years to find it, so lots of world-map-playing before our time runs out. In the meantime keep writing because you put a big smile on my face despite I was woken up at 6 by my husband who told me the bad news from Nice. I can even think of it. There’s so much hate and pain in this world that my mind cannot even understand it anymore.

  3. There’s still hope. I heard Prince Charlie is ready to dust off his old Naval Uniform, declare martial law like the Turks, send his Mum to the Tower, Guy Fawkes Parliament, and ascend to his rightful place on the throne, all the while humming “Rule Brittania!”

  4. I think we hang out under the same star! I wept this morning having yelled at my kids (which I never normally do) for not being ready at the agreed time so I could drive them to work; then having driven like a mad woman to get them to work on time – with a vast iron firepit flying around in the back of the car; before then joining my mum’s carer to hunt for her all over town after she’d gone awol for the fifth time this week (she has Alzheimer’s). All before my first coffee of the day and still with the prospect of marking a squillion exam papers stretching in front of me. But Nice put things back into perspective.

    I have been going to London a lot since 24th June – when you live in Andrea’s constituency London makes you feel normal again.

    So sorry to hear about the trees. Hope you have a great holiday.

  5. Oh Katy As always, you make me smile. Thank you
    Jane

  6. BenjiManGrant

    Wow thank you for the memory revival of the bash Street kids!

  7. Thank you for this brilliant funny angry honest writing. I’ve lurked here for years, snorting and giggling and weeping with laughter and sometimes not with laughter, but right now you and Marina Hyde (and my small photo of Mark Carney, obviously) are all that stands between us and despair. You are a Reason To Be Cheerful and I am extremely grateful to you.

  8. Love it!
    You hit the nail on the head with this post and, like you, I soooo wish Spitting Image was still with us – they’d have a field day with this lot! 🙂
    . . . and so the circus continues . . .

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