A postcard from me olidee.
Dear blog readers,
The sun is shining, the bird is on the wing, and I spent a large part of yesterday afternoon playing crazy golf and drinking cocktails on the roof of a car park in Stratford (London) with good friends and mad children. The rest of this week will be spent making similar memories to shore up against my ruin.
Love from Mrs. Boo
Back in the real world:
With all my in depth political analysis of Theresa’s cabinet last week I forgot to mention dear old Jeremy Cockney Rhyming Slang Hunt.
I think, to be honest, this was a bit of unconscious deletion on my part. Having spent much of this year campaigning on NHS matters, I have had to spend a great deal of time thinking about him, and it has never proved either fruitful or pleasant. If Jeremy spent as much time in his role as the Health Secretary doing things, as he does trying to avoid doing things, our NHS would make that widdleewee thing that they fix everyone on Star Trek with, look completely outdated. He is, to my mind, the single worst thing to have happened to the NHS in its entire history. That includes the invention of that weird, pinky grey paint that it seems compulsory to paint hospital corridors with, San Izal toilet paper and split back nighties.
It was widely reported last week that Jeremy had been given his marching orders, at which news, all but the most rabidly hallucinogenic sections of our society let out a heartfelt sigh of relief. I have read somewhere that even minions in his own department understood it to be true, to the point where they cleared his desk.
This was not a difficult job. It was mostly dust, a few horcruxes in the shape of furry gonks wearing comedy scrubs and a photograph of Jeremy, straddling the weeping figure of a neurosurgeon, both thumbs aloft, wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the legend; ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps’.
Even Jeremy thought he’d been sacked, but managed to actually climb out from under his bed long enough to be reassured he was still going to have the onerous job of ruining one of the few institutions we have left that still make us the envy of the world. He fears daylight but in a shady corner of the cabinet office managed to tweet, ‘rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated,’ much to the disappointment of everyone but Louise Mensch, before crawling back amongst the dust bunnies to play Top Trumps with his imaginary friend, Charlie from Casualty, who told him he’s doing a great job and to carry on and not let the nasty people shout at him, because all the fictional doctors love him, even if the real ones don’t.
Since then he’s announced he’s going to force all junior doctors to accept his new contract and had a meeting in parliament about how much more of the NHS the government can privatise under the noses of the public before they start to get restless and figure out that the table cloth has been being pulled out from under the tea set for months, in the biggest con trick ever played on them.
Naturally Jeremy was not at the meetings. Charlie told him he didn’t have to go, because he’d probably find all the excitement a bit much for him. He sent his deputy instead.
It’s a unicorn.
A more common creature to spot in the Houses of Parliament than Jeremy these days.