In 1984 Boy George sang, “war is stupid and people are stupid, and love means nothing in some strange quarters;” what a cockwomble.
Oh hi, how are you this sunny morning? Ready for war? Over the top lads, long way to Tipperary and all that? Oh come now, just a few fisticuffs with little old me then. It’s been so long since the last No Surprises. What’s that? Gone soft? Na mate, just can’t really find a satirical angle on any of it anymore.
Wiltshire’s leader and representative in our “whim” Parliament, Claire Perry tweets the decision for air strikes “was the right one. Chemical Weapons usage must not go unpunished.” Indeed, chemical attack being on everyone’s lips in Wilts at the moment.
Even free parking won’t coax people to shop in the new Sarajevo, just in case they’re a Russian spy who was knocked on the head when the biscuit barrel fell from the kitchen cupboard and gave them amnesia. You’re not Geena Davis in the Long Kiss Goodnight; go back to Salisbury, you’ll be fine.
Being Britain’s central military base aside, Salisbury is a lovely passive city, with a dreamy “new age” air of tangible folk, some of whom humbly gather at our only wonder of the world, celebrating bygone life in pagan Briton, praying to our original deities; the sun, the earth, and all the natural elements modern man should be contemplating rather than this government’s divinity; money. Stinking weirdos; thank our Christian God their prayers are chargeable to English Heritage.
Salisbury is about country walks and school trips to the cathedral, a peaceful city, where police have always carried novichok nerve agent antidote to every call, just in case old Mrs Farnsworth drops her bottle of Novichok cream cleaner from her shopping basket in Sainsburys.
It’s still a hard pill to swallow, ten minute turnaround to defuse a deadly chemical attack in Salisbury, or that Yulia Skripal walks from hospital and her father is doing well, and follows “in due course.” Or so we’re told, not really seen any pictures of him have we? Weird that. Take a look at Mr Putin, does he look like the kind of guy who messes assassinations up? Now look at Boris Johnson. He can’t even play a diplomatic, fun game of rugger with little children without smashing them to the ground; preppy twat.
It’s strange to consider our local MP tweets happily away, when she is supposed to be Minister of State in the Business, Energy and Industrial Strategy Department. Should she not be the one then, who doesn’t toe the fracking gung-ho, environmental contravening party line, who blasts against the government and encourages more funding for alternative energy sources?
Or do we thank Trump for his hoax theory, while his people drown in floods only caused by God punishing them for voting-in the previous Muslim President? Pour another gin and bullshit on the floor Trump, and we’ll lap it up like your puppy, say, you got a trade deal we could have ha-ha, Europe seem to have taken a titchy grudge with us?
How many great oil wars will it take, how much propaganda, lies and deceit must we endure before we admit that what we fight for is nothing to do with being humanitarian saviours in the Middle East, and more to do with piping gas through Syria?
Trudging up cold war moods; you know the game was on hold while America took a wee break; kinda like peeking at granny’s cards during the Christmas family Cluedo match while she relieves herself from her sixth eggnog.
Come on schoolkids of Parliament, we’ve been biting the hand which feeds us since the lunchbreak of 2009, highlighting how malicious Russia is, never really getting over what Ivan Drago did to Apollo Creed in Rocky 4, despite they’re the chief practical gas supply in Europe. Oh, which also happens to be when the new gas fields of Lebanon and Syria opened possibilities to bypass the Saudi Barrier, but opps; there’s that prefect Al-Assad blocking the corridor and needs a shoulder barge.
Wasn’t Assad winning hands down, and in his y-fronts anyways, why would he chemically attack the rebels, knowing the West would retaliate? He’s no saint, but nobody’s fool. Still, OPCW, the Organisation of the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons did promise to look in on it, on Saturday 14th April 2018, oh, which is today. A bit like when your mum comes to visit your student digs and you sweep up and hide your bong.
Oh stop mucking about matron, we’ve got to find that money tree if we’re to save all those children, by bombing their gaff, because we really care about children; that’s why we’re slashing education budgets back home.
Like on a local level, where Tory dominant Wiltshire Council celebrates the billions of extra income to our county with replacement of army troops and their families, by shrugging shoulders at the minute-by-comparison £1.4K to get Breaside and Oxenwood children’s outdoor activity centres repaired, and deciding its best to close them down.
Don’t you go believing the people working there every day, who feel the sites didn’t need that much extra cash for renovations now. The experts have been in, seen a couple of beds lying to waste (because schools always have exact male/female ratios in their classes) and figured there’s more money to be made selling the land to the highest building contractor. And we praise one school featured in local news who received a grand via private donation to supply each child with a dictionary. How long will it be before India are sending Diwali gift boxes to desperate kids in the UK?
I’m not fully against the closing of such places, should they be considered unsafe for children, should they be beyond economic repair, provided a plan is afoot for a replacement. Which, as far as I can see, the only plan is to take every leisurely pursuit away from our poverty-stricken youth until they beg in a conforming trance for revision timetables, before they combust under exam stress and need lobotomising; tuned for brainless footmen to face those evil Russians in world war three; England prevails, heil Baron May. For fucks sake, what the fuck is wrong with this backward, twofaced government?
La-de-da; till next time stay safe, paint your windows white, maybe; that’s what we were told last time, not sure if it’s the same now. At least Thatcher’s government could be arsed to send us a leaflet on how to die slower, shows you how much this lot care.