Tag Archives: i hope the past year was all just a dream

Boris Johnson – A man of many faces, none of them Churchill

Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson –  a man of the people if you ever did see one. Or at least, that’s the characterisation he’s long since been desperate to convey. Sure, he may on the face of it come across as an especially ostentatious clod from a mercifully undiscovered Dickensian novel but don’t be fooled – “Bozza” is most definitely one of you.

Look. He plays football and everything:

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The Brexiteer approach to international diplomacy in five seconds.

As preposterous a scheme as it may indeed be, you can’t really blame Boris for indulging. The political class have always had an image problem amongst the great unwashed, with perceptions ranging from mere distrust to full blown disgust. Cut adrift in the impenetrable Westminster bubble, they couldn’t possibly understand the endless tribulations of the average Joe. I mean how could they? Joe’s life has been defined by endless toil and back breaking graft – a existence complete with worry, financial strife and a disconcerting sense of isolation; as if the prosperous spectrum of society isn’t just a world away, but an exclusive club he’s irrevocably cut adrift from.

Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson’s formative years however, looked somewhat like this:

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If you look really closely, you can just about make out the knife Boris used to stab Cameron right in the fucking back tucked away up his right sleeve.

With this in mind, the strategy for Boris was fairly simple – if he wished to elevate his standing with the British electorate beyond that of the average cynical careerist, the only recourse was to sell the fabrication that, despite his astonishing privilege, he’s really just your average salt of the Earth bloke. Unfortunately, convincing the plebs that a man born with a silver ladle lodged down his gullet is actually an easily relatable bundle of effervescent empathy is quite the challenge, which is perhaps why Bojo has always seen fit to ramp up the absurdity at every possible opportunity. Zip-wiring, clowning, writing a heartfelt sonnet about the Turkish Prime Minister penetrating a goat – you name it. If it plays with the shit munchers, then dignity is superfluous. Anything to maintain the image that Boris Johnson is a jovial figurehead for the proletariat, bursting with patriotic pride and a heartfelt desire to put a smile back on the faces of his subjects.

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Look at Boris. He’s just as stupid as the rest of us.

The trouble is, that’s not true is it? Not even fucking close. Of course, highlighting Boris’ duplicity now isn’t quite the newsflash it would have been pre-referendum. As he bumbled out of his residence the morning after the night before, he was met with a reception more befitting of a reviled criminal than the nation’s favourite buffoon – perhaps aptly. The mask of endearing chucklefuckery had been definitively ripped away and with the subsequent sight of Johnson delivering his “victory” speech with all the burgeoning triumph of a catatonic potato, many wondered what the future held for old Bozza.

To the surprise of nobody, it contained copious amounts of surreptitious skulduggery.

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Do the phrase “pyrrhic victory” mean anything to you?

It is indeed true that, in the wake of calling a close to his own leadership bid, Boris was rather conspicuously off the grid. Having fallen victim to an appropriately undignified ‘Boris-ing’ courtesy of alleged chum Michael Gove (who in turn managed to suitably ‘Gove’ up his own prime ministerial ambitions by failing miserably), whenever he did emerge from his lair into the public gaze, he cut a considerably castrated figure – the proverbial sad clown if you will.

Sadly, this self imposed media exile was not to be permanent and, with post-referendum disgruntlement having widened its reach across the entire, ever expanding swamp of deceit Brexit was fast becoming, Boris saw explicit opportunity in May’s failings to instil himself as a de facto figurehead of opposition within the minds of the Brexiteer horde – all the while being able to exploit Theresa’s hierarchical superiority to form an especially convenient shield as he fired potshots from the relative safety of the Foreign Office.

Boris was indeed back. Regrettable certainly, not least because it signalled the distressing rebirth of an especially sickly string to Boris’ bow – pseudo Churchillian wankery.

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Boris Johnson arranged a photo-shoot to commemorate the signing of his resignation letter. No really, he did.

Look at him. It’s like a little boy playing dress up, isn’t it? One expects him to have rehearsed that very pose throughout many long and lonely nights in the Foreign Office, as if in preparation to fulfil a self imposed sense of destiny.  The lofty reverence in which Boris regards Winston is clear as day – and his apparent desire to leech off the Churchill mythos to bolster his very own cult of personality is as laughable as it is cynical.

There’s a sense of grim predictability about all of this. Boris’ irrepressible desire to lead was universally confirmed the moment he shafted Etonian ally Cameron, effectively placing himself in direct opposition by leading the fight to leave. In practical terms, it’s proved entirely inconsequential that the man who drafted an essay in support of Remain the day before proclaiming himself a fervent Brexiteer is operating completely within his own self interest. The cynicism attached to his every move is, remarkably, met with begrudging acceptance rather than justified outrage; though perhaps the shock factor is significantly lessened when his infuriating solipsism is considered an open secret – just “one of those things”.

It is, of course, no surprise to bear witness to Boris’ latest not at all transparent attempts to slither into the Number 10. It’s merely part of the Boris Johnson cycle – and absolutely everyone knows exactly what’s going on. Though there is a troublesome irony to seeing him warble out his best Winston during a resignation speech to the House of Commons, the watching masses being acutely aware that the entire farce was overwhelmingly inspired by deep-seated instincts of profound cowardice; ever lingering in the murky depths of Boris’ lamentable being.

In truth, there’s only one phrase that adequately sums up Johnson’s game plan – chaos exploitation. Ever waiting in the wings, leering over a the carnage (which, quite likely, was of his own creation), eternally on the lookout for an opportune moment to swoop in and be heralded as a savoir – increasing his favour with the masses, edging a few more inches up that disgustingly greasy pole before fleeing into the shadows relatively unscathed, moments prior to the dysfunction levels reaching critical mass.

It’s often been said by an assortment of unpardonable cretins that “it would be a RIGHT laugh if Bozza was in charge!” and that may indeed be so – at least on the most superficial level imaginable. Laughter is widely considered to be a vaguely effective treatment to unrelenting misery and there’s most certainly a fairly receptive market to pompous buffoonery somewhere out there. But, as with laughter only serving to distract from considerably more tangible personal struggles, the inevitable Boris Cavalcade of Clownery will be nothing more than a mere sideshow to the clusterfuck originated by a man who most probably left the notion of integrity back in his mother’s womb.

Guffaw all you want the next time Boris becomes marooned on a zip-line or tumbles down a well. After all, Boris would most certainly approve. As every shyster knows, the sound of uproarious laughter is the perfect cover under which to hurriedly exit stage left. Boris won’t want anything to do with the mangled corpse of our nation once his master-plan of chaos exploitation has reached its natural conclusion.

Nor will you once the laughter dies down.

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If you’ve never had a dream, you’ve never had a dream kick you in face

I like dreams. They’re nice aren’t they? Given life’s tendency to regularly shit out malodorous mounds of harsh reality upon our doorstep it’s a blessed relief to, every once in a while, retreat to the relatively safe confines of your head, immersing yourself in a dreamscape perfectly tailored to your own personal convenience.  Bad week at work? Finding yourself repeatedly foiled by your own innate lack of competence? Take a dose of that wonderful drug called delusion. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We all need a break from the drudgery of own pitiful existence every once in a while. I sure as hell do. Why spend the day agonising over my latest, excruciating social faux pas when I can briefly drift off into a world where I’m erudite, charming and have access to a time machine? I don’t even have to get out of bed.

So there’s no real harm in it – at least providing you’re willing to come back to reality. Most of us do but, rather alarmingly, there have been some fairly prominent examples recently of those who chose to remain lost, forever scurrying blindly through the rabbit hole; searching in vain for the cheese that simply isn’t there.

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They may say I’m a dreamer…

Ah, Jeremy Corbyn. It is perhaps the perfect irony that a man who’s spent his life working to make his dream a feasible reality has found that very same existence become characterised almost entirely by artifice. Should you wish to gaze upon Comrade Corbyn through the lens of mainstream media you could be forgiven for absorbing the impression that he’s a traitorous Commie who shot John Lennon. When you brush the clouds to one side however, the picture is a little different – though it cannot be denied that he’s still a curious character.

A mild mannered, private man who seems far more content pottering about in his allotment than courting favour with the media. Certainly not the norm for a politician but it’s still undeniably bewildering that he provokes such a reaction from all ends of the political and social spectrums. However, whether he’s met with worship or disgust, old Jeremy plods purposefully onward. Sure, deep down he probably just wants to get back home to his cabbages but nevertheless, he has his principles and nobody is going to deter him from his mission.

I can’t help but respect that and, subsequently, Jeremy himself. He’s not doing it for his career, he’s doing it because he actually gives a shit and feels his voice can guide us onto a more prosperous path. He runs on the ideals of hope, proclaiming that if we simply all work together then maybe…just maybe, things might actually turn out alright. He’s far from the first politician to do employ this approach of course, but he’s one of the few who leaves you in no doubt as to the decency of his intentions.

It is perhaps then no surprise that this message resonated so strongly with the whippersnapper portion of the electorate; bright, young things with a head full of dreams yet to be contaminated by the inevitable cynicism that comes with experience. Of course they’d buy into Corbyn’s vision of utopia – it sounds bloody marvellous and, to tell the truth, I’d be pretty much on board too were it not for one, fatal flaw.

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Reminds me of those ‘Life First’ napalm strikes the Americans used in the Vietnam War. Probably.

Yes, of course it was going to be Brexit. What else? There’s been nothing that even comes close to it in terms of excreting misinformation and fanciful delusions upon political discourse. The referendum campaign was an entire landfill of unrefined bullshit and you’d be foolish to consider that particular stench as consigned to the past – the idea that we can somehow implement a “Jobs First Brexit” being a recent example. Less fanciful than the Tory’s laughably absurd “Moon on a Stick Brexit” perhaps but, critically, it’s similarly fuelled by the fumes of fantasy alone.

It’s true that Corbyn is a dab hand at campaigning. He mesmerised many during the snap election of last year, recruiting many a young, fresh mind to his cause in a manner not witnessed for a considerable time. The fact that he managed to achieve a respectable result, sticking two fingers up to the naysayers and stabbing the Tory majority right through the heart in one seamless motion, was miraculous in of itself. He defied those who felt he was leading his Labour lambs straight to May’s nearest abattoir and finally proved his credentials as a vaguely plausible source of opposition.

However, for all his brilliance on the campaign trail, he now appears to have bitten off far more than anyone could possibly chew. Unless he can explain how he plans to achieve a “Jobs First Brexit” when he’s set to dive head first into this cavalcade of shit:

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Long story short – we’ll be worse off with ANY flavour of Brexit. Even caramel.

I respect Corbyn. I’m far from being a Corbynite though, by the same token, I’m nowhere near the mindset that a Corbyn premiership would bring about our gruesome demise either. Despite my general indifference towards the bloke, there have even been times where I’ve found myself drawn to his charms without ever quite dropping over to his side of the fence – the deterrent in this case being his fanciful declarations on Brexit. Carrying the leitmotif of hope and aspiration is all well and good but it can’t achieve the impossible – and that’s precisely what the concept of a “Jobs First Brexit” is – impossible.

Dream all you want, oftentimes it can lead to priceless moments of insight and inspiration; but don’t get so lost in the clouds that you can’t see the facts lingering below. Even the nicest dreams can be punctured in an instant – often leaving you with both a heavy sense of shame and an ominous damp patch down the front of your pants.