Contenders, Ready!

So, it’s one of thon Fridays. Not had one in ages. Months. Quiet night in. A wee hauf. Been right aff it this while back. Until last week’s Burns’ Supper. Found my feet again. Right at the bottom of my bed. Laptop on my lap, as it happens. So, that’s why, eh? Who’d have thunk of the most obvious? D’uhh!

Most obvious. There’s a thought.

A thought I keep thinking.

Keep thinking.

Think.

Think why.

Why?

Why would the Tories, the most self-serving party that ever disgraced these shores quite happily roll over to the loss of income on their doorstep for the potential – faintest potential, given all things – that hordes of non-Brits (it’s a thang, doncha know?) would come a-rushing to ‘do deals’.

‘Oh, do a deal with me, Mother Homeland! I be dying for you to look most favourably upon me agin. Deal me! Deal me!’

‘Get in line, meboy! There are queues – veritable queues, I say, to be gone through. Can’t just go a-rushing in and making deals willy-nilly.’

(‘Yes. We can. Shh! Hush, hush! Need to know basis.’)

‘Oh, jolly good! Hey there! You, old boy! What was that you were saying about ‘’do me’’? I might just have the job for you. What ho! Tally ho! Rule big momma! Big momma’s on the stage. Come ye, of lesser worth and seek our patronage!’

 

Yeah, that sort of scenario.

Now, either they’ve taken complete and utter leave of their senses which, by world reckoning, may be the case or….

…they’re up to no good.

Have you ever had good news that you just couldn’t keep to yourself?

You know the kind.

‘New job! Promotion! Go meee, go meee! Sort-ed!’

‘Just won a fortune on the lottery! Help me celebrate! Drinks are on me! Go meee! Go meee! Sort-ed!’

‘Found ancient Roman artefacts in my garden! Fuckin’ millions! Ace! Go meee! Go meee! Sort-ed!’

‘Cancer? That bastard? I’ve just found the cure! And it’s easy! Stop worrying! Go meee! Go meee! Sort-ed!’

Compare with.

‘Sit down. I have news.’

‘It’s like this….’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve got this in hand.’

Brexit? No probs. 12 point plan, I’ve got. Pretty pictures. Look….squirrel…Go me…. Go me….Sort of…..’

 

I ask you, when, when in the history of all that’s Tory did the Tories ever do anything, and I mean anything, that they had to if it wasn’t self-serving?

And that’s not just me that’s saying this. Oh no. History does. Go take a look. I’ll wait.

Done?

Find anything?

Anything?

Something that says, ‘For the greater good this shall be done.’?

No.

Neither have I.

So, why, exactly are they pointing a loaded pistol to their own heads – and ours – and stating, ‘I feel lucky.’

We punks aside, for that would be their definition of the lesser mortals that inhabit the lower stratosphere, why would they commit an act of such obvious self-sabotage?’

What’s in it for them?

What. Is. In. It. For. Them?

Now, I have theories.

Guess work. Based on shit and stuff.

‘That’s my shit. That’s their shite. This is my stuff. They can get stuffed.’

What’s in it for them?

Apart from votes that will fly with the wind once, you know, the actual negotiations take place.  If anyone left, in Britain, has the cahones they were born with.

‘What do you mean, ‘’No’’?

‘Do you know who I am?

I have friends in high places.

Special relationships.

I’m somebody.’

 

Yeah, coulda been a contender. But I sold my soul to the company’s goal.

My question?  Whose company?

And what’s their mission statement?

Cherchez la raison d’être.

It is not for nothing.

You can bet my hauf on it.

So, one of thon Fridays.

Am I bitter?

Nope.

What goes around, comes around. Had it coming. Old boy.

INDEPENDENCE!

I’ll be in training after tonight, you understand. #Contenders