At the End of the Day

It’s a tragic-comic confluence tonight. If you apply only your left brain hemisphere to the riddles herein, you might be disappointed. Otherwise, you could interpret further using all the bits between your ears. The topics are: linguistics twisted in the cause of Davositis, the egotism of Resistance, and thwarted love in a Covid Climate. Smiling is not mandatory – but it is quietly recommended.

Language is, as we all know, an organic thing. English absorbs more foreign influences than most as it evolves. Sadly, there are times when imported surrealism produces two eyes in the back of the head, an extra willy-hand, tits on your bottom and bearded feet. But we of the Boomer generation must all try to keep up….and so today I offer unto you the latest changes in meaning as we trudge through the jungle of lies on our way to the sunny uplands of medical safety before descending to the sandy beaches of New Normal poverty.

WARNINGS: Correct at time of going to press. The value of euphemistic spin can go up and down and round and round. Do not try this at home. Eating people is wrong. Always check with the Blair Foundation before using these terms. Nut-free. Made in a factory also producing satire.

The other day I was writing here about the hopelessly splintered Opposition to the emerging corporate State…especially in Britain. Some of the egoism out there concerns, frankly, the recounting of angels on a pinhead. For example, there’s one Party called Reform, and another called Reclaim. Surely, if you reform the dominance of the duopoly, you can reclaim the rights of (and respect for) the majority who’ve lost everything from their job security and interest on savings to rule by accountability to Parliament? So actually, you Reform & then Reclaim. Do we think that people can remember one word, but not two?

Now, both those Parties are broadly in favour of devolved power and an independent Britain. So too is UKIP….and the SDP.

So all four could become one entity called the Political Reform & Reclaim Social Independence Party…or PREFARSI for short. OK, it’s a crap name: it suggests a radical Bedouin splinter group dismissing the Taliban as “a bunch of mincing poofs”. So maybe – who knows? – they could apply some creativity to the issue with just one name. Something international but not EU….and yet, quintessentially multiracial…a word conjuring up everything from unpretentious working class whites on the razzle and yet, in turn, fiery political heat and our once-great but now reviled Empire.

What we need is the Vindaloo Party. It’s a no brainer. Or to give this stroke of radical genius its full name, The Vindicated All Over Optimistic Party….’Vote Vindaloo….You know it makes Incense’.

Never before have we had one Party that could justifiably claim an appeal to everyone from Keith Vaz via Priti Patel to Yvette Cooper, Sir Flagellant ‘Corsets’ Tincture-Bethune (IVth Kyber-Lancers retd) and even Ernest Pimple – proprietor of Ernie’s Cash Preferred Motors in rapidly gentrificating Isis-sur-Merde, Feltham.

I can tonight reveal that I am now (barring nefarious Mental Health actions taken out by frivolous and petulant political enemies) the Official Vindaloo Candidate for the Parliamentary Constituency of Bradylard Hants (Tory majority 27,712)

On the other hand, you could just call the bloody thing The Resistance. It’s an old trick, but it just might work.

And now this:

I have the gift of soft persuasion, old souls have a silver tongue.
I could not fathom our liaison,
and so we lack a last-dance song.

Covid Nineteen is a fiction:
across our planet now, it rules –
we can’t escape its jurisdiction
or the cowardice of mules.

The world is scared of carpe diem,
leaping darkness, voyager genes…
the mob no longer values freedom –
only counterfeit vaccines.

A Godless Papacy is newborn,
refutation soon a crime;
there’s only catechismic hard porn
with which Old Normal cannot rhyme.

To every seeker of the certain –
and those who cling to comfort bibs –
only bravehearts part the curtain,
there to find cadavers’ ribs.

They tried to sell my soul, these sirens –
I offered you my years for free….
but Earth is rammed with minor Byrons
long dead at Missolonghi.

I burned my boats from fear of pain
then burned my bridges to be sure.
God help me – maybe now I’m sane,
but oh! I dreamt of so much more.

For M