One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got into my pajamas I’ll never know.
With the Olympics but a fortnight away – the news that the M4 is closed, that G4s is unable to perform their £300 million contract to specification and we need to bring the army in to provide further security for the Olympics, that no-one appears to be interested in taking over the great white elephant of the main stadium post-olympics – it would seem that things are going swimmingly well for the coalition government that has been inflicted on our benighted isle.
When one adds the farce of the Lords reform bill this week and long immigration queues still at Heathrow to the mix, the lack of regulation over Ali Babadiamond and the Forty Thieves at Barclays, Eurogeddon – and the eternal rain – one begins to wonder if it is worth staying alive to go gaga in a care home which I will not be able to afford when (and if) under Duckworth Lewis rules the umpire signals ‘Not Out’ and I am doomed to live yet more rather depressing years in a country run politically by inexperienced Spads and Spivs – the two aforementioned categories of ‘human’ not being mutually exclusive.
I shall do a John Simpson, stock up on suitable pills and be a patriot – and die for my country quietly, lest I be a burden to the new generation of Spads and Spivs which will follow..as surely as night follows day!
Fortunately, I have not gone gaga and only present the early symptoms of grumpy old gittery which, I am advised, is perfectly normal for a git of my age. So, as they say in the wonderful (and prescient) BBC satire Twenty Twelve..”that’s all good”… and I shall be around to irritate the legal and other establishments for some time…which, to borrow from The Blues Brothers…I regard as a ‘Mission from God”.