Venice in Peril
Radio silence is broken.
Calling Moscow, calling Moscow…
Apologies, I went all Bunker Hunt…
I had been gazing into my crystal ball, it has been staring blankly back.
The face I would normally see, should resemble either Dorian Gray or ‘The Scream’, but it’s not one face, it’s 41 million emotionless faces, silent against the Whimsy of Westminster.
Or at least I think that was her name.
Frankly it was all a blur! I wasn’t looking for business, but it’s strange how the extra 20,000 ‘bobbies on the beat’ all appear at the same time. Haven’t they got anything better to do? I will leave you to fill in the blanks, I have no recollection, as it was the last thing I saw before passing out!
Anyway, apparently, we should be ‘getting it done’.
Three trite words to describe one of the most important decisions in generations.
Getting what done?
A drinking session in a brewery, shutting the stable door, making snowballs in hell, holding a snowflake to a flame?
Perhaps, we should all be holding our Johnson to the flame… Ouch!
Yet, you might say we’ve spent the odd hundred million here, the odd billion on preparation there. Water, water, everywhere, and all the boards did shrink: water, water, everywhere, nor a drop to drink.
Since Pangaea we have been drifting away from Europe by a few millimetres every century, tectonic plates a breakin’, and all this time Venice has been sinking…
I’ve had my head down and my not insubstantial nose pressed hard to the grindstone, whilst all the time trying to avoid the cracks in the pavement.
Has all this been passing me by, or was I, in my apathy letting it wash over me like honey; and what have they achieved, sweet ‘Fanny Adam’?
It appears you can say, or do anything. Hang the consequences, or the legality of it, then debate it until hell freezes over.
And now we have an election to contend with.
We’re just going to end up with a Celtic, Five Star, Right Wing, Marxist coalition. Led by… a comedian with no sense of humour? Who may just be able to commit to a vague promise!
Meanwhile, across the ‘Pond’ life continues, the Donald eats, shoots and leaves, the words coming out in no order whatsoever. It appears he is also obsessed with anything that could be done doggy style.
Died like a dog, left like a dog, a bit of a shaggy dog story. I shall leave you to add your own references. It won’t be much of a downward dog stretch… as he leaves the room with the contented smile of a trumping dog!
Michael Bloomberg has thrown his ten-gallon hat into the ring, and The D is trying to work out if it is fake news or not.
D is biden (sic.) his time and threatened with in peach, which given the colour of his hair will make his face look apricot…
Someone I have never seen dressed in peach, is Susan my elegant, sometime breakfast companion who has taken up dancing to occupy some of her free time. Always spritely, she loves to flamenco, but has also been known to tango and being an extremely attractive woman, she is not short of admirers. At a recent tea dance one beau stepped forward, hand outstretched.
‘Would you like to tango?’ he asked, ‘we can dance it hip to hip.’ He added. Yet, they had turned less than half the floor when Susan had become aware that this was not Rosaline’s quivering thigh, more the demesnes that there, adjacent lies, and it were not a quivering!
Quick as a flash she grabbed her castanets and off she whirled, leaving the scoundrel floundering in her wake, holed below the Plimsoll Line, taking on water, rather than sipping champagne, pass me a doble!
Until now I have avoided any mention of HRH Prince Andrew, out of respect for that great Italian dish, ‘Pizza’, which has been dragged into this whole sordid affair through no fault of its own!
It has to be noted that Pizza Express is not in essence ‘Italian’, and owes more of its heritage to Peterborough than to Naples, but solidarity brother.
Ahhhh, solidarity… you’ll be hearing a lot more of that is Jezza gets in!”
Vintage wash Merino wool cardigans – £175
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