I know I told you I had a yacht and a big cock, and it turns out it’s an inflatable canoe and three inches on a warm day, but picture the sunny uplands.
Think of the carbon emissions we’ll save circling around Teddington Lock not the Bay of Biscay. Given I also can’t get it up, there’s no threat of making babies that’ll blame solar panels for causing Covids 37 to 43 and feed Twirl wrappers to dolphins. The fact that you weren’t thinking of the climate crisis all along says more about your priorities than mine to be honest.
I can say absolutely anything I want, and when the truth doesn’t quite marry up don’t think for a moment I’ll act contrite. This is the Age of Fuckallaccountability.
You’ll know who springs to mind when we study this golden era of truth twisting. Last night our heroic leader told us that it’s best we start planning for the tariffs we’ll face if a dump we’ve innocently fired down a British khazi ends up rolling up a beach at Dieppe. Long gone are the spirited words: “There is no plan for no deal because we are going to get a great deal.” A great deal more fucking poor apparently.
The intricacies of the Brexit negotiations are of as much interest to me as they’ve lately been to Barbara Windsor. There may still be a deal, but even getting this close without one is a remarkable turnaround from trestle tables covered with cheap brie and prosecco amid the blue passport-waving 24-hour Morris dance of 2020s Britain we were promised.
But try as I might to put Brexit’s cast of charlatans from my mind, the fact that we’re completely inured to their scalding bullshit remains the one thing that can raise my hackles from their slumber. They say whatever the hell they want. We let them. And no-one ever has to be held to account for it, and apparently never will.
Examples seem so bountiful you could leave the house and bump into one quicker than a cough and an intensive care bed. Far quicker in fact, given these very same leaders have bullshitted us all into an imminent fresh round of tightened lockdowns. But come now, let’s stick with the non-stop beano of Brexit.
“British people will still be able to go and work in the EU; to live; to travel; to study; to buy homes and to settle down.” Johnson.
“Coming to a free trade agreement with the EU should be one of the easiest in human history.” Fox.
“Absolutely nobody is talking about threatening our place in the Single Market.” Hannan.
“We didn’t vote to leave without a deal.” Gove.
A blithering parade of imbeciles and no mistake, who half this country’s population put their faith in for reasons best known to the ghosts of the National Front. All hope has come to nought, it appears. So, at a time when everyone loves a good blaming, who do we blame for this? Perhaps the people who told us it would never happen, then proceeded to make it happen? Could we maybe force them to stand behind their quotes and actions?
No, because in the Age of Fuckallaccountability there’s zero chance of any of these people being held responsible for the forthcoming tailbacks, scarcity, hardship, unemployment, and probable strikes and riots. Dyson and the car factory bloke have already upped and fucked off abroad, Farage can go live in Germany with his German family and there’s nothing any of us can do about Mr Wetherspoon.
Those left in actual paying government jobs will stand in front of cameras to say that an ‘Australia-style arrangement’ is great news for us all. In case you’ve somehow fallen for this line, let me clarify: Australia has no deal with the EU. A recent Australian Prime Minister has said his country are doing everything they can to get a deal: “Australians would not regard our trade relationship with Europe as being a satisfactory one.”
An Australia-style arrangement is precisely, exactly and entirely the same as an Afghanistan-style agreement, yet none of the arseholes about to Taliban the economy will ever serve a day in the jail of public opinion, let alone Pentonville. Johnson in particular will be held up as defending British interests against uppity foreigners who simply don’t understand their place, nor ours as ‘global leaders’, of fuck all but injecting old dears.
You can only assume it’s the Trump effect, where the world’s been completely beaten down by his every word being utter nonsense. We don’t care if liars are punished, we just want them to go away, and we cheer from beneath the rubble when they do. I’m no fan of ‘Won’t somebody think of the children?’ but for Christ’s sake, what would any impressionable 12 year old think of this? Say what you like, do what you want, pay no penalty and stroll off chuckling. An entire generation of cake-and-eat-its. An entire generation of Jacob Rees Moggs, and presumably a generation after that of kids called Alberitious, Flatulencia and Getafix.
But since there seems no appetite for public inquiry, and no sacking or pillory even when there is one, I guess all we can do is embrace this period of saying what we want and meaning not a jot of it. If nobody can ever hold us accountable we can do as we please and have a merry old time doing so.
Wife catches you halfway up a barmaid? But for me, she could have really hurt herself falling from that height. Outed as still pissed on a Tuesday morning Zoom call? S’not booze, s’the pills for stress coz this job, no support, tough year, mental health and that innit. Broke the virus rules for your 60th birthday bash? Six months off on full pay.
Or maybe we all just deploy that catch-all excuse, the alibi that absolves us of every crime. Caught? Rumbled? Found out? Nicked?
Eye test mate.
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