A new culprit has been added to the seemingly never ending list. Before, and probably still, it was stuff that gave you cancer but now it’s the myriad reasons why folk my age are locked out of home ownership for the rest of their natural born days. Forget avocado toast, the latest mobile phone handset and, oh I don’t know, fancy cheeses. The new reason why that deposit is so impossible to get together is yoghurt.
Thanks to the rampaging progress of capitalism, there’s a luxury version of absolutely everything. And they’ve fallen for it, hook, line and sinker, the giddy spendthrifts that make up the latest generation. They do so insist on only living for the moment with the meagre leftovers of their money after having to stump up for rent, food, air, life, liberty and the latest ringtone for that snazzy up to date handset.
It’s just so very difficult to save up when there are a million and one retail luxuries clamouring for attention. And what’s the point when the threshold is so very far out of bounds? Of course, this utter lack of budgetary savviness is really the sole reason why folk in their twenties to thirties cannot purchase property.
There’s absolutely no relation to soaring house prices, the sprawling property empires of buy-to-let landlords, the demon lizards in disguise who are secretly in control of the entire society, widening wage inequality, the precariously uncertain nature of freelancing and the continually burgeoning gig economy, the paucity of housing stock thanks to a general lack of new or affordable house building, those pesky baby boomers who simply refuse to die and pass on their hoarded gains to their younger relatives who have done precisely as much to earn the right to property and yet seem to desire it nonetheless. Who knows what the real problem is?
At this point, the DUP could call for pretty much anything and it would put the Tories in something of a bind. Thanks to the everlasting wisdom of wangling a Parliamentary majority deal with a party in supposed power sharing talks with a rival party not invited into said deal (it’s not relevant to my point that Sinn Fein don’t take up their seats), any upset will send Theresa May spinning off into teeth gnashing and general upset.
Even before the £1 billion pay off, the DUP knew they had Westminster over a barrel and have continued to milk the situation for all it’s worth. You can hardly blame them for just now starting to have some fun with it now can you? They’ve realised they might not quite get away with their desire for direct rule from London (cheeky scamps that they are, they’d worked out that they’d be top dogs thanks to voting pressures).
So, like schoolchildren greeted with the news that they have to contend with a substitute teacher, they’re seeing what they can get away with. First of all, they want ready meals and cereal, at the taxpayer’s expense, to be served during increasingly defunct talks. Next they’ll start asking if they can just so colouring in rather than adhering to the syllabus or perhaps they could stick on a video instead of whatever the lesson plan calls for?
You’ll know things have truly escalating when the humming starts. DUP MPs, flushed with their own daring, will start disrupting any meeting going and you won’t even be able to tell who the true culprit is. The world’s going to hell in a hand basket after all what with various maniacs with their fingers on buttons of various colours and sizes. Why not have some fun before the definite end of days?
Absolutely no one can be permitted to usurp the Boris. Especially not when they brandish the same old shtick and he does. I think our foreign secretary should be careful, the mask is slipping and his nastier face is beginning to show. I’m sure he doesn’t give very many figs or anything else regarding my opinion so I doubt anything I have to say will change his behaviour all that much.
These days, Johnson is a committed fan of the hardest Brexit it’s possible to achieve. He’ll brush aside any worries anyone might have and whip out his raging forecasts about how overwhelmingly well of we’ll be once we’ve crashed out of the EU. It would be so much easier to swallow if you didn’t get the feeling that pre-referendum Boris simply flipped a coin to decide his personal affiliation to leave or remain. Since it came up tails, he’ll stick through thick and thin to the razor thin margin.
As each day ticks by, Boris feels that little bit further from power. This wasn’t how it was supposed to pan out. Whatever the outcome of the 2016 vote, someone else was supposed to hold the tiller of the country steady until Boris was ready to step into the prime ministerial breach. He’d fed his persona during that time as mayor of London, sashayed into a parliamentary seat and he was a heartbeat away from the crown.
Now he’s a ludicrous foreign secretary and the top seat has never felt further away. Even if he can bring himself to reconcile with the fact that he might never get what he wants (no matter how many stars he prays on or rivals he chucks down wishing wells), there are things he can do to make the heartbreak easier. For one, he can quash anyone in the same mould as him if they dare to reach for what is rightfully his. Frankly, I can’t wait for the Johnson-Mogg battle to the death.
There’s a different study trumpeted in the news every week. Who are you to say that pancake races, in whatever form they might take, wouldn’t do any good when it comes to combating neurodegeneration? With a little ill advised extrapolation, I can get current figures to prove absolutely anything I want. Well, you can’t be bothered to prove me wrong and that’s pretty much the same thing. Anyway, you’re dying to hear my hypothesis so that’s a win for me.
Before we get down to any other sort of business, it’s worth establishing precisely what is meant by a pancake race. Mainly because I don’t actually know. It’s suggesting to me that it’s either people running around with pancakes somehow attached to their body or just being carried or a speed competition in the making of the battery treats. I like the sound of the latter better so that’s what I’ll be endorsing from now on.
Because keeping nans and their ilk baking will be the salvation of the human race. Look at Mary Berry, who I’d quite frankly like to nominate as the queen’s successor for head of the commonwealth (given how much they like Liz II, I think they’d go for this suggestion in a heartbeat. It would be a transition away from the royals and they wouldn’t have to put up with Charles). She brings joy and calories in her wake.
Just think of the televisual opportunities. Forget about the public good of staving off Alzheimer’s and the like and consider the ratings gold. Two pensioners, both alike in status have to face off by making the most delicious pancakes possible against the clock. It’ll be more compelling than [takes a potshot against generic Saturday night programming]. There will be merchandising and celebrity versions and an ultimate champion special. You know you’ll be tuning in.
Can’t the weather get with the programme already? We’re supposed to be selling the highly elaborate myth of global warming here. That can’t possibly chime with the general public as even vaguely true if there are ice storms sweeping the country at regular intervals. Folk will start scratching their heads and demanding to know where the olive groves that were supposed to have suffused Manchester by this point are.
Sure, someone might bring up what they think of as a valid point: that we could just collectively admit that greenhouse gases aren’t actually affecting the world in a demonstrable way. It was an overwhelming hoax that has run wildly out of control. But it would really be far too shameful. The conspiracy theorists would have a field day and we’d never hear the end of it.
Worse than that, they might continue ferreting out various other mistruths and uncover the facts that we never did go to the moon, Theresa May is a literal puppet and chemtrails are actually spreading substances specifically designed to increase the proportion of the population with freckles. You really don’t want to know the precise ins and outs of that last one. We have to continue to present a united front against anyone who might dare to doubt the evidence in front of their eyes.
There are no two ways about it: we’re going to have to step up those plans for harnessing the weather. Frosty cars of a morning aren’t going to convince people that the world is warming by degrees. People are already calling attention to colder temperatures so they’re on the brink of disproving global warming altogether.
Of course, this far in you might start wondering why the global warming lie was started in the first place given that it doesn’t seem to offer all that much scope for profit opportunities. Well, sadly the story there has been lost to the hazy depths of history. For all we know, it was probably the brainchild of a hideously drunken bet.
I’m trying to work out if this is a threat or a promise. I suppose it depends on how you feel about airports. Perhaps we’ve decided that Michel Barnier is doing such a substandard job by not rolling over and capitulating to whatever has decided is its dearest desire this week. As a direct result, the negotiators might have decided to tank the European diplomat’s career. After which he’ll only be able to secure a menial job at one of Britain’s largest airports.
But maybe I’m not giving the man’s personal desires enough credit. Trade negotiations might have become a shade away from unbearable for the man. He might get through the day by fantasising about his dream job: somewhere faintly exotic for him but safe enough to know that he’s never really in any danger. He could well enjoy the prospect of working on the check-in desk, asking people about the exciting trips they’re about to embark on.
However, his diligent actions on behalf of the band of twenty seven are proving harmful to these prospects of working at Heathrow. Some would say that merely proves the integrity of the man, placing his personal ambitions well below the fate of the current negotiations. That’s a hell of an icebreaker when it comes to a job interview.
So we really ought to take pity on Barnier. Not just because he’s constantly getting slagged off in the British press simply for doing his job. And not merely down to the fact that it’s a largely thankless task he’s been saddled with, one party or another was always bound to walk away disappointed. If his ambition is to work near aeroplanes, who are we to deny him? Or, if it’s a frankly bizarre threat then just leave the man alone to get on with the mess we’ve forced everyone else into.
Well, nothing new has actually happened. Of course it hasn’t, we’re still mired in the middle of negotiations that almost definitely won’t pan out as at least half of the participants are hoping. So no particular progress has been made (barring declarations this week regarding customs customs unions). It’s just that the shame is washing over people at different rates.
I’m not entirely sure that I care if this is treasonous language or talking Britain down or whatever it is that the arch leavers say we shouldn’t be doing. And some people are actually waking up to the fact that smashing out of the EU with next to no idea of what’s going on might not be the very best plan ever.
Or not. Those who were very dead set on said crashing out in the first place have had a historic disregard for proper figures. So maybe it’s not so much of a surprise that Rees-Mogg and his disturbingly influential ilk are carrying on with disagreeing with independent numbers that are trying to shout loudly how bad a scheme this is for everyone. Of course, we ought to remember as often as we can that Jacob stands to benefit from a very hard Brexit so he’s not exactly an independent arbiter of whatever might be best for the common man.
So perhaps rather than getting embarrassed for being part of a voting public that brought this nonsense down on all our heads we should take a slightly different track. Those who shout the loudest about leaving in the hardest way of all, we should try harder to hold them all the more accountable for their fighting talk. Let’s go all Westerosi on them (oh come on, this was always going to have the nerdiest vibe possible) and shake a bell behind them, chanting ‘shame’ all the while.