Breaking News 6PM EST: Exit polls in UK showing likely hung Parliament. Not time for Labor to celebrate with kippers on toast quite just yet though.
It is 5am on Thursday June 8th, 2017. The rains have stopped in Florida, after drowning us out for 3 days running. I live near the ocean. There is an odd white glow in the horizon. It is not the sunrise. So I decided to post Lesson # 2 for the writer who wishes to be totally Unfuckwithable.
But first, I do a quick check. This is how much time is left before I leave America, as I start to write this post.
88 days and 18 hours, 50 minutes, and 50 seconds.
In five hours, or thereabouts, a man from Yonkers, NY, who used to run the FBI will begin testifying against the Tangerine Tyrant in what in a DC bar is being billed as the early morning Comey Hearing Covfefe. Nothing will happen afterwards. I trust Comey has great security. This is a country of cromags with guns. They have been calling for the lynching of Al Green for at least a week. Al Green is a Congressman from Texas. Al Green is black.
Meanwhile, people are already voting in Britain. Nothing will happen there either. Theresa will win a majority in Parliament. Brexit will proceed. England, my birthplace, will become smaller.
The Independent took a poll earlier this week; besides predicting the result of today’s UK election, it revealed that a large percentage of British voters want a new middle of the road party in England.
What the Independent does not report is that there is already such a party in London. It’s called the Young Ones, named after the famous Cliff Richards film from the 60s. The title is meant to make all the UK boomers feel comfy inside about yesterday.
The Young Ones were hatched in a subversive little club on Landor Rd in Clapham named Cafe Cairo. Quirky little place. Nice red front doors. Big tent in the back. Vodka Karkaday is worth a try, but tell the barkeep to go heavy on the open pour, with none of that measured jigger shit. You can smoke weed there, too, and coppers will let you be. There was a bit of an arson bother a while back, but that’s all in the underground past now. Yet they did ban any band from covering Fire in Cairo since then, out of precaution; and, revealingly, there’s no mention of the Comey testimony in Al Ahram, Egypt’s quasi official newspaper. (How’s that for a blatant non sequitor?)
No worries. Cairo Cafe is the sensible place to hang, if you are young and hip in London and can’t afford Mount Street or Cadogan Square.
It’s everything the Geezers are not: multicultural, sophisticated, but, you still have to be able to afford 2 thousand quid a month to live in a tiny flat in the neighborhood. No matter, Tube’s right there to take you to that cushy job in The City, as long as the big American banks hang around.
Two thousand quid pcm. Geezers in Stafford can’t afford that.
Hear the dentures gnashing as they vote?
When the history of England in the early part of the 21st Century is written, much will be made of the Cairo Cafe. Mark my words.
For this is really what this all about, both here, in England, and France. In France, the Young Ones have already won; Sunday’s parliamentary vote will only cement the Gallic youth movement taking place. In America, the Geezers prevailed. For now.
In the UK, Yesterday’s People, the tired, old liners, pensioners mostly, or Cling-ons (as I call them), simply won’t let go: they’ll put up with anything the Tories throw at them, so long as it’s not someone called Mo courting their granddaughter.
That’s really what the Brexit is all about.
The Geezers want it to be 1966 again. The ball did cross the goal line during that marvelous World Cup. Bus Stop is playing on Radio Caroline. Life is good, again. London is white, again.
No more Pakis or Muslims or Caribs or Africans ruining everything. Harrod’s still in English hands. Life is as it should be.
The Young Ones, however, know better.
They live in a different world. They don’t think about the Hollies much. They’re waiting to catch the bus to the future, while the Geezers queue up by the voting machines, bereft, silently regretting all the buses along the way that they’ve missed.
What to do?
The Young Ones have a plan. It is about not giving The Geezers a free ride anymore — can’t bloody afford it, mate — but doing this with an English sense of fair cricket.
Here’s their plan.
Anyone over 70 will be given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. They can live 1 more year anywhere they want: in the South of France, for example, or the Costa del Sol, and in Grand Style at that (within reason, of course: they can’t stay at the Negresco in Nice, for example).
Slavic floozies will be provided, free of charge, because that is the fantasy of all old white men everywhere: to shag someone half their age, whose skin doesn’t look like drooping crepe warmed over, so long as a ready supply of Viagra is available, even if that doesn’t fix the weak stream and small load problem.
Then, after the year is up, cheerio.
What about those who don’t take up the offer? Makeshift council housing in the Hebrides; no heat or running water. And of course no NHS to prolong the agony. Why delay the inevitable?
The choice is stark, but humanitarian. It is the only answer really. And what is so fab about this, is that the campaign song for this will actually be Sir Cliff on tour, singing his immortal song.
Tomorrow sometimes never comes indeed.
88 days, 18 hours, 32 min, and 16 secs left till blast off. The rest of the day should be fun, with a loverly, big F.
Meanwhile, I just wrote over 600 words in 20 minutes. Can you?
You are a failed writer. You haven’t written a bloody thing except that drunken note to your ex since Tony Blair was PM. But now, you want to validate your absurd, pointless existence. You want to prove that you can really write, once and for all. So do it. Prove it. Write a snarky comment about the Young Ones platform. Can’t? Hebrides, mon. Bitch, that.