Congrats, O Albion, land of good cheer!
As America devolves into a country of malevolent thugs, not to mention bloggers who overstate things just to get some attention (cough, cough); a nation, yes, ruled by a corrupt Congressional cabal — zingzap! — it’s worth pausing to savor the two massively positive election results in the UK and France.
The vote of London’s young, in particular, is a convincingly satisfying repudiation of the Tory vision of a small, nasty, racist country that benefits the elite and is cut off from the Continent and the principles of fairness and tolerance for all.
An England that will scupper its climate change agreements in order to enter into raw material deals with third world banana republics. An England that welcomes the toxic poison tangerine that is donald trump. An England that has been reduced to a damp offshore tax haven for dodgy foreign oligarchs. An England that has cut the size of a Mars bar in half since Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames ruled the charts.
This vote has shown that the UK will no longer only be for the few, as Corbyn says, but the many. UKIP has collapsed and no longer has a seat in Parliament. The tangerine traitor has enough problems of his own right now to bail May out. The only question is who’s going to be thrown out first. I know all about it, guv: after all, I was born in the Midlands when Clement Attlee was PM, even though, regrettably, I’ve been abroad since.
Such trifles cannot interrupt this screed. Thus, I nobly WordPress on, though some might question why bother launching word spaghetti into the response free void of my desolate corner of the Internet, just to see if anything sticks to the wall.
Macron on Sunday can consolidate his rise to power with a sweeping Parliamentary mandate that causes Le Pen and her racist proto Nazi supports to permanently crawl back to the moldy baguettes from whence they ermerged.
Everything I see and read about France today speaks to an energized nation that believes in everything I believe in: liberty, equality, secularism — that is to say, everything except perhaps this.
Which is why I may be relo-ing to Nice, France in September, after a lifetime in the States, including a long stint in the Sunshine State, where I experienced what happens when you drop millions of aging Archie Bunkers from Queens, Lawn Guiland and Joisey smack in the middle of Cracker Land, and salt with every slime ball, con artist east of the Mississippi.
Then again, I may instead move to Gouna: which is near Sohag, a delightful place where I can bathe my aching knees in its restorative black sand and feel my mild RA melt away; plus, I would really like to keep my rental cost down to well under 30% of my travel budget, which would be tough to do in Nice, given that I am also maintaining a house in Fla, for at least a year (in case this expat thingie does not work out) — not a minor detail, unless you’re Daddy Moneybags, that. Idealism can be expensive.
Meanwhile, the Poisoned Generation – I am talking about my generation, the Boomers – that once held so much promise can now trudge toward their graves with the grim certainty that their youthful ideals turned out to be little more than the first stop on the boulevard of hollow, broken dreams.
Boomers, just like Trump, were always about themselves, all along, and no one else. Not for nothing were we once described as the Me generation in our prime; now look at us.
Trump, not Che Guevera; Trump, not JFK or Bobby or Gene; Trump, not Malcolm or MLK; the horror of this reality made more palatable with rising 401Ks and opiods and golf alcohol and perhaps some distant remembrance of “The Movement” which then had nothing to do with prunes.
Trump is the perfect embodiment of a large segment of my generation that has slowly devolved into senescence.
Old, fat, racist, grossly opinionated, incredibly stupid, close-minded, deceitful, self-centered, quasi violent, and with more than a whiff of the malevolent predatory molester seeking to derive a sick satisfaction from twisted games of dominance and submission and able to make the once feared head of the FBI sound like a little choir boy trapped with the monsignor in his boudoir.
As Bill Parcells once said of the NFL, you are exactly what your record says you are.
So, again congratulations to Jeremy Corbyn, and Labor, and fuck the Northern Irish snouts who are going to attempt to prop up May’s already lurching coalition with their brand of homophobic, anti women’s rights, climate change deniers.
The future is not yours, Theresa, nor is it Trump’s. Now here comes the really boring, lectury soap box part, but it’s almost over.
Until the millenials in the States wake up, as have the young in France and now the UK (where I hope they turn any future visit by the orange pig to English soil into a political nightmare), and remove via the ballot box the grotesque claque of gerrymandering politicians who are raping our country up the wazoo, there is little hope for America.
As for my generation — hey, stop snoozing! — what epitaph will it be at this late stage of the game?
Unless we too change, and not just our underwear, which, much like Ireland, is probably torn.
Not to hector, but maybe we can start small by going to see plays such as the new Julius Caesar production at Shakespeare-in-the-Park, then, say, flooding social media with off-the-wall positive reviews, i.e., the sort of in-your-face fake news tactics employed by the alt-right, but unlike them, always making sure that a message of tolerance and non-violence comes through in the end. Nah, fuck that.
Or we can somehow — it’s almost over now, hang in there! — deal with the fact that we once had the opportunity of a lifetime to make this a less evil world the one we were born into.
But we blew it, shagging, and watching football games, and not thinking about much beyond taking care of #1, and now, after rounding the last turn, many of us chose to cast our lot with the pool of political vomit that is donald trump.
There’s the Viva.
Now clean it up.