Once upon a time, I struggled to find things to write about. Political intrigues were relatively few and far between. Not any more. Each day is like the subsequent film in a horror franchise: with more gore, more dismemberment, and a grossly superior body count to squeal at.
It’s possibly worth mentioning, we’re now in the latter stages of that horror franchise. Towards the end, where the few remaining goodies face insurmountable odds, and are on the verge of being annihilated. The villain now commits massacres that make previous efforts seem like a Disney film, and save for a wholly unlikely and unforeseeable twist of fate, the villain has won. Checkmate.
We’ve definitely reached that point. However, I feel less optimistic about the Hollywood ending.
Wake up Britain, wake the f**k up NOW
Glancing through a slew of headlines today, amid the newsfeed I have set up to specifically bring me tidings of doom on a daily basis, I spied something that truly made me sick to my stomach. In fact, it was the same kind of bemused panic I experienced on June 24th last year, finding out my country had just voted to potentially cripple itself economically, and adopt the road to far-right nationalism: