I went to Tesco’s on the way home from the pub. I wanted bread.
It was all chopped up. Into slices. As if I don’t know how to use a bloody knife. I stood and ranted at mid-air about the fact I had no choice except to buy chopped-up bloody bread. I was not happy. Not one bit.
Admittedly, I had caught the news on the TV at the pub.
First, my first glimpse of Theresa May’s husband. She makes me want to smear my body in raw garlic, wave crucifixes and recite psalms, knowing full well that the sheet glass will likely still slide off the lorry and decapitate me. Him?
Well, he looks like a gimp. He may as well go the whole hog and wear the rubber suit in public with an apple shoved in his gob to stop him talking. Speaking of hogs, I never thought I would feel wistful or nostalgic about a Tory Prime Minister that had a penchant for fucking pigs’ heads when a student but it’s a funny old world.
Then, the bombshell. Boris bleeding Johnson as Foreign Secretary? A man who lied his arse off for his own ends, then immediately admitted he had done so? He is going to go down a storm with foreign governments. He has no concept of the idea of international community whatsoever.
They aren’t going to call an election. They will pursue Brexit based on the far right agenda of immigration control. The damage they will wreak in three years is untold.
I’m not happy. And they won’t even let me buy proper bread.
America. Dear God. Vote for Hillary. Even if you loved Bernie. Please.