There’s a spoken skit at the end of Drake song Child’s Play where two women talk about their fatigue. “Motherfuckers drunk and tired,” chimes in an unknown man and one of the women cries “I’m tired boss!”
Well that’s me, as I prepare to watch the fourth unelected leader of my lifetime so far take office. Boss, I am tired.
Anyway, Rory Stewart tried to pet a cat and it didn’t give a fuck.
It speaks volumes that Rory Stewart is being widely received as the maverick of the race of clowns. Stewart is one of the most Tory people going; he has an almost impeccable record for voting in favour of privatising the NHS, squeezing already strapped benefits recipients and, of course, sending our brave troops to fight lovely, illegal wars. Even his drug of choice (opium) is Tory to the core; what’s more archaic and traditional than getting spangled on a narcotic last in vogue when Queen Victoria reigned over an empire on which the sun will never set?
Yet simply by dint of being polite and displaying a willingness to actually interact (or walk… everywhere… all the time…) with the masses, Stewart has been cast as some sort of radical Conservative Jesus. Looking at the competition, how could he not?
There’s Jeremy Hunt, a man so unpleasant that broadcasters can’t resist swapping out the ‘H’ for a ‘C’ while live on air. Sajid Javid, the Home Secretary who incessantly reminds the nation how his parents arrived on these shores with only £1 to their name – conveniently leaving out the fact that he has previously tried to make it impossible for anyone to repeat the feat if they have less than £30k in the bank. Andrea Leadsom, the ultimate snobby mummy. And Boris. Fucking Boris. The cartoon bear with a teflon exterior who can weather being the most incompetent statesman of the last decade, drugs scandals, infidelity, just being a general tow-headed, conniving prick and STILL come out as the frontrunner for PM.
Fuck these braying elites. Larry the cat, shying away from Rory Stewart’s gnarled and grasping claws is us; Stewart represents the entire coterie of self-interested, insulated, power-hungry politicians vying for the chance to be the next leader to bring Britain further to the brink, to really take the crowbar to our collective kneecaps.
We are Larry; we can make our displeasure known but we’re ultimately powerless in the face of what is apparently democracy. Sooner or later there’ll be a new sheriff in 10 Downing Street, elected by only 160,000 of the UK population. And they’ll control the Whiskers Chicken pouches.
And like Larry, we cannot bear it. Big mood.