A lighter look at the news

  

Well, colour me perplexed. Our Prime Minister, Keir Starmer, has resigned. Not because the people who elected his party in a landslide demanded it and not because the people forced him out, but because his own party demanded it. His own party forced him out.  And so, the game of Prime Minister's Musical Chairs has started. 

Will it be Wes Streeting? The man who got the ball rolling and got most of the nation scratching their collective heads and googling his name. What those people saw, was someone who looked like a cross between an altar boy and Piers Morgan. No thank you, seemed to be the general consensus.

It appears, most likely, sexy shorts Burnham will be our next Prime Minister. The man who the media told us may have a chance to win Makerfield in the recent elections there, although Reform had a very good chance of winning except Restore would probably divide the vote.

Turns out, no such thing happened. For all the hand wringing caused by the media,  Britain's Poundland Trump, Farage, and his party, were no competition at all and Andy Burnham won in a landslide.

I don't know about you, but I am so fed up of this need for immediate gratification. The impatience and criticism of a leader, especially by the media, before they have had a chance to create noticeable change, grates on my last nerve.

The hysteria created by the media, gets pounced on by sanctimonious politicians who are concerned for the welfare of the people. Not as much as they are concerned for their own personal welfare and the welfare of their egos, of course. 

There is no denying that Starmer was a tad robotic and, dare I say, boring. But we have had a charismatic Labour Prime Minister. Remember Blair? He charismatically convinced us that Iraq still had weapons of mass destruction. A war was started based on those invisible weapons.

The leader across the pond is said to be charismatic. Colour me perplexed once again because I cannot see it. Apparently, only specially chosen people can see it.

It is true that the only time Starmer caused us any amusement, was when he called 'hostages,' 'sausages.' I'd rather smile at a slip of the tongue from a boring leader, than cringe at the ignorant and cruel humour of certain other leaders.

Well, it looks like it won't be long before hot pants is in the hot seat. There is however, some disagreement in the party, as some want a swift transition to Andy Burnham being made the PM and others want a leadership contest. 

Either way, you can be sure of one thing. It won't be long before these same people, led by the media, will commence their now familiar demand for a change in leadership and the whole Prime Minister's Musical Chairs will start all over again.

Last week, the G7 leaders met up in Evian where the water flowed freely. I am sure some important things were achieved (and I am not being sarcastic at all) but it all got overshadowed by what I can only describe as The War Of The Poses.

It featured Donald Trump (there's a surprise) and Giorgia Meloni, Italy's Prime Minister. It started with Old Mad Donald claiming that Meloni had begged him to pose for a photograph with her. (He failed to mention if she had tears in her eyes whilst doing said begging.)

This incensed Meloni. She retaliated that it did not happen and that Italians never beg. Which, unsurprisingly, led to Trump resorting to his usual mud slinging. Meloni was up to the task and retaliated in kind. And so, The War Of The Poses continues...

Until next time, try and keep it light. 

 

 

   

 

Confessions of a Windmill

 

I'll start with a confession. I am not actually a windmill, I am a wind turbine. But the person I am going to talk about, calls us windmills. I guess he has a very low intelligence quotient.

It was a normal day by the shore in Aberdeen. The sun wasn't shining but it wasn't raining either. My friends and I were chilling -  just shooting the breeze, so to speak.

But then, we got wind of a developing situation (that's how we usually get our news). Our arch enemy, a man whose name I cannot bring myself to utter (hint: the first three letters of his name rhyme with 'Con'), was crossing the pond to visit his golf course. In other words, President Flotsam was going to Jetsam across the pond.

We hoped that it was just a rumour but alas, it was true. The day arrived and we saw him in the distance. We were paralysed with fear. We'd heard that he had once queried whether a hurricane could be stopped by a nuke. None of us were taking the risk. The only blades that moved were those of the tall grass nearby.

However, when I could bring myself to cast a cursory glance at our Don Quixote on steroids, he was just a hunched over old man with a silly hat on his head. Nevertheless, we did not move our blades, for fear of drawing attention to ourselves. Apparently, his hatred for us is because we kill birds and make annoying sounds. (He's a good one to talk).

Unfortunately, keeping still was a losing battle. While we could easily handle the strong North winds, we were unable to withstand the hot air that emanated every time President Flotsam opened his mouth to speak. Despite our best efforts, our blades started to move reluctantly, in a desperate attempt to disperse the hot air and the accompanying odour (which leads me to suspect that the hot air was not just emanating from his mouth).

Fortunately for us, he was distracted by the people with cameras and note pads, shouting questions at him - the name Epstein seemed to come up quite a lot (not quite sure why they were bringing up The Beatles' manager after all this time). But then again, maybe they were not asking about that Epstein because the name seemed to trigger him so much, that a convoy of golf carts were summoned and they drove away to the accompaniment of Memories from the musical Cats. Apparently his favourite musical is 'Cats', yet he claims to hate us because we kill birds. 

As he drove away, our blades, in unison, hummed 'The Windmills of Your Mind'. How we howled with laughter for the rest of the evening (some might've called it our Stormy revenge.)

We saw him on two occasions after that. One was in the evening when he appeared at the entrance of his resort, flanked by the Prime Minister of the UK, Keir Starmer on one side and his wife on the other. (Keir Starmer's wife, not Mrs Flotsam). 

Poor Mrs Starmer looked like a wax work from Madame Tussauds. She stood stock still and expressionless. But then again, she was standing next to him, so she could well have been holding her breath.

The last time we saw him, he was standing in front of a red ribbon, his two sons on either side of him. Interesting looking men. The bearded one looked like he had a bladeless wind turbine indelicately rammed up his spine (apologies to my fellow wind turbines for that analogy) and the other son looked like he'd been blessed with a double set of teeth (or cursed with an extra small mouth.) Either way, they looked like the perfect casting for a reboot of Dumb and Dumber. Dumbest then proceeded to cut the red ribbon and once again opened his mouth to speak. Cue for our blades to start spinning furiously.

Finally, we got wind that he was back in his country. We really would be useless without our friend the wind. 

With him gone, things could return to normal again. Can't say the same for his country. But then again, they are a democracy and they chose him (again). 

They could have chosen an intelligent, qualified woman but they chose a dumb, unqualified man. As they say in his country, Go figure.