ANY OLD IRONY

He doesn’t drink alcohol because it clouds his brain. His only known vices are Big Macs, long ties, Fox News, the acquisition of money rather than wealth, the magic mirror which tells him he is beautiful, and golf. 

But the very idea that lurking inside Donald Trump’s fat Tardis-in-reverse head there is a coruscating Wildean wit, capable of cutting ironic sarcasm, or indeed recognisable English, is risible. The intellectual zenith of Donald’s Quip Quotient would be calling someone a ‘loser’ or accusing them of peddling fake news. Stuff, in other words, which would embarrass a nine-year-old. As an experienced and successful con-man, he knows that when it comes to suckers, there is one born every minute; yet even the high priest of poppycock is going to have a hard time convincing his undereducated constituency that he was being ‘sarcastic’ when he described the possible benefits of ingesting disinfectant. A Trump America is doomed. Their best hope is that between now and November he chokes on one of his cheeseburgers, or trips over his tie. Or stabs himself in the eye with that giant pen he can barely write his name with.


A FISTFULL OF DULLARDS

It seems that the cheap sportswear entrepreneur and Spurs fan Mike Ashley, so beloved by loyal supporters of the football team he bought 13 years ago and dragged into the gutter, has relinquished his strangulating grip on Newcastle United FC.  Saudi Arabia’s Public Investment Fund, headed by suspected state murderer Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, will acquire an 80% stake in the club, the other 20% being shared by Amanda Stavely’s venture capital company and the property investment brothers David and Simon Reuben. Speaking as a lifelong Magpies supporter, I am forced to ask; wasn’t having a thick uninterested owner with a chain of chav shops bad enough? Evidently not. It appears that wherever you find an oil-soaked, head-chopping, woman-hating, contract-killing regime ruled by a family dictatorship with access to an unlimited supply of dirty cash, there’s a desperate football ‘fan’ who is prepared to overlook ‘that sort of thing’ if it means his team can buy their way to glory. OWN GOAAAAAAAL!


YOU’RE SO PRITI

When will Dominic ‘Blackbeard’ Cummings finally get the message and order his thick-as-mince Home Secretary to walk the plank? Priti Patel’s recent, reluctant broadcast to the nation was even more ham fisted than her nice-but-dim colleague Matt “Tony” Hancock’s; not so much for the fact that she was so obviously surprised to have been thrust into the limelight, but that the time spent on its preparation had been so far exceeded by the time spent in makeup and wardrobe. I estimate by a factor of about ten. I have never seen Medusa eyebrows before and found myself much more interested in whether they would overcome their struggle and finally escape from Priti’s panicking face than in the content of her halting, ghost-written speech. As a proven incompetent, already sacked as International Development Secretary for using her political errands for personal gain, her mealy-mouthed non-apology for her government’s astounding lack of action over PPE for the NHS revealed only one thing, the game is up. As for her second appearance, where she proudly asserted that rates of shoplifting have declined since all the shops were closed; the graphs speak for themselves. Bar brawls and incidences of road rage are also mysteriously down. Even a blinkered sociopath like Cummings must see that when your publicity-shy Home Secretary, manages to cock up a press conference twice – the job of maintaining any public illusion of competence or sincerity is bound to become very difficult. It is now impossible.


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