Out with a bong.

Just a quickie. Puff, puff. Pant, pant. Ding, dong.

Who wants a bong? Go on, take a bong, you’ll feel better for it. A bong means different things to different people but it’s quite refreshing to have the word bouncing around the lower echelons of the news today. We’ve had pretty much a solid week of Meghan and Harry and planes of various types and so the nation needs the distraction of something silly and needless and very, very British; hence we’ve come up with a story about bongs.

Boris is back and blurry and looking like he’s spent 4 weeks being molested by a family of rhinos. I put quite a bit of value in appearance but when it comes to him it’s more about performance; there’s not a single clothes size in all the shops in the land that could perfectly accommodate his strange, unwieldy form and so he has to produce the goods in some other fashion. If he can he’ll get points and if he can’t……well, no one lasts forever. You can’t fault him for enthusiasm and optimism though, and so as Brexit pops its head back out of the anus of British political culture he’s got his flag ready to plant firmly in the middle of it.

 
There are always some things worth celebrating but other times it just isn’t worth the effort. New Year’s Eve isn’t worth a mouse fart of a firework and so Brexit isn’t worth a single hit on the bong machine that is Big Ben. Sadly Big Ben and the entire Elizabeth Tower are both up on bricks at the moment, being tinkered with by clock strokers, who are doubtless overcharging by the million. Boris and his chums don’t care about this though, they want Big Ben brought back to life, like a boxer from a coma, and clanged about in every direction until he’s dizzy and buggered and doesn’t know why.

 
And all this is to ring in the triumphant new dawn of a post Brexit Great Britain. It won’t be great. It’ll barely be Britain. All this will cost more money and time (is there any left?) and will, inevitably, be a disastrous let down as we watch Nigel and Jacob and the rest of that sordid sack of ‘Leave’ whores clink glasses and toast all they have achieved (it is conceivable, even to a ‘Remainer’ like me, that leaving the EU would be far easier to digest if it hadn’t been orchestrated by such a tawdry pack of third rate hyenas).

 
So the suggestion is to get Big Ben to let out a couple of wheezy bonglets and while half the country tucks into their Iceland sausage rolls and cheap fizz the other half will sling a collective rope over the garage beam and reach for the creaky foot stool of the future. My point is that the bishing, bashing and boshing of Big Ben should be saved for moments of a unified national celebration (or mourning), not for an event that has essentially fucked the country in half. If anything I would like to see a Brexit celebration that involves Boris straddling the Thames at Westminster in a gesture of almost Napoleonic hubristic folly while an oversized wrecking ball takes pot shots at his engorged, patriotic, pale hairy scrotum. You never know, a lot of people from both sides would probably pay a bit more tax to see that.
Happy Brexit day, if it ever comes.

G B Hewitt. 15.01.2020