New balls please…

Oh What a Time to be Alive! As I live and breath I never thought I’d bare witness, to the grinding wheels of the Tory machine, falling away quicker than a five year old’s milk teeth.

Our sovereign leader, it appears,  has learned in the most public and  mortifying fashion that calling an eleventh hour election is about as good an idea, as asking the peanut brained people of the United Kingdom if they’d like to play hokey cokey (the EU edition).
Mrs M, in a vote that was meant to be sewn up tighter than a bleeding head wound, some how managed to convert David Cameron’s hard won majority into, well, a hung parliament.
Voters, not content with May’s self congratulatory response to all lines of questioning: ”Brexit means Brexit‘, decided to gift the PM an election night more turbulent and tumultuous than a dinghy ride on the North Sea.
Lefties will be happy to know that the fun and games of June 8 were not the sole reserve of those at the very top.


Zac Goldsmith clung to his parliamentary seat in Richmond (like a dress two sizes small) by a margin of only 45. A figure not generally large enough to sway a council vote on street lights.
With the loss of Kensington and Chelsea too, the summer of ’17 will be a marked as a notoriously sad time in the Tory annals.
It will be remembered as the breath taking moment when even the over privileged residents of a royal borough saw voting Conservative as less than a viable option.
Now TM must face the discordant music coming from the screams of the Tory chorus.
As you can imagine they are not best pleased at the prospect of forming a minority government.
A minority government, which can only be made possible by a display of distasteful cozying up to the DUP.
A party, whose members are known to call on the exacting science of Creationism, when faced with calls to stem climate change.
A party who are anti same sex marriage and abortion.
Sadly they are not anti Tory, though negotiations between the two factions seem to have been going on longer than a Russian novel.
So, Great Britain is faced with another round of political Jenga.  Once again it is ”all change please” on the Parliamentary Express and reinforcements have been called in to
steady the ship; namely Michael Gove.
I believe the Conservatives are now locked in talks with Shergar and Kermit the Frog, in a desperate bid to find a new leader.
George Osbourne, a pear poached in the sweet syrup of Schadenfreude, on this rare occasion is completely and utterly correct; the Prime Minister is indeed a ‘dead woman walking’.
I for one, would not be abashed in admitting there is a joy in observing Theresa May and her cabinet desperately scrabbling about in the dirt and dark. Though I do feel a reticence at the smirk it surely has brought back to Osbourne’s face.

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