So, that’s it then.
Obama has been safely tucked back into the White House, Donald Trump’s hair-piece has become a danger to low flying aeroplanes in Scotland, as he may have retreated to his golf resort there, and the press has packed up and moved to a cliff to wait for the seemingly inevitable Thelma & Louise moment of the American government. That is, when they decide to do a financial reboot of the classic scene of that movie, when all the police have surrounded the lovers, and they drive over the cliff together.
Also Theresa May has announced that Romanians and Bulgarians will now be treated like every other EU citizen like me, a fact that has made the readers and commenters of that most peculiar of British rotten institutions, The Daily Fail, hum and spark from the outrage. There is a strand to the middle class of this country that is deeply rotten and that stinks like a festering wound, and that is most readily apparent in the comment field and pages of The Daily Mail.
It is quite the spectacle to see, to be truthful. But then the machinations of this BNP slash UKIP part of the British Public is always a spectacle in the same way that a person that has fallen on only eating raw fish-guts, and without intervening baths or showers, is interesting from a psychological and social perspective. Or the fascination one may have about a Tourette’s sufferer that had an attack while being stopped for speeding.
Still, life is back to normal, and a certain 17-year old British guy don’t have to have a deeply rationalised and thought-out opinion about the election prospects of the leader of a foreign nation, the aerodynamic dangers of hair-pieces, or the vapid reactionary nature of the Durleys of this country. Right? I hope so, although I do note that there is definite Samba beat to the Republican rhetoric, and the salsa and the Corona beers are replacing the Budweiser light in order for the message of the republican to capture the lost flock of the Latino population of the USA.
Oh well, back to normal. And back to school. It’s a Monday, with all that this bring of teen angst and drama and tired bodies inhabiting the desks and pulpits of my ordinary life. An ordinary life that will include an audition of a sort because the band I spoke about before has contacted me and asked if I want to come and meet and sing with them.
I readily jumped on the chance. I also jumped on cookies when I came home, because Mark had an urge to make cookies today. There’s nothing quite like coming home to a house that smells of cookies baking in the oven, let me tell you. In comparison to that, Obama and the boys can drive off that cliff, Theresa may hire a harem of young Romanians, and Donald Trump’s hair-piece may die in an air-strike.
I have cookies. The world is all right.