You seem to have found a way to assert a sort of potency without doing any damage; with elegance and an economy of movement and never mentioning fairness or cuts whilst booking your appointment with the nip and tuck man – aging is such a cruelty, darling. Despite the catastrophe of the years there is delight on your face as you bow low in crafty connivance; charm personified with your headwear in hand. It has to be revealed that said hat was rescued from a skip, so outrageous a creation one might almost call it avant-garde. And the teeth, they look almost real.
So unlike the politicians who would not feel they were earning the price of their corruption if they didn’t do as much damage as possible in the short time they will have in power before we find them unbearable and throw them out. Or should that be until McMurdoch tells us to throw them out like some senile emperor overseeing the bloodbath in the Coliseum. As I’ve heard it said on the terraces, the bitch is hot – see those teeth – they call it a smile of welcome in McMurdoch’s bawdyhouse. It was bad enough in those (now seeming) halcyon days of Maggie’s prison farm, but at least Dylan had managed to warn us of what was coming even if we (in our fever of hope) ignored him and carried on with the party. But now . . . what is to be done?
I hear the French still have some courage, still willing to take to the streets in sufficient numbers to make the politicians shiver in masochistic delirium.