The pandemic has brought out the best in the British people. Specifically it has allowed the world to witness their deep and abiding ability to knuckle down and be subservient. It does not matter who is your lord, it matters that you are able to tug that forelock, bend that head and allow the natural order to dominate.
Clearly this did not happen by accident.
Forethought went into preparing for the plague. Union bosses had to become part of the establishment. They needed flats in fancy developments. Schools had to be essentially privatised and the heads placed on salaries sufficient to send their own children to fully private schools. Don’t rock the boat. You need that salary. For several years we needed a leader of the official opposition who was a multi-millionaire, political careerist MP with no achievements to his name, other than raising a banner now and then. A man to overturn the old order? Ha! Let the rabble now argue about his reputation and legacy while we make hay as the thunder rumbles and the rain pours down.
Oh, and let’s not forget the eyewatering salaries of the BBC political reporters. Birds of a feather do not always realise they are flocking together.
The Woke do not like it of course, but then the low rent rabble have always been unable to contain the envy that oozes from every pore as they witness the achievements of men who strove for a more impressive accident of birth. An accident of birth with lineage. Something to build upon. To be born deserving of a ladder under your feet? The bunny huggers can not comprehend. Their betters must suffer this and turn the other cheek. Or the other cheque, where David Cameron has been concerned.
This is not to say that hope should not be given for all citizens of this God blessed island.
People must have hope as they stand in the line at the food bank a charitable government has provided. You do not want the great unwashed rioting over home brand cornflakes. They must have stars in their eyes. They must believe they could be on Britain’s Got Talent. Shuffle forward please. One tin of beans each. There you go. You never know, if you behave you could be judged on television.
Hope is what is needed now as the nation prepares to unlock indoor hospitality for a few weeks, ahead of the dominance of the Indian variant. Many reporters are doing their bit by saying “of course numbers are still low”. Happily none of them appear to understand the dread potential of the exponential, even though we’ve done this before. Hope can be exponential too.
To this end the Prime Minister must take to the card table in the Rose Garden with his current partner and announce where they will next holiday. Which sparkling jewel in the Caribbean will they grace next at no personal expense? In this way will the great British people know that it will end, this plague, this haymaker, and the end will be signalled by their first minister in Hawaiian shorts. Then will be a moment not only to savour, but to conga.
