Writing

Oh my country.

I got divorced from my country today. It has been coming for some time. The signs were there, along the way, half registered in my mind, but never thought terminal.

It was Diana that started it all of course. Always another woman. All that uncontrolled public crying and wailing and the reverential laying  and hurling of plastic flowers for the death of a plastic princess. The country went mad. Collective insanity ruled. For a simpering, self-obsessed girl plucked randomly from some minor aristo crèche. I stood and watched the stiff upper lips collapse, the Brit reserve melting to a soppy, crying goo of third world candle-lit  mass hysteria. This was not the country and people I knew. I felt alien from my own people. Now everyone cries all the time. You are not human or caring or sensitive if you don’t cry.  You can’t get on the telly with out crying, or wiping the tear or welling.  Cry your heart out to prove you still have one. Ah, bless.

Then there was the other man. Tony. Even now the name burns on my tongue. He promised so much, gave so little and then took it all.  He span his way to riches and left us with only his deceit and greed. Along with the bodies, the devastation, the poverty and the blueprint for the new spinning politics to come.

The politics of personality and prole pleasing. No principles needed. No manifesto, no rationalised debate, no parties, no opposition allowed.  Person power politics.  Slag the vulnerable, piss on the establishment wave your wads to the hooligans and white trash. Trump. Farage, Johnson, Le pen. Feed the masses their prejudices, pump up their fears and take the gravy train to Blairville.

And now this country where I reside has turned its back on its friends. The friends it had fought to save and help in the days when we were still a noble, rational and caring country.  Who together have achieved so much. Like peace, security, freedom, justice, trade. The boring things of life.  Now we have deserted them when they need us most. We have pulled up the drawbridge and cast ourselves adrift, the Agincourt bowmen’s two fingers our parting gift..  Our old have abandoned our young to their recessionary, dismal futures for the price of  fake promises that can never be made good.

We are now a Divided Kingdom, a Small Britain.   Shame on us. My Decree Nisi is complete.