Republics going Bananas

Have you noticed that it’s no longer possible to tell who the gibbering Mad Folks are any more? That nightmare when someone gets on the bus and you don’t see his wireless earpiece, and everyone looks fixedly at the floor, while praying, ”Please God, don’t let the looney sit next to me”. Then he sits down and you realise he’s imparting the important news to his chum via Whatsapp that he’s ”on the Number 56 going home”.

These days, because almost every shopper, passenger, pedestrian, cyclist, driver and for all I know astronaut appears to be talking to nobody, it’s no longer necessarily a case of mental illness – and so nobody cares if the alien lizard with three heads sitting next to them might be dangerous.

But this is a hasty conclusion, Cynthia. As I discovered to my chagrin a couple of days ago.

There I was, Billy Nomates sitting alone at a table in one of my favourite eateries (the owner knows how to keep wine, his chef is very good at tapas, and the waitresses are well trained, well endowed and well, you know what I mean) when a chap looking slightly down at heel sat across from me, muttering away with an air of being just another anonymous acceptor of The New Normal.

This [left] isn’t him, but the eyes popping out like Chapel hat-pegs, and born-again nature of his manic speech orifice, ought to have been enough to alert me. But then, I was half a bottle of Newton Californian Cabernet Sauvignon to the good, and chomping greedily at a plate of deli that brought back fond memories of Barcelona. I was in civvies. I was off-duty as a bollocks deconstructor. I wasn’t paying attention.

Not until, that is, he said to nobody in particular and without the aid of wireless ear-plugs:

”Rejoice, my brother, for the elders of Babylon were right all along!”

I am a magnet for the few remaining New Abnormals. At last, my altered consciousness caught up with Material World reality.

”Oh really?” I queried, adopting an affected tone of English disinterest. But my uninvited guest’s disturbed mind had already moved on.

”Do you hear the trumpets?” he asked. I confessed that no, I didn’t. But he was not to be put-off.

”You will, you will,” he enthused, ”for Joshua’s triumph at Jericho belongs to all of us, and….”

However, his flow was interrupted by a slinky waitress.

”Geoff,” she said quietly. ”We’ve had this discussion before, you really mustn’t bother our….”

”Behold the Jezebel!” yelled my new best friend Geoff, ”see her now in her finery – risen from the sulphurous pulsating evil of Beelzebub!”

For a fleeting second, I wondered if a transexual from Hell might be called Jezebeelzebub, but before such irrelevant jeux de mots could take flight, the heavy mob moved in, and Geoff was ejected – all arms, legs and curses – into the street. It had been a mercifully brief relationship, but from here on I’ll be keeping a close eye on the ears of those who mutter to themselves.

One might conclude that the learning from this incident is not to allow people called Geoff to join your table for dinner. Indeed, throughout my life I have mainly had bad experiences with people called Martin: just to spell this out and to hell with the lawyers, the chief miscreants were Martin Bailey, Martin Wood, Martyn Walsh, Martin Auton, Martin Allen and Martin McKeller…who were in turn exam cheat, keen recipient of currency-stuffed brown envelopes, greedy obese Thatcherite with treble standards, middle class Trot, bent Supermarket client and Scottish tightwad capable of peeling an orange in his pocket.

However, this is not really a viable platform upon which to make decisions, especially if based upon one Geoff. And as it happens, seriously mad people come in all the sizes and all the colours, but the key to understanding the nature of their insane idiocy is whether they hear voices with or without the assistance of small bits of Chinese plastic in their ears.

Earlier this week we were given very clear warning that the entire US State of Colorado may also have flown off to the Funny farm, when its Supreme Court decided to ban Donald Trump from the POTUS ballot list on the grounds of incitement to riot, being seen laying a trail of gunpowder in the basement of the Congress and persistent flouting of laws that haven’t been thought up yet but soon will be.

The usual suspects (in the shape of CNN, Wapo and the New York Times) gleefully reported the decision, once more referring to the January 6th garden party as a mob, a coup d’etat, and an insurrection….on the same morning that another ”defendant” was cleared of all charges relating to the original event. But despite these bulletins from the Ministry of Truth, the reality is that the Court was split 4-3 in favour of the ban, and the general feeling yesterday was that this insane move would be overturned by the national Supreme Court in due course.

Should that not be the case, it may well be time pull the loft-ladder down, and take out the machine gun to give it a good clean before going to stock up with bullets from the local antiques store. I write that because the Colorado decision, if it remains intact, will be an open invitation to every State legislature to declare Trump an official Unperson.

So let’s just add up the score: in one county alone during the 2020 Potus farce, over 11,000 votes have since emerged as fake – but it’s against the law to claim the outcome was rigged – no campaign protection will be given to RFK Jr, Trump has been charged with 18 sexual assaults, then upped to 26 [the guy must have formidable stores of energy] of which just 1 [one] went to Court relating to an alleged incident from 1995 or 1996 – his accuser being uncertain about the exact year, having waited twenty eight years to make the accusation. Such is the nature of life-changing trauma. (The jury threw out the rape charge)

One wonders what the next attempt to keep any anti-surveillance State candidate away from the voters will involve. Trial by water, perhaps – whereby a large millstone is tied to Kennedy’s feet, after which he is dumped in the nearest lake: if he floats, he’s a witch, if he sinks, he drowns….and a Congressional Committee records a verdict of accidental death.

In Trump’s case, Joe Biden insists on the Rule of Law being scrupulously followed. A pop-up Amphitheatre is hastily constructed in which The Donald must do battle with a hungry raging bull. To even up the odds a little, Trump is buried in the sand up to his neck. The bull charges and, as it leaps into the air above the defendant’s head, Donald Trump nuts the angry animal in the testicles.

”Fight fair you ginger bastard!” yells Sleepy Joe.

It’s only a matter of time.

And finally on this side of the Pond, weep copiously for any hope you ever had that the Brits have any kind of HM Opposition that just might have a pair of testicles capable of offering an alternative to national chaos in the pursuit of Totalitarian World Government.

We’ve already seen Keir climbing even further up Trudeau’s anus horribilis than Rishi Sunak…

….but now there he is toeing the Pentagon/CIA line that sees the billion dollar crook Zelensky once more depicted as a hero, and giving thanks to British soldiers for courage shown in the face of attacking a Russian leader who [most thinking Brits know perfectly well] is merely trying to get the American elite to stick to promises made by George Bush Sr in the previous century – and stop encouraging Zelensky’s fascists to make a mockery of the 2014 ceasefire in the Russian-speaking regions of the Ukraine.

Gosh, but how lucky we are to have a functional Two-Party system…he wrote, with just the merest Himalayan range of mordant sarcasm to give the game away.

What in God’s name makes the po-faced former bureaucrat Keir Starmer convinced that Schwab, WHO, Trudeau, Zelensky and Bidenite Global Unipolar scrambled-egg hats have anything to offer my birthplace other than crushing serdom?

The man is perhaps an idiot, perhaps an Orwellian apparatchik from Room 101 or, Heaven help us, both.

John Ward has gone for a long lie down in a dark room