Linguistic exceptionalism.

by Pseud O'Nym

I could write about the fact that since news of Teresa Mays resignation as P.M broke, that the media has lost no time in speculating about who might succeed her in holding that very poisoned chalice, what they might fill it with and who they then might get to try and drink it. And whilst it has been observed that only Conservative Party MP’s and party members will choose her successor – 0.27% of the population – which is about as democratic as the notion of a second referendum; as far as I can tell there has been no discussion in the media about what practically happens between now and the election of a new leader.

Will MP.’s have their summer recess? In what universe does trying to deal with the gravest ever peacetime problem this country has ever faced involve just fucking off when the weathers good for six weeks? Then come back for a few days work before having another three week jolly for the conference season? And this is all perfectly reasonable, so much so that we pay for this? Are they taking the fucking piss? I never swear when writing this blog, but for such brazen contempt of the people they ostensibly serve, I’m going to making an exception.

Who knows, maybe there will be a concise yet detailed explanation of what happens next, not as the current situation relates to the Conservative party, but more importantly how this affects our on-going political impasse? Is over two weeks of political navel gazing by a part of the political class that doesn’t reflect the demography of our democracy it purports to represent going to help with that? Is a new leader going to be able to substantially clean up the utter mess they’ll inherit? Will MP’s will decide that, on balance, their own self-interest is nowhere near as important as the national interest?

Maybe, but I’m not going to hold my breath.

But no, I’m not going to write about that. Instead, I’m going to observe that one’s body has an unmistakably painful way of letting you know to that you should eat more fibre. This it does when you’re on the toilet and you can feel what feels like a faecal glacier coursing through you with excruciatingly slow intestinal transport occurs and as it does so, it gives you ample opportunity to reflect what it feels like and when something finally emerges, it is so small and painful to extrude, you’d be forgiven for thinking it was a ball of steel wool passing through the eye of a needle.


Speaking of painful little shits slowly exiting, is it just me or does it seems incredibly apt to note that Vince Cable has announced he is stepping down as leader of the Literal Hypocrites in July? And rest assured, I try not to swear in any future blogs. Although whether I succeed in this laudable endeavour depends in part on our elected unrepresentatives.