According to the world’s most erudite source of reference, the Urban Dictionary, a shitstorm is “a course of action that would appear to lead to a good outcome, but when undertaken, leads to a situation that is utterly out of control beyond human comprehension.”
…Beyond human comprehension…as in, if actual faecal matter started raining from the celestial heavens above, it would likely make more sense than what is happening in real life.
For the past two weeks I have spent my downtime collecting and clarifying my thoughts about #Brexit, the EU referendum result, the impending sense of gloom and doom, the idiots, the believers, the readers and of course Rupert the Revolting. I’ve been reflecting on what it means to me, a British Citizen living Great Britain but still very much a foreigner, an immigrant, an imposter. I’ve wondered why globalisation and the freedom of movement and democratisation of knowledge has led to us being obsessed with labels and the search for our own little tribe to belong to at the exclusion of all others. Why do we care so much what our neighbour does when so many of us are barely looking after ourselves and our own?
My father and his family left Great Britain in the 60’s in search of a better life. The Great Britain that raised him was plunged in poverty, suffocating under smoggy air and very, very small. He and his siblings went in search of something greater…and found themselves in Australia. (Ok so maybe they weren’t that well researched). But still, they left a Great Britain that predated the European Union by a whole 7 years and the stories he told us of his idyllic isle sounded dark and Dickensian.
We came back to Britain in 1986 to learn about the land he loved and left. He hadn’t set foot on the Motherland in almost twenty years and delighted to rediscover ye olde British traditions and share them with his Aussie wife and eldest child. We explored culinary delights from Gretna to Land’s End and all the bits in between. We gobbled on the greasiest Fish & Chips in Christendom (he didn’t finish it), we were blessed with food poisoning from the tinned carrots we were fed in the tradition of all the best English pubs of the day and we revelled in the requisite trip to M&S for a real Pork Pie. I’ll admit, that bit was good, but the tiny pie cost him a week’s wages when converted to GBP. Not wanting to go bankrupt for decent bacon, we spent the majority of the holiday eating in the ever reliable and economical Little Chefs and Wimpy Bars. #greatbritishbuggeroff
The roads were better; he never shut up about that. But Australia is 32 times larger than the UK so laying bitumen is a marginally more arduous task. Equally the intense heat causes road surfaces to buckle and crack. Then, in Selfridges, he purchased the first pair of trousers he’d owned in 20 years that didn’t need to be taken up four inches to fit him. He said it was because England had more choice; we said it because he was a shortarse and Australia catered for the national average not Oompa Loompas.
In short (all puns intended), the Great Britain of the fifties and sixties, post-rations and pre-EU-avocadoes was pretty dire and the POMs didn’t even win the cricket back then. #yesitwasthatbad
So with all due respect, and based only upon my very specific personal example, I’d like to know what exactly Farage, Johnson and their ilk are predicting for our Britannic future. We’ve taken the country back, but back to what exactly, 1949?
#Brexit is happening; there is nothing we can do now. The only positive, if it can even be considered a positive, is that they are all quitting, running from the inferno faster than the cockroaches. Our Television screens are a little less polluted by rhetoric, lies and promises written on the sides of buses. I know I usually look to the sides of buses for political insight. But I suspect that when your most prevalent source of information is Rupert the Revolting’s Sun, the side of a Double Decker Bus is positively Stephen Fucking Hawking.
Good thing then that the rest of the world are trundling on so well to balance out the crazies.
…Or Not.
It’s taken a week to call the election result in the Great Southern Land. A week to figure out that the dude who was in, is still in, only now with added Far Right Foolery in the Upper House to add an extra dose of Bigot to the governing of the country. At least they can vote her out in 4 years. Which will be at least how long it takes for gay people to be allowed to marry in Australia.
Australians too are obsessed with the pre-globalisation-and–Internet fifties. The Baby Boomers of Brisbane dream of the times when kids played in the front garden, breathing in the asbestos and the leaded-fuel vapours of their Dad’s FJ Holden. Mum went to work to be sexually harassed by her male supervisor while the Italians down the street were victimised for their suspiciously oily skin and the offensive smell of garlic that permeated Sydney’s western suburbs for a decade. Back when the DDT added a little extra spice to the potatoes, when your grandmother was popping pills to see off the tremors and you sent your sons to school to be slapped with a 3-foot bamboo rod while your daughters were date-raped in the back of a ute. Ah yes, those were the days…
Well then God Bless America. The Americans are keeping it real for us all. #facepalmemoji
I won’t go off on one (again) about guns. I won’t go off on one (again) about Trump. I won’t go off on one (again) about America in general. Only to say that they have done such an excellent job of setting the global tone since 1950; we’ve all been excellent students and can only hope that the aliens in Roswell are in fact real and will come to save us from ourselves.
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