Trigger warning: This video above could cause extreme pain and embarrassment to most British people .
Richard Mellor
4-18-25
I hear that the serial sexual predator Trump is heading for the UK. Apparently, the UK Prime Minister Sir Kier Starmer, (the minister without portfolio if there ever was one) who was put in his place by Trump at the Oval office with a quick, “that’s enough”, delivered an invite from Britain’s King Charles,who patiently waited so long for his mother to die that he almost gave up.
What English or British person would invite Trump for a visit? One expects such sycophantic, grovelling behaviour from Charles, an ancient remnant of an equally ancient social formation but, as that Japanese government official who appealed to his colleagues not to respond to Trump and his menagerie with concessions warned, extortionists only want more when faced with weak victims.
Trump would rather meet in one of the royal waster’s Scottish estates. He’s concerned there might be protests and narcissists hate rejection. I do hope that the British workers react and show how unwelcome the US president is on that island; don't worry, millions of Americans will thank you for it. He’s an accident of history and history will treat him as such.
That the British king along with the toady Starmer would actually invite Trump to Britain is sad; what gutless characters. I guess Trump was partially right, there are some leaders kissing his ass. I was so put out by it I felt the need to share got one of my late, great friends, the Irish poet and satirist Kevin Higgins, poem that I publish below and, if Kevin would permit, I dedicate it to Kier Starmer and his King.
The Art of Collaboration
Whatever job he’s given,
the collaborator is a perfect fit.
A man of no fixed particulars.
His views are plastic
and always on the verge
of being melted down
and made otherwise.
His life is a full orchestra
of raised eyebrows
and suppressed twitches.
The collaborator laughs at your jokes
and makes it look like he means it.
Whatever it is,
the collaborator makes it his business.
He writes everything down,
especially your name.
The collaborator is awake tonight
and looking up the number
of the relevant government agency
so he can phone them tomorrow to tell them
what he’s heard you’ve been doing.
The collaborator doesn’t mind being put on hold.
The collaborator knows
the name of the woman, man, emu
you were with in that hotel room
you shouldn’t have been in.
The collaborator points the nice policeman
in the direction of those
the newspapers say are bad men (and women).
For the collaborator doesn’t discriminate,
except in favour of himself.
KEVIN HIGGINS
No comments:
Post a Comment