Theresa May pulled up her knickers and quit the toilet.
She left the Commons behind with a smirk on her face.
No handbag, she strode with both arms swinging.
Her Jacob had 54 sons, eight daughters and a double-breasted suit.
He hung limply like a collage cut from Goliath, Jonah & Judas – with a Pharisee’s mouth thrown in.
“My whisky, my whiskey, my kingdom for a dram” she muttered to her driver.
“Take me to the tenth house, and give me wand to cast ten plagues on both their benches”.
- May the River Thames turn balsamic
- Let the legs of frozen frogs hail down
- Feed the scoundrels snails smothered in stinking slime
- Grant every remaining voice a swarm of beasts of burden
- Feed the traitors mad cows & bullocks
- Give them sour kraut for bedfellows
- Eclipse their sun, moon and stars
- May their red palms burn in hell
- Breed locusts in their hair
- Bury the firstborn of both parties
And bring me Cameron’s head.”
I’m staying indoors for another day. It’s drizzling damp outside. Again I’m missing my Wednesday morning golf.
My biggest concern is the dog. I won’t give him enough exercise today. If he could speak English, he’d surely complain.
Talking about Trump, talking about McCabe, having in an asynchronistic conversation with my friend Victorious in USA – that’s what I’ve been doing from my armchair.
That led me to contact my sister in Arizona via WhatsApp. I’d like to hear her views.
Thank goodness I’m interested in Brexit, and have Sky News. Political crises are good distractions from the state of my health.
I’m only good for recording audio and I’m dictating this straight into this post.
My especially good friend Eoghan O’Leary has offered to drop in and bring me something I’d like. I’ve asked for a small bunch of sweet black grapes.