Last week I described Andy Windsor as The Nonce Formerly Known As Prince. A slightly contrived, although reasonably witty gag, I felt. It now proves that I underrated my own, evidently considerable, powers of prognostication. Following his mum’s removal of all his military ranks and assorted whatnot, this is now the literal status of, well, The Nonce Formerly Known As Prince.
He is now, noted my dear friend and comrade, David Osland, persona nonce grata in Royal circles. Henceforth, he will no longer be permitted even to style himself His Royal Highness. Surely this is the ultimate humiliation? The most painful reduction? To end up with fewer titles than Newcastle United? Fo’ shame.
Of course, the disgraced Windsor is not the only member of the Brit ruling class to find himself suffering a painful entry into 2022. The Clown Not For Much Longer Known As Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, has his own array of crosses to bear. Partygate, sorry, my bad; Work Eventgate rumbles ever on, with the constant leaks of shenanigans at 10 Downing Street. Leaked by who knows? Clearly the people who really run Britain PLC, which is to say Rupert Murdoch, have decided Bojo’s time is up. No doubt enthusiastically assisted by the far-right nutter faction of the Conservative Party. Which is to say the Conservative Party.
It isn’t all about Johnson, though. Perish the thought. The entire government provides a rich seam to be mined for any who aspire to satire. Take Priti Patel (yes, I know; we all wish someone would. Preferably Satan). The Fascist Currently Known As Fascist, advised, you might recall, that our civic duty lay in grassing up our friends and neighbours, should we suspect them of breaking lockdown rules. She went further and primly declared that she, too, would not hesitate to grass offenders who breached lockdown. And yet this week, curiously, she offered no explanation for her failure to do so in respect of the, ah, work events at Number Ten. Indeed, she went considerably further and defended her boss, advising we peasants that “supporting the Prime Minister is how I spend all my time, day in, day out.” Of course, it may well be that the Pritster, so styled by Johnson, was not invited and was unaware of Number Ten’s many work events. It’s plausible, to be fair. A smirking Nazi, aroused only by drowning children, and violent cops attacking defenceless women at peaceful vigils, is likely to put one off one’s canapés and Krug. Not Jacob Rees Mogg, admittedly, but anyone else who isn’t a reincarnated Victorian serial killer or Nigel Farage.
Alas, time, or rather the lack thereof, and the desperate urge to facepalm myself into a coma, prohibits further commentary on the events of Week 2. It’s impossible to keep up, frankly. Still, could be worse, eh, bootlickers? We could’ve ended up with Corbyn. LOL, PMSL, I Told you So etc.
See you next week.
Harry Paterson
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