Kippers on the Ceiling.

As our politicians were continuing their best endeavours in making a once-proud nation the laughing stock of Europe, nay the world, I retreated to the golf course. I have lost all heart so smiting a small ball in a howling gale for four hours seemed like a heavenly escape from Bedlam.

The four old sporting mates began badly. Over coffee the Brexit Tourette’s started. This is now a recognized syndrome which flares whenever sensible, intelligent people get together for social intercourse in the UK. It was identified nearly three years ago and the most recent data shows that the majority of the nation have been blighted by it. What seems to begin as a normal conversation between friends rather rapidly metamorphoses into baying chaos when one or more of the interlocutors will, involuntarily shout, Fucking Brexit or Kuenssberg get stuffed or FFS Theresa or Corbyn you shifty Slug or Not another fucking vote before another fucking vote or Cameron’s fucked the Country or You didn’t vote fucking Brexit did you? or Boris has gone fucking quiet or Rees-Mogg is loving the fucking chaos…and so these outbursts will continue with liberal use of the F and C words.

Luckily, as the lunatics in the House of Commons continued their Alan Ayckbourn tragi-comic-farce and the rest of Europe hooted with maniacal derision (well, all except Bayern Munich supporters), my golfing fellows turned to other things. We were four men, of modest background and means, worried about the life ahead for the younger generations. As a metaphor for the shit that has been hitting the fan ( as if that isn’t enough of a metaphor) the revered elder of our group told a story about a domestic mishap at his home only the night before.

Distracted by the addictive drama being played out at Westminster, my revered golfing partner had left a tin of kippers heating up on the stove. He had place the unopened tin in water. He wanted warm kippers. He became transfixed by the voting down of Mother Theresa’s legal finesse to the Back-Stop following her 75th trip to kiss-ass Barmier and Juncker. His Brexit-Tourettes (BT) had taken a hold. A loud explosion from the kitchen. The overpowering smell of kippers.

The pan had boiled dry and the tin’s contents had projectile vomited to the ceiling. The stench seemed appropriate to the pungent odour of incompetence and slippery ambition being farted out of our seat of Government. But these kippers were real. And their stench would linger. However hard our golfing elder would scrape ceiling and walls, he seemed pretty certain that a proper, skilled professional would have to sterilize and paint over the mess he had created.

See what I mean about metaphors? Meanwhile, back at the golf club we were laughing so much that our BT seemed, temporarily to abate. Our game took us away from despair but we all have to face the awful reality sometime. At least, in despair, I can think of kippers on a ceiling rather than shit hitting the fan. By the way, the elder and I won. Small consolation.