Fist Pumping and High Fives…

11 Jul

The Trumpmeister will be pumping and hand-slapping round the White House this morning after Sir Kim fell on his sword, obligingly held at the appropriate angle by Boris the Spider. What a demeaning end to an estimable career. When a relationship is dubbed special, the unspoken proviso is that it is a pairing of equals. Boris’s squirming non-answer (one of many) to the question of whether he would back Sir Kim, betrayed a toadying, arse-licking, walk-all-over-us approach to Anglo-American relations. And the Donald high-fived his way round the twitterati with joy.

Almost every walk of life seems to revel in overstated hand-gestures to indicate pleasure, small successes, cajoling support, mini-victories. Doubles players at Wimbledon, I note, can’t get through a point without little hand touches and conspiratorial chats behind tennis balls and cupped hands. Rafa the faffa has so many personal ticks and ball bounces that I find myself mesmerized more by his twitching routines than the game he is paid gazillions to play. World Cup batters fist pump at every opportunity such is their need for glove-touch approval. I wonder what Sir Colin Cowdrey would have made of it all. Or even Beefy Botham. He didn’t need the reassurance of a partner’s touch to give the Aussies hell at Headingly.

As I write the ticks and touches are in full swing at Edgbaston and England have taken the early advantage. I’ll update shortly. Let’s reflect on the Boris and Jeremy Rhyming Slang. Despite the latter trying to look like the grown up in the room, the Spider’s extraordinary following amongst the party faithful will ensure the buffoon’s anointment as the ruler of Hades. After, we learn, six hours of debate-training his mantra of ‘Let’s not kick the can down the road…’ – repeated 5 times – echoed around the empty caverns of our economy. Boris’s approach to ITV’s confirmatory beauty contest was to smile, hand in pocket and treat the whole show as a bit of banter at the Oxford Union or the Eton debating chamber. Jeremy, hardly my favourite politician, sounded practical and relatively sane. Still it’s the 160,000 members who will decide. Half of these are my age or older, most are male and nearly all are white. God help us.

Reading George Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London, I discover another Boris. He’s an aristocrat (allegedly) who has fled Stalin’s Russia and find s himself scraping and begging a living on the streets of Paris, along with G.O. There may be a wish-fulfillment link here..

I search for the small inspirations of daily life and find them flourishing, despite the extraordinary unreality of Westminster and the White House. We are hunkering down and hoping that all will be well, I guess. There is something rotten out there, the invisible worm has eaten its way through to the skin and, I guess, we need horse-strength antibiotics to quell the infection. Have we reached the stage where those who govern are immune to such treatment? The Labour Party are in denial, the Conservatives are barking and we, the people, (and possibly the Lib Dems) need to get together and do some fist-pumping.

Aussies are 110 for 3. Fighting back. C’mon England! C’mon UK.

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