The Revolution has been postponed again, courtesy of the Scottish vote, a perfectly futile yet hideously expensive Brexit, the Strumpet presidency (not that a Clinton one would have made any difference, I hasten to repeat for the Nth time), another incompatible coalition here at home, the sad fact that neither the Guardian nor Rupert Murdoch have spontaneously combusted for shame, the hysterical rise-and-rise of rampant misogyny and this latest abominable practice of incinerating the redundant Great Unwashed in their own homes. (Je suis Grenfell, anyone?)
Postponed. Not cancelled. That’s what the little carrier Pigeons of Discreet Doom have come to tell Rosamond “I Care Only for Trees” Delany (twin sister of the Wibble Joggler) and her companions, the Keepers of the Forest Primeval. Look, they say, things are pretty fucked-up, granted, but look closer. The slave corporate media is in disarray; independent news and commentary outlets are mushrooming exponentially*. Jezza’s still alive and kept in place by the young and the very young. Vlad the Impervious is being breezily and brazenly sarcastic in public.Theresa May is shooting herself in the foot again and again, currently by allying herself with the hell-bred heirs of the Ranting Reverend Ian “The Dogwhistler” Paisley, and soon to be dead meat, see if she doesn’t. And there’s still plenty of good women out there; many of us in the wilderness, true, but still we are here, there and everywhere. Rosamond is incandescent; she is the impatient type and thinks that all this waiting-waiting is very bad; and it’s getting on her tits as well. She’s on the verge of stamping her foot and saying “Well, I’ll be damned!” The little Mafioso worm is more philosophical about the whole sorry affair. “Life is long…” he muses.
*And here’s my latest discovery: https://www.thecanary.co/
Here we go again. Time for the other Solstice, the one that requires the oh-well-what-goes-up-must-come-down kind of philosophical approach and a good deal of defiance. So, here’s an obstreperous maiden to remind me of this. The Noli Me Tangere dictum is more of a warning not so much to touch her (she quite likes a good hug, she does) as a caution not to annoy, irritate, aggravate, vex, break her balls or piss her off. She’s a Snake Woman and the battle axe she carries is her child, flesh of her own flesh, look you. Have a happy transition folks.
I know that fetches have a bad press (just like poor old Vladimir Putin) but I suspect there’s more to them that meets the popular eye -never a very reliable one in any case. So, I don’t mind in the least following mine. Why, she might even know where she’s going better that I do myself.