Gas

 I'm up early, as always, watching the BBC News. I like the way the Breakfast presenters skewer the people from the government this early in the morning before they are kicked into shape. 

Out they come in their suits, every morning: government ministers with baa-ing voices telling lies. Uniform, droning, they have learned that way of talking in a monotone very quickly to try to prevent the presenters from stopping them off at important points to ask them questions you know very long sentences with no punctuation at all. 

They weave words together in a mesh of nonsense. Every so often they turn into 'Daddy' and scold the nation for having the virus,and not following the dogs-dinner of instructions that they change every few days.

I'm listening to one at the moment. Even their hairstyles are variations on a simple Tory theme, stuck down with scented goo, unicolour. And their faces are blank. They learn this expression in the Commons loos, coached by specially-trained psychotherapists. Flat, bland, devoid of expression.

They are not real. 

They live in a box, packed tightly like cigars and are charged up overnight, propped in front of TV cameras and activated. Well, not activated... not even switched on... I suppose, plugged into unimessage as fabricated by the creepy cod scientist who doesn't quite understand anything he reads, but has read it anyway, and that makes him Something Special.

'Baa, baa, baa', intones the government minister, on-message. The problem is that the message is a bomb of vacuity, if such a thing can exist. It's not even nonsense: even nonsense has a purpose. The Tory message is hot air, a fog of meaningless hot air. 

'If we just keep talking, sooner or later we will say the right thing!' 

And you could almost feel sorry for the thick pink slab thinking that he sounds Churchillian; it's excruciating, his attempts to hijack gravitas from the 'research' on Churchill he did for his flop of a book. 'Blah, blah, blah...' (he pauses for effect) 'Gas, gas, gas'. Interrogate it and it means just as little as anything any of them says.

We deserve so much better than this. They say 'We are paying for this, we are paying for that...'. 

No, it's not them: it's us, with our taxes, straight into Dido Harding's pockets and those of their other chums. Over their sherries at dinner, they chuckle about the financial killings they have all made. 

Short selling on disaster, and with Brexit yet to come! Ring-a-ding-ding! The Tory ship has sailed into port, a ship laden with pigs with their snouts in the trough, to join the sheep waiting for them on the quayside.

There they are! Look! Listen! What is it they're saying?

'Baa, baa, baa!".