The fledgling summer has died. All the Beach Boys, High Llamas, Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci and Grateful Dead is already looking quite silly and out of place on my MP3 player.
This apocalyptic weather is, of course, a portent of doom. The shit-eating moronic ukip drones have gloated so hard at their statistically-underwhelming “victory” that the heavens have opened. A vengeful god in which I certainly no longer believe is expressing his displeasure at our apathetic nation.
You can almost hear him: “Oh, so you’re willing to invite buggery by evil through your apathy, are you? Then surely you won’t mind a little RAIN.”
It makes me long for even this time next week; when there was still possible to believe that the majority of people are inherently good; when there remained the very real possibility that Farage might die in his sleep the very night before his horrifying excuse for a party was drowned in a tide of reactionary “not on my watch” votes for the lesser of two evils.
This time last week, the world didn’t seem nearly so horrible as it seems now. After all, I had just seen Prince.