A break in the rain, blue skies, light clouds and rising temperature and, of course, a spike of humidity. Wait, hide indoors until the midday heat begins to fade and then mobilise, on the mrt up to Guandu temple. Through alleys and tunnels, shuttered shops and vacancies, stalls closed in the wake of the pandemic. But the Tamsui river gleams, along the banks crowds have gathered, a riverboat sitting at the end of a pier, the gates closed, fishermen baiting hooks.

Above the water feathers of cloud drift, the sun falling behind the hills on the other shore, offering the possibility of a spectacular sunset which, once again, fails to materialise. But the blue hour suits a walk downstream, along the cycle path to the next station, between mangroves rising from the mud of the rivers edge and the mrt track behind fences and barbed wire. Above the hills, as the blues darken towards night, the faintest curve of a new moon, the evening star gleaming, dark waters sounding beneath us as cyclists pass beneath lights carving the path into a sequence of spilling shadows...

And then, as if the world's indeed a stage, a certain poetry; bells tolling midnight here when Napoleon de Piffle Paffle manages to loose himself from his fridge, shuffling towards the unaccustomed podium, the gathered ghosts of the pandemic fluttering above his head as he steadies himself to defend the indefensible.

His strategy apparent even before he opens his mouth, to shit upon every single person who has suffered by following the rules laid out by the government, his government, in order to protect his advisor. The words begin spilling out - responsibly, legally and with integrity – truthspeak, sounds devoid of meaning as they continue tumbling; another car crash in the making. Quite amazing really, or it would be if it wasn't so absurd and shameful. The illusion of eloquence dissipating further with each fractured syllable stretching from his mouth, the transparency of this dance, his deflections and avoidance. It's truly fucking awful, he's lying through his teeth while studiously avoiding answering the few questions that he condescends to accept, not necessarily that he'll respond to them, the conference curtailed while those unanswered questions remain hanging in the air behind him..

And then he's gone, a shambolic second rate tribute act to the bullshitter formerly know as Boris, shambling back to meet his master, a faux statesman shrinking further with each public appearance.

That's it then. Shaking my head at the dark irony of the unfolding shitshow I'm left wondering one thing, how those who ranted and raved about unelected bureaucrats feel about this unelected and unaccountable character; how it must feel to have it made so abundantly clear that the figureheads of the campaign against the metropolitan elite are, in fact, the metropolitan elite. In the words of Johnny Rotten, “Ever feel like you've been cheated...?”


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YtPTYZ4_Udw