Forty odd years ago in Liverpool, aged seven and snot nosed in short trousers, I asked my late Father why he'd left the USA to go and live in the United Kingdom. This was 1977 and Dad had been living in merry England for some years. Why in Sam Hill did he move from New England to Old? What was wrong with America, why did he leave? With a sardonic twinkle in his bourbon eyes, he growled down at his Number Two son, "Because my country had been taken over by sissies. That's why!"
When you see an English actor in an American TV show or film, nine times out of ten... Ahem, ten times out of ten, he's the freaking bad guy. Much the same could be said of real life, ain't that right?
Listen and understand! The Trumpinator is out there! It can't be bargained with. It can't be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, remorse or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead and he is elected.
Fetid hippies. Hatchet wielding Hells Angels. Unsanitary bogs. Duff bands (I
hate the Cure!) No girls. No cashpoints. England handballed out of the
World Cup by Argentina. And mud. Glorious mud. Lots of it. This time, thirty years
ago, "Glasto" was fun for a curious teenager in the middle of
his O levels.
I like my presidents to be unelectable. Demagogues. Bullies. Tyrants. Mad dogs capable of starting World War 3 on a whim. Donald J. Trump, a thrice married, thrice bankrupt, property tycoon turned reality TV star, is that fool and then some.