Reflections on the Revolution in London

Perhaps my political palette has sophisticated of late. Like that of the helpless addict, more and stronger product is needed to attain that first cotton-wrapped high.

After the election of Boris Johnson as prime minister of Great Britain this week, it seems nobody, except a few tiresome Londoners, has noticed.

Absent is the exquisite progressive meltdown that greeted President Trump’s ascent to the Oval Office. Boris, for all the lazy often soporific comparisons to Trump, hasn’t inspired such an entertaining tantrum.

Indeed, there was just a glimmer. Greenpeace activists, exercising their remarkably generous working hours, tried to block Boris’s motorcade en route to his new home at 10 Downing Street. That was before a police officer skittled three of them from the road.

Of course, the professional fabulists of news media had their customary whinge. Protestors wailed something about “white supremacy.” But such missionary whining is small-beer to a quenchless wino.

Perhaps American resisters are made of sterner stuff. They’ve been exercising a Pripyat-level meltdown since Trump took office. You, dear reader, are swimming in a political junkie’s dreamscape. The supply of vivifying grief ceaseless.

Although, my tolerance for political narcotics might succumb to a giddy overdose in fewer than 100 days. I might just catch that dragon I’m busily chasing.

Because on October 31, “no ifs, no buts,” according to our new prime minister, we leave the European Union. Which, unless you’ve enjoyed a three-year coma, is all this country thinks, cares, or talks about.

That date, one hopes, will induce a speedball of progressive meltdown, one that tingles dreamily through each ventricle. That might sound unhinged. Because it is.

Brexit was not just a vote, but a steel toe-cap into the bollocks of those whom, by and large, ruined almost everything.

Tony Blair, the erstwhile Labour prime minister who whittles his days away demanding we press rewind back to 2015, is the grand architect of Brexit. He may not want to raise the child, but he’s on the hook for the bill.

But Blair isn’t prime minister now. Boris Johnson is. And Prime Minister Johnson (how refreshing to type) set quickly to fumigate government of Remainer holdouts who’ve wasted the last three years lashing us against our will to the sinking European Union.

His Cabinet, remarkably described as “alt-right” by one of our more intellectually hilarious lawmakers, hosts a Muslim chancellor. It is the most “diverse” ever. As a friend of greater melanin-density than me decreed while rolling his eyes: white people.

These cosmetic indulgences are all well and good. But the work starts here.

After all, Boris nurses a majority of just three. After Theresa May’s impressively awful premiership, in which she squandered a majority and sanctified the man-child Jeremy Corbyn as a viable prime minister, the Conservative Party shuffles around shoeless like a chemically coshed psychiatric patient.

And within the ranks lies a significant cabal of Remainer Conservatives—the deep state—ready to kamikaze efforts to leave the EU.

What should have induced a Reactor 4-level meltdown is the appointment of Dominic Cummings. Cummings masterminded Vote Leave—the campaign to leave the European Union.

At once brilliant and belligerent, Cummings’ inclusion is a warning shot to the EU. We are ready to leave without a deal.

A notion, it was revealed, never once threatened by Theresa May, despite her rhetoric.

Of course, to leave without a deal is the desire of few. But to threaten such is our leverage.

Theresa May, effectively, walked on to the forecourt and said: “I have $100,000. I must, legally, leave with a car, today.” The car dealer, as is human nature, offered a 2003 Toyota Prius with three good wheels, for the full sum.

But, like Trump, Boris won’t enjoy a honeymoon. He’ll have to call an election sooner or later.

Given the Tories’ hemorrhaging of votes to the Brexit Party, any election before Brexit would be folly. Current polls show a four-way dance, with the likely winner changing daily.

Which Boris surely knows. But that all changes after October 31. If we leave, of course. To box off Brexit would dissolve the Brexit Party and rewild Boris Johnson’s party with their 20 percent share of the vote.

Meanwhile, the once-serious Labour Party, helmed by an anti-Semitic resentment-monger with an IQ similar to that of a walnut, seems determined to destroy itself. A recent poll placed Labour dead last.

An election post-Brexit, I’d hazard, would see Boris return to Number 10 with a majority unheard of in my lifetime. And, along the way, it would neuter the social-justice rabble which calls itself “progressive.”

But what excites most is Boris’s championship of conservative means, witnessed in intellectual brutality, here.

Because Boris is right. And the Left, including America’s “squad” and our Corbynistas, are wrong. And always will be. Socialism doesn’t work. It never has. Never will.

Perhaps it is too early to say: conservatives who are willing to fight are conservatives who win. Finally, like Trump, we have a leader eager to brawl with the loud-but-lame Left.

Boris’ first appearance at the despatch box was just a taste. “We are the party of the people,” he said, in a line which perhaps heralded a new national conservatism, “They are the party of the few.”

He’s not wrong.

Photo Credit: Giannis Alexopoulos/NurPhoto via Getty Images

About Christopher Gage

Christopher Gage is a British political journalist.

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