It’s a damn shame what happened in Manchester, and by God I say that as somebody who can stand neither today’s music, nor its young people.
Anyhow, if ya missed the news be sure tune in to Corrie Street in six months or so, because they’re bound to make a helluva storyline out of it. Maybe even clean house of some characters that get on my nerves. Fingers crossed!
Anyways there was a bomb, smack in the middle of an election, as if Johnny Ramadan thought puttin’ his pal Jerry Corbyn in power was as simple as blowin’ himself up.
If it was then everybody would be doin’ it.
Hell, if I’d thought it woulda made the difference for Duff Roblin, let’s just say the Progressive Conservative leadership convention of ’67 mighta seen some fireworks.
But Muslims and fundamentalist lefties alike could be goin’ up in flames like Greek cheese with all the “Opa!” they could muster, and it still wouldn’t make a Prime Minister of that shambling, unshaven menace to national security.
And yes, it’s not too early to talk about flamin’ cheese. It’s just that serious, my friends.
But that Theresa May, she’s a tough cookie. And no one can accuse her of some hidden agenda, like panderin’ to the fox hunt crowd or itchin’ to crack down on the senile poor, since she’s set it all out in black and white. Smart!
Could Labour come back? Twin Peaks came back, and nobody thought it could. And Corbyn’s about as hard to fathom as Davey Lynch.
All I know is, curiosity got the best of me the other night and I figured I’d tune in to the first episode. As luck would have it the cable was out. Probably got more out of it, and I came up with some crackerjack theories.
So you Brits can consider yourselves fairly warned.