Outrage

aka Pots & Kettles. Honestly folks, I don’t know where are we to find the patience to put up with this heap-a-caca. One grotesque evil-looking prat who broke the lockdown rules to “get his eyes tested” rebuking one putty-faced idiot for snogging his bit on the side; and a lumbering tittering, dribbling cretin spewing bollocks at an Olympics level stalking the national psyche (And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?), whilst out there in the wings the pestilent Patel brute bides her time, waiting for the right moment to stage a coup and take over the whole kit and caboodle. It’s as the wee monster calls it: the Kitchenware Wars; a lot of degraded pots calling a lot of noxious kettles black. It’s a pretty crummy state of affairs when small, insignificant worms and monsters know better what’s what than we do ourselves. I mean enough of us did vote for this lot, didn't they? And while we’re on the subject of smooching…some women must be really and truly either blind, or desperate, or just plain stupid. Or, indeed, thoroughly venal and self-serving. Who on Earth would want to touch Matt Hancock with the ten foot proverbial, let alone snog him, for crying out loud? The mind boggles… ‘ere, ‘ave a po’m and a spiffing week.
Epitaph on a Tyrant
Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.
W.H. Auden