A cat got hit in our road one night, expiring all too slowly, yowling in enormous pain. People stood on the pavement in their sitcom pyjamas, knowing the kindest thing to do would be to run into the traffic and whack it with a spade. In the end, as the north London wokerati procrastinated into their tofucinos, a punter cruising for the empowered sex workers that often line the lane, his eyes on the kerbside commodities and not the potholed road, squished it unknowingly before driving off to try his luck elsewhere. The dreadful wait was over. And likewise, it’s so tiring, just waiting for this awful government to die.
Won’t someone put the Conservatives out of their misery? We had my hamster mercifully put to sleep and buried in a sock, and its Rotastak ™ ® hamster housing system flogged through the classifieds, because it had something called “wet tail”. But the Conservative party has Alex Chalk, MP for Cheltenham, proliferative ileitis in human form, and I don’t see his house being put on Gumtree while he’s stuffed into a massive sock and tossed into a hole in his garden.
