Yesterday, International Day of Happiness, I woke up in a suitably jolly mood because our government is in turmoil, following Iain Duncan Smith’s tantrum and resignation. Ha, ha. What a relief, and a laugh, to see such a hitherto cocksure, mendacious, heartless government suddenly squabbling and falling apart, its fabric shaken by waves of hatred, and Osborne’s leadership hopes hanging by a thread. But it was a bitter laugh, because it’s so depressing to realise that we voted for this lot.
I suspect there’s something wrong with us and our electoral system if these creatures are the best we can dredge up. And not just here. American Cousin, who now lives in the UK, can hardly bear to talk about Trump. “How could this frigging lunatic be running for president?” she asks, at her wits’ end. “Do you know how big the US is? It covers three time zones and 323 million people – and this is all they can come up with? Who has been voting for him, in primary after primary? And what must Obama be feeling, being followed by that buffoon? Poor Obama. It’s unbearably sad, and I don’t understand any of it.”
Then off to the shops she went, here in her adopted country, passing, as usual, about four tents full of homeless people and more rough sleepers and beggars than she has ever seen in the 34 years she has lived in England. Thank you, government.
Fielding is equally baffled by Blatter. “You couldn’t get a worse person,” says he. “He looks to me like a sexist criminal, and he’s the one they chose. Couldn’t they have found just a regular person? Someone honest?” But he knows they couldn’t, who ever “they” are. “It has been like this for thousands of years.”
Why? What’s the matter with us? I once asked someone why Michael Foot didn’t become prime minister in 1983. “He’s too nice to be prime minister,” said this person (I can’t remember who). But what a depressing idea – you’ve got to be nasty to be prime minister. Perhaps you do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be able to blithely trample over everyone else on your climb to the top.
