Sean Mallory either entertains or enrages. Make your own mind up.
As the two remaining 40W bulbs of the Tory leadership bid (‘remaining’ as in those left to stand as Tory leadership contenders, not as in Brexit Remainers ... phew!), Boris Johnson and Jeremy Hunt contend for the lofty title of British Prime Minister both their campaigns continue to stagger on, on the unending tedious monotonous roundabout of complete and utter boredom and self-harm.
Johnson's, from having spilt red wine on his girlfriend’s sofa, and her reaction to his clumsiness and his response to her ‘over-reaction’ was reported as a violent domestic dispute by a very concerned neighbour.
Police were called, recommended white wine to remove the stain but Boris refused to budge and they then left.
The neighbour believing to be acting in good faith was quickly condemned as a ‘lefty’ for calling the state sponsored Pigs … if a man can’t have an argument in his own home then where the hell can he?
Hunt meanwhile acting upon Johnson's misfortune and the adverse effect it had on Boris’ campaign jumped on the bandwagon and quickly threw on a high vis vest and bought a fish supper just to show the working class idiots that he may be the richest individual in the cabinet but underneath it all he was also one of them … an idiot!
He then went on to also damage his own campaign by reciting that age old mantra of Boris' ‘fuck business’ but in a much more diplomatic manner (diplomacy being something else the two of them are estranged from but share a common trait to).
While Dougal and Zebedee meandered around Britain completely off their tits, spinning lie after lie to the great unwashed, and Johnson being photographed with Foster on the balcony of Stormont staircase like something out of Downton Abbey, the EU re-iterated that it didn’t matter which of the two cretins were elected the withdrawal agreement was not going to be renegotiated.
They, the EU, then settled down to elect new heads of State, Parliament and Council while a giddy Theresa May hovered about in the background isolated and alone.
Arlene Foster, aspiring prime minister in waiting, went off to speak at a conference / lunching thing about how important the Union was and that it was more important to her than life itself.
Which was good, as that is something the people can all sink their teeth into when visiting those wretched soup kitchens that have sprung up everywhere prior to Brexit and under Tory stewardship sponsored by Arlene … rather than fill up on a meal itself. After Brexit it is expected the people will eat cake!
On her return home, she and her Neanderthals with a wry smile were embarrassingly slapped with more revelations of Ian Juniors holiday antics to the Maldives.
Junior having now achieved more for tourism in the Maldives than the Zika virus ever could recently displayed his in-depth knowledge of the tourist industry at a recent House of Commons NI Affairs Committee meeting.
His bellicose demands as why tourists fly in to Dublin and not Belfast and how local tourism bosses should aggressively target visitors to Dublin by telling them they are in the wrong part of the Island was met with incredulity and amazement.
The fact that there are no direct transatlantic flights to Belfast as echoed by his own trips across the Pond departing from Dublin and that local tourism bosses are just that ‘local’ and shouldn’t be marketing in Dublin as that is the remit of Tourism Ireland which is an all of Ireland promotional body seemed lost to him.
Arlene and her brood of Machiavellians, determined to rid the party of the Paisley's and their click, and take total control themselves, had initially tested the waters with the release of information on his first act of malfeasance.
Now having released his latest improprieties, they feel in a position to oust the exacting brat but retain his seat … for the PM in waiting!
Having promised the public and the party faithful that Junior's previous behaviour over the Maldives would be investigated and a report drawn up on what actions to take when asked about such a report it was revealed that nothing had really been done!
Spotlight, having placed him in such again, for his lies and deceit over his holiday travels, has led to calls in local Unionist rags for the DUP to have done with him as the party's patience has run out … even in Ballymena.
Junior, yet to respond to the accusations has removed himself from the public eye while practising his teary response.
Former justice minister Unionist Claire Sugden MLA married her fiancé Andrew at Mussenden Temple and marked the occasion by flying off in a helicopter … judging by the newly-weds photo it must have been a chinook.
New PSNI Simon Byrne...made an immediate impact on taking up his role by reiterating the same policy statement of all prior Chief Constables that republicans were to blame for all of our woes … yawn!
On the passing of William Frazer, apparently President Michael D Higgins sent a card to wish him better and judging by Willie's demeanour, those sentiments seem to have rung true.
While Eilis O’Hanlon, never one to miss an opportunity described him as one of the most implacable foes the Republican Movement ever faced.
Both comments fully underlying the depth to which journalism has sunk in the North.
Across the Irish Sea, Glastonbury ravers were disorientated, no not the acid this time, but after the announcement that Haircut 100 were making a surprise appearance at the Pyramid stage.
And lastly I will leave you with this:
What's that ya slabber
Here lies William Frazer,
Led a life of the Loyalist hell raiser
A man who fought for justice for all
As long as the martyred answered to Carson's call
Morals, ethics and truth did not enter
That vacant dome of the Unionist mentor
Suddenly visited by the grim reaper
Not the conventional 6ft down, probably much, much deeper
No more shall ye hear fife nor drum to echo blood and thunder
For like Arlene the public purse you did plunder
No glorious death in the defense of Uladh
No Rourkes Drift against the Zulu
No booby trap nor bullet to the head
But an ignominious demise in a hospital bed
From all the lads down at the Blue Oyster Club