You know all is well in, in at least a part of the world, when the big thing is what to do (or not to do) about sausage.
This is the riveting topic hogging space and headlines in most of the British Press.
The subject has put the following topics momentarily in the back burner, or the inside pages:
1. Covid (Thank God)
2. Variants, virus, vaccines and other “V” related subjects (Double thanks)
3. Weather (it got really nice so there’s nuthin’ to bitch about)
4. And Megan (Whew! Hooray! That is the doozy of them all!)
The sausage nasty business is the latest fallout of the Brexit saga, a never-ending saga only comparable to, well you know which one so I won’t give it more air time here. It stems from the fact that the English want to continue sending their sausage to Northern Ireland without being subject to tariffs or sanitary controls. (In a last minute Hail Mary Pass BoJo(hnson) agreed to draw a border between the 2 islands dividing the Irish Sea which puts all of Ireland basically in the…. Continent and as such it is subject to EU rule).
Some of the arguments put forth about the unreliable sanitary standards of the English “saucisse” have the Brits fuming and one official termed the argument “bonkers”.
Oh the joys of politics on these peaceful shores, these verdant hills, this England!
Now why is all this relevant in today’s turbulent, wobbly, uncertain world? Because at the heart of the matter is BoJo’s reversal of the end of restrictions to travel this summer -the lifting is suppose to take place on June 21 but all fear it has been bumped to faraway July- which could prove a serious reversal of fortune for the mercurial politician.
What are the Brits to do if stuck on their rather small and wet island practically all summer if they also cannot put a few sausages on the barby? They will surely revolt. Already with warm temperatures in most of England they are in the streets and could take to the “barricades” and make the Johnsons young honeymoon a noisy and distracting one.
(When I look at my remote part of the world where the fight taking place right now is for the survival of the Republic and its laws, and our own no less, I thank my stars at least all Peruvians agree on the greatness of our cuisine; no quarrel there).
As I write the G7 in Cornwall is wrapping up. As usual no great decisions have been made - those are mostly made in dark basement secure rooms, or on the spur of the moment while on the phone.
The Heads of State posed for the family picture, felt good about themselves, bumping fists or elbows or in the case of touchy-feely Monsieur Macron vigorously and tenderly shaking Biden’s hand and wrist: the French will never get the social distancing right, or maybe it was just revenge for the way Trump once hand-napped him for all the world to see.
On the sartorial level, after all it is summer and finally women are out of their pajamas and track suits, the brand new Mrs. Johnson looking lovely, fresh and young took the palm away –at least momentarily- from the Duchess of Cambridge and permanently, we sincerely hope, from the you know whom who lives in LaLaLand.
The Queen celebrated her 95th birthday, looking every inch a queen, happy and secure in her Windsor Castle, surrounded by cavalry regiments presenting the Trooping of the Colour and tapping her tiny feet to music.
And so she sails on, though heavy seas and turbulent times, sitting on a throne 1200 years old, showing that when all is said and done it is character and a sense of mission, with some sense of humour thrown in between, that carries the day.
Wish we could have some of that exported down South to my long-suffering land, and while you are at it maybe throw in some sausage too.
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