metalk  

In a star-studded Party Bag tonight, we ask whether Royals are immortal, if Supreme Court Judges will soon be conspiring with the FBI, why fear of flying is on the increase, and how pouring a bucket of 1998 Chateau La Sprout down your neck is a contributory factor in contracting serial mendacity disease.

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First up tonight, let us all admire the optimism of the Windsors’ press office in announcing that the Queen will vacate her private rooms at Buckingham Palace in 2025 as part of a 10-year refit of the building. Liz and Phil have had the painters in since April 2017, and towards the end of the makeover the royal couple will have to move out of their North Wing apartments for two years. On completion of the works, Prince Philip will be 107, and her Royal Majesty indoors 102.

If and when the Head of State does knock up a century, I assume she will be sending herself a telegram. And even if her Grecian hubby runs out of breath tomorrow, his record as the oldest consort in British history will probably stand forever. He did not, let’s face it, have much to beat: Victoria’s Albert expired at the age of 43, Elizabeth I never married, and William and Mary were Joint CEOs.

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I also wish to congratulate the Democratic Party, hysterical feminists and the Cyclopian US media most sincerely on their successful creation of circumstances in which an obnoxious Ivy League, FBI-collusionist jerk called Brett Kavanaugh will almost certainly now breeze onto the Supreme Court, and be an accomplice for the MIC, FBI, Texas, CIA and globalist sociopaths for the next thirty years.

Well done to you all. When you finally stop trying to block his appointment with feeble accusations of dry humping and tit-brushing (and who knows, possibly even accept that yes, Donald Trump is Your President) maybe you could tell us who you propose to nominate this time as the person incapable of getting the White House back.

Two years ago, Elizabeth Warren was the favourite. She still is. The Democratic Party has pissed away two years it could have devoted to pushing Ms Warren up there into the lights as the one person representing at least a challenge to The Donald. The media have pushed out any room there was for highlighting positive policy alternatives to President Trump’s somewhat fanciful idea of a Bull Market that will keep stampeding forward into eternity. Liberal activists have wallowed in self-pitying, childish attacks on Trump’s alleged sexual, Russian, corporate debt and race oddities.

Today – with just over two years to go – they find themselves dependent on stock market and global insolvency meltdowns to unseat the President. Trump himself, meanwhile, is more highly thought of in his own constituency than ever. With his own man in the Fed chair (and the usual bogus statistics on employment and economic engagement to brag about) he will be able to point to a solid record in trade negotiation and diplomacy that appeals to the Middle American self-image.

The US has, in these two vital respects, the same problem as the Anglo-Saxons on the other side of the Pond: the Alt State is stronger than ever, and the Opposition to intolerant conformity is busy examining its descending colon.

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I have always found it hard to grasp how (or even why) I would want to carry out a plane hijack armed only with 25 mls of water, €11.23 in small change and a fold-up nail clipper. I would stand a much better chance of success if I went to the onboard lavatories, took off my briefs and then used them to strangle the chief steward.
I could then reach into my highly dangerous plastic bag, pull out the bottle of whisky I purchased following the security check, ram the neck of it into the flight deck lock, smash the bottle against the door jamb, hold it next to the pilot’s throat, and ask very firmly to be flown to the Isle of Wight without delay.

There is neither sanity nor logic in the process of airport security measures. But then, that rule applies to flying per se. It is the daftest thing you will ever do in your life.
You can’t take off in snow, and you can’t land in fog, without a whole lot of problems – for example, diversion to somewhere far from your proposed destination. Mind you, if you travel from anywhere to London Stanstead and get diverted to Birmingham, it’ll still leave you ages away from real London…so maybe I’m being picky.

You put your belongings and outerwear into trays to be scanned by X-Ray machines, but naturally they can’t see through outerwear, so you have to take everything out of your pockets. And take your belt off. And your shoes if you’re leaving Delhi – but not at Toulouse or LA.

You board the plane (having shown your passport three times, and had half the contents of your toilet bag confiscated). If the flight is full, it matters not whether your cabin luggage fits all the criteria, it goes in the hold…along with the novel and your notebooks. And costs you an extra £47 – even though you neither bought the wrong plane nor specified its cabin space incorrectly: that one’s my favourite – I call it ‘They fuck up, you fork out’.

At least, once you’re seated, there are several things upon which you can rely. There will be crying babies. There will be at least thirteen separate bugs thriving in the aircon system. And above all, there will be impenetrable signs in the lavatories.
These will remind passengers not to smoke bent cigarettes, point sharp arrows at the seats, or bounce the waste-bins up and down.

It’s a sign of the limited aspirations of airline carriers that, some years back, Delta airlines ran with the slogan ‘Delta – we’ll get you there’. To promise a safe landing at the other end is a form of reassurance, but not the most ambitious advertising claim ever conceived.

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And finally, Jean-Claude Juncker told the media this afternoon that a Brexit accord is “very close”. He said, “We are not there yet. But our will to reach an understanding with the British government is unbroken”.

In the same spirit of mutuality, Stormy Daniels confirmed her unshakeable will to reach an agreement with Donald Trump’s lawyers, Hillary Clinton reiterated her desire to dance on Monica Lewinsky’s grave, and George Soros insisted that he bore Viktor Orban no ill-will whatsoever.