Cynically Positive

 I was discussing the state of the world with a friend and we somehow got onto the subject of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s refusal to take part in a pilot scheme. ALW has gone up in my estimations because anyone who is prepared to tell the government where they can shove their rule bending exceptions is to be admired. Despite it not being trendy I quite liked him anyway. I’m not as edgy as I’d like to be. There’s nothing better than a populist musical. As we were chatting I said, “There have been some benefits to theatre because the big shows can’t afford to run socially distantly, it has given the smaller companies a chance. Loads of new shows have been developed.”

She accused me of being able to find the positive in anything. It’s what my mum used to call my Pollyanna Personality. That was never said as a compliment and I always felt a bit ashamed of my need to look for a benefit to every problem so I added heavy cynicism to the mix.

Obviously I’m not Mrs Hancock or one of the three minicocks so my positive cynicism means that I really enjoyed yesterday’s Sun splash. 

I enjoyed imagining how the Sun got the picture and the later dropped vomit inducing video.

Boris: I don’t understand it. Why do they love him? He is my goat. We can’t let him escape.

Junior Civil Servant: What are you talking about?

Boris: He’s my scapegoat, Hugo. Didn’t they teach you anything at Eton? Everyone needs a scapegoat . When this pandemic is over and everyone starts to look at how badly this country has done then they’re going to blame me and I can’t have that.

Hugo: Oh, I see. You mean you don’t want anyone talking about how you didn’t want to lock anything down and how you’d have preferred bodies to pile up in the streets and how you were off writing that book so that you didn’t have to pay back the advance.

Boris: Exactly right, my dear boy. Someone else has to take the blame and I’ve decided it’s going to be Matt.

Hugo: Why Matt? 

Boris: Clammy hands.

Hugo: Of course, why didn’t you say? What can we do?

Boris: Well we’ve been trying to suggest that he’s hopeless for a while but he’s a Teflon cockroach.

Hugo: What about Dom? He must have something. He could knock off a 100 tweet thread or release your personal WhatsApps.

Boris: We tried that but the public just felt sorry for him. No one really likes Dom, so it didn’t work.

Hugo: And he tries hard. The public loves a trier. It’s what they know. They don’t have our connections.

Boris: But his wife’s a fucking osteopath. How can the Health Secretary’s wife be an alternative health practitioner?

Hugo: True. Well, we could try the Queen. The public love the Queen even more than they love you.

Boris: Good idea. The woman is grieving, she’s in the ‘fuck it’ phase. We might be able to get her to say anything. Film the next meeting.

Hugo: Sorry boss. It didn’t work. She called him ‘poor man’ and said that he’s full of good ideas.

Boris: Just release the bit where I interrupt. If the public hear me say beans and not the bit where she adds to it then I’ll look like I’m defending him when she was going to say that he’s full of shit.

Hugo: Genius! That’s positively Machiavellian.

Boris: Hugo? Hugo, where are you? It didn’t work. We’ve got to do more. They still like him.

Hugo: I don’t know then. What else have we got?

Boris: We need a Marmalade dropper.

Hugo: What’s that?

Boris: When I worked at the Telegraph it’s what we used to call a headline that was so shocking it would make the reader’s marmalade fall off their toast.

Hugo: Like what?

Boris: George Galloway and the cash scandal was a good one.

Hugo: But the public know all about that. They know his sister has made a fortune and they don’t care. 

Boris: A tabloid version then. A FMD.

Hugo: FMD?

Boris: You know, working class couple reading the paper with their cup of tea and a cigarette and he reads the headline and says, “Fuck me Doris,  you’ll never guess what Hancock has done now.”

Hugo: Can you give me an example?

Boris: You know, like when Mellor had sex in a Chelsea kit.

Hugo: When was that?

Boris: 1992.

Hugo: I wasn’t even born then but are you sure you want to go down the sex scandal route? It’s a slippery slope. You’re not exactly without history there.

Boris: It’s worth a punt.

Hugo: I’m not sure the public can imagine Matt having sex. They’re still laughing about that interview where he looks at that woman like he’s never seen breasts before.

Boris: That might help but he has had sex. There’s those three minicocks. Proof!

Hugo: Well yes I know. I mean, you’re all at it aren’t you? We’ve got CCTV. 

Boris: I’ve told you to destroy that. The Mrs can never find out. All my indiscretions were before Carrie.

Hugo: Not you. Matt. We’ve got a photo of Matt and his aide. We could give that to the Sun.

Boris: Brilliant, Hugo. There’s a weekend at Chequers in this for you if it comes off. Party central. Loads of snogging. No masks. Access to the wine cellar.

Hugo: Right. Consider it done.

The positive to all this is that it’s given us hours of entertainment and I’m really enjoying it. The memes are particularly entertaining.

 I’m now of to say three ‘Poor Mrs Hancock’s’ as penance.