Trough Riots, Bust Economies, Broken Politics.
A G20 summit.
Since this is a meander through the outside of The Big Top, I suppose, it being circular, where to begin is irrelevant.references to preferring to be outside peeing in are to be avoided. It is my preferred option with politics, however.
I can hear lots of music. A pleasant German ensemble of financial excellence and power house of the EU travelling revel, running out of motion, suddenly screeching into an ear splitting banshee. Some arse stole the music, or should I say cash. Some guys with unpronounceable Greek/Irish names, with a hint of Portuguese, were spotted in brightly coloured outfits and painted faces. However, today, this little cameo is happening,
reported here. "The figures come ahead of a key meeting between German Chancellor Angela Merkel and French President Nicolas Sarkozy. The two leaders will discuss ways to solve the Eurozone debt crisis that has threatened to engulf Italy and Spain and has sparked turmoil on global stock markets."
These two are vying for the ringmasters job against a backdrop of a bankrupt circus whose trapeze artists, (stock markets) have been pushed off their perches from a great height. Some hint it's no accident. Myself included, whilst I observe the money to be made from resurrecting the tent to shelter those secret clowns surviving its collapse.
Then we have another pair of wannabee ringmasters but in reality and before the booing crowds, can't see they are dressed in gossamer multi-coloured, Andy Pandy suits. Who can I possibly mean? Well, after their recent performances the crowd were so hacked off with the banality, failed tricks, exorbitant ticket prices and shabby arena, they rioted. The overcrowded, fetid and dark corners of the Big Top into which they had been corralled, apparently, was irrelevant. One of these dwarf, grinning, buffoons, bleats that the extravaganza is about a broken seating area and a leaky roof. His "oppo" calls for an enquiry into why his lot never repaired the torn fabric. Indeed, as the crowd all know, his lot were cheered on by his nasal coke induced whine , that urged the need to sell more tickets to their show was more important than the subsequent horrendous debt those credit card purchases were.
So back to the present ringmaster. I'm sure we all know who I am referring to, by now. Well, the see through Bullingdon boy, in his grotesque, clown's uniform of privileged superiority had all the answers. He preached all about a broken society, a need to erect a new, shiny big top, alongside the tattered, worn out, flapping in the breeze, federal cloth one of his neighbours. All of the audience in his own patch would then get to vote on which performance and tent they might prefer. All the time neglecting to mention his shiny new erection was just a blue tablet of deception, as transient as his time in the box office will prove.
So, I wonder further round this scary, about to collapse piece of filthy, ancient canvas. About half way round, though hard to discern in the enormous shadow of the Big Top of subterfuge, deceit and hypocrisy is a party going on. As I get closer I see they are seated at a massive round table. A lavish banquet has as its centerpiece, not an ice sculpture but a towering into infinity, mountain of cash and gold. This elite party of old, wrinkled men is contrasted by a plethora of beautiful women. On a large side table is a massive cookie jar into which have been tossed the keys to private jets and super yachts. They are protected by a bullet proof screen of glass. The howling gale is by-passing this gathering, unnoticed by this orgy, as it buffets the adjacent Big Top, threatening only to blow it away from them and leave them almost untouched by its collapse. Just a few years ago this impenetrable booth was erected by the very same people who chose not to repair the edifice of weak cloth now about to be torn from its mountings.