IN times like these it’s easy to feel hopeless. My generation work long hours, yet many of us, me included, will never afford our own home. As long as Fatty is in the White House the only people who can rest easy are other white wealthy fatties.
Closer to home, Theresa May keeps reciting her incantation, hoping someone will believe this is the best deal, the best thing for the UK — I think in the political world this is what they call the ‘piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining’ tactic.
So yeah, it’s easy to feel hopeless, unless we choose not to. And amid the daily doom, that’s what I’m trying to do. Soon I believe, Trump will do something that is the last straw for most Americans, and the camel’s back will break. With the Brexit mess, there’s the (slim) possibility of a second referendum, or a general election which I hope would be the end of the Tories for a while.
I’m not hardcore Labour by the way. Corbyn is no Obama, I sometimes think he’d be happier potting plants in his shed than running the country. But he’s a peace-loving, intelligent man, and for Ireland, he would be the best English PM ever — because unlike most other British politicians, and I mean most, he actually understands Northern Ireland.
I know for a fact we can change things if we use our voice. The Turkish man who runs my local shop (and never judges my Friday night shop — two bottles of Prosecco, a pack of Benson & Hedges and a pack of Chili Heatwave Doritos) looked at me like a lunatic when I asked him to stop selling battery farm eggs. But he gave in, not because he gives a toss about the hens, but because he couldn’t bear to listen to me any more.