Eyes closed, head first, can't lose.
Boris Johnson is our prime minister. That's a sad thing to write.
Today I built my new website and got myself a decent hair cut (something our PM's have always been historically awful at, a tradition which Boris shall undoubtedly continue to uphold) but that's all been somewhat tainted by the fact that the highest office in our land is now occupied by a man who has only ever failed at anything consequential he's ever attempted. How does someone with his track record get this far? His CV has more failures than Homer Simpson's.
Journalist? Fired for lying.
Foreign Secretary? Resigned not long after dooming Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe to months of further unlawful detention with his ill informed comments that played into Iran’s central accusation against her.
And yet, here we are and there he goes, bumbling and mumbling his way into 10 Downing Street like an absentee father dragged along to his daughter's parents evening, realising it's the first time he's ever paid the slightest attention to her highly priced education as he blindly asks other parents how they know what to do and who to talk to.
(Side note: this might seem like a very specific digression, but I have family who went to the same school as some of his children. He really is everything you wish he was only pretending to be.)
Our country is now governed by the human equivalent of a windsock, a man who doesn't know which way he leans, but will do all he can to fly as far as he can in the direction that the wind blows strongest. Everyone knows about the two articles he wrote before picking sides on Brexit. Everyone will remember his choice to hide from scrutiny until the last possible moment in his leadership election against Jeremy Hunt. But does anyone remember what he is actually promising us? There's little beyond "Brexit means Brexit" dressed up with Boris' trademark embellishments and maybe something about taxes (less for everyone which, of course, only really means less for those who currently pay the most). There never has been, nor will there ever be, any heartfelt policy positions from him; mainly because he hasn't got a heart with which he could feel.
But in the age of information overload, it's become customarily acceptable to pluck your own preferred truth from the trash heap of facts and opinion that is our media landscape and, thus, Boris' supporters haven't beenput off by his epic incompetence. If anything, it has been the fuel that has fired the engines of his Titanic career so far. But, as Edward Smith can tell you, there's only so long that you can sail into darkness, at full speed, ignoring warnings of encroaching dangers, before you come across something that might just sink you.
The only question is, where now? He's achieved everything he ever dreamed of with no plan of what to do once he got it. He is the living embodiment of arrival fallacy, only we're the ones who are going to suffer from his success. But for Boris that doesn't matter. It never did. He got what he wanted. He was once asked why he picked politics over journalism, he said it was because "no one ever puts up statues to journalists". I think that tells you enough to understand his true motives. But maybe someone should warn Boris about the value of monuments and the fortunes of those who get them. After all, even Edward Smith got a statue.
So, there he goes and here we are, the collective well wishers stood on Southampton dock, waving the good ship Boris off, praying the iceberg appears and does it's job sooner rather than later.