The Golden Turd

I remember a time when the favourite educational pastime was slagging off Media Studies. That has hardly aged well. Most people seem to be neither able to accurately identify fake news nor to understand the relationships between discourse and power.

And no, reciting Homer at tiresome dinner parties for the entertainment of twittering hoes, who might hoover one under the bed for you, doesn’t make the grade.

Not even with a super-forecasting algorithm behind it.

And yet the, ahem, employability rating of Media Studies is rock-bottom. A shame because a more media-savvy critical mass in our society might have saved us from this shoddy coterie of clowns.

Indeed, education has become such an over-engineered subject that everybody has forgotten its true purpose. It’s just an acquired passport from A to B and light years away from learning and self-development.

Our current government doesn’t give two hoots about it as far as the mainstream is concerned. Now, I said that the they wouldn’t reverse their bonkers stratagem, and they have. They’re even tugging at the handbrake for BTecs and GCSEs that have been presumably hit with the Blockheads’ algorithm stick.

But these U-turns have materialised only because some shadowy asshats have concocted a narrative to blame their officials. As a result, while many students will have to kill a year in some soul-obliterating contact centre because even this reverse ferret failed to prevent many from missing their top (and worthwhile) choices, the charlatan army can use it all as ammunition to push through further Civil Service reforms and crush the blob.

They’re always steaming some remaining meat off the carcass, whether it is a dead cat or a flogged-to-death horse.

Majestically ironic is that education is supposed to be about achievement, and the big cheese of learning (a fireplace merchant by profession) is yet to be tin-tacked.

No such thing as honour with these dirt bags. Every turd gets sprayed gold.

Even the pioneer of the Track-and-Trace app (due in May but still not working) has now been promoted to head up the National Institute for Health Protection.

We’re several pumps beyond screwed with these moral molluscs.

Even a ketamined dropout with an adjusted C- to-U-grade in Critical Thinking could tell you that it all stinks like some rancid pork that’s been dipped into a septic tank and then shat on by a corpse.

Well, as long as they could get a signal on their paperweight Talk Talk mobile, that is.

Talk Talk. So ironic, they named it twice.

But back to Track-and-Trace and Baroness Dildo, and there I was thinking that if you can’t measure it, you can’t manage it.

In a sane world, grey Gav would have been turfed out of his fireplace and into the fire, and Dido would be as dead as a dodo.

How have these muppets even survived, even forgetting that one has been turbo-boosted into a bolstered bounce bonanza? Maybe the Kremlin applied an algorithm to their performance and saved the day?

But who would have administered the boot anyway? Not Boris – he’s busy furiously poking the fire elsewhere – or anywhere else but where he needs to be – so isn’t that bothered about fireplaces or mantelpieces.

Perhaps he’s enjoying a vacation with Sir Keir Starmbannführer of the Right-Right-Leftwaffe, who seems about as interested in opposition as Boris is in governing.

They would almost deserve each other if it were not for the country steadily sliding down the pan as a result of their parallel uselessness.

So what’s next? When Boris resurfaces, prepare for an onslaught of gobwaffle and weapons-grade distractions.

But a turd sprayed gold is still a turd. And with a busted flush, the smell doesn’t go away.

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