Moonage Daydream

Moonshot testing. What planet (or astronomical body orbiting the Earth) is this schmuck on?

Today, I listened to Moonage Daydream, and for the first time ever, it never felt even remotely bonkers. In a few weeks’ time, I Am the Walrus will feel like a contemporary social commentary.

Shooting for the moon is somewhat risible when you’re huffing and puffing to grasp forlornly at the low-hanging fruit. Boris, keep your mouth shut, you’re squawking like a pink-monkey-bird.

A flustered gammon probably wasn’t what Bowie had in mind when he wrote that, but it certainly involved somebody being on the end of something vigorous. And our PM certainly is. He’s all over the shop. COVID has pulled his pants right down.

And COVID Marshalls? Please give me strength. We have areas in the UK where angels fear to tread, never mind police officers. It’s going to be carnage when these clowns rock up in their high-viz gilets, armed with nothing more than attitude, a Ryman notebook, and a Tandy two-channel radio, in order to disperse a throng of coked-up knuckle-draggers.

Take some consolation from this farce that the misanthropic, entitled, and highly-strung shitbirds who would stab their own grandmothers for such a parapolicing gig will end the year having had the bejesus kicked out of them.

They’ll end up scurrying off to the suburbs to kick over OAPs’ barbecues as we saw during the early days of lockdown. This is what clueless head coppers refer to as ‘good old-fashioned bobbying’. Needless to say, none of this posturing is going to help the wider objectives (and I’m being magnanimous in even suggesting that there are any).

It’s all desperate, fantastical froth and bubble, designed to paper over the cracks of a blundering, blunderbussing, blonde idea salad that they were pleased to call their strategy (guffaw). They’ve gutted the economy, spaffed all the greenbacks up the wall, and not even got close to getting a handle on it. Of course, they’re looking for scapegoats in Generation Z, which I guess is their version of the ‘vandals stole the handles’.

But rather than taking this Dylanesque in direction, let’s get back to the Moonage Daydream of the crumpled, chaotic charlatan. Come on Boris, don’t fake it baby; lay the real thing on me. The moonshot plan is all about hoofing out another £100bn to unqualified suppliers to deliver a hodgepodge of grimmer-than-Grimm fairydust garbage that is at best shooting from the hip. Let’s face it, this Government couldn’t even get a Track and Trace app off the ground, so what chance has this got?

Given time, it will emerge that the moonshot plan will be entirely dependent on technology that does not exist and would not work effectively even if it did exist. But it has a catchy soundbite, so that will tick the box for the green light.

In other words, it’s all moonshine. Tarradiddle and flapdoodle – pure smoke-and-mirror jibber-jabber. In the words of the verbose blatherflange himself, ‘an inverted pyramid of piffle’.

If there is a spare £100bn kicking about, they perhaps ought to channel back into the economy and social welfare because those are the sectors that are gasping for breath.


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