The great baseball coach Yogi Berra once said, ‘If you don’t know where you’re going, you’ll end up someplace else’.

While ‘girly rounders’ might be anathema to Boris, it must be evident that his ‘any road to nowhere’ rationale has transported us all well beyond the looking glass to a place for which alignment with normality can be barely fantasised. Six months on from when the response to the Coronavirus pandemic kicked in, we have now come full circle. We might as well just put our calendars back to March 2020.

But now we have the sobering backdrop of economic ruination that lends itself to a further gingering up of our present outlook. Well, it does if you get your kicks from watching the world burn. And I’m going to venture that some of these incommodious muppets do. Well, might as well call a SPAD a SPAD.

Perhaps those calendars might be more aptly re-set to August 1929 because a new Great Depression is warming up on the touchline.

Most perturbing is that precisely at a point when minds would need to be sharp and heads crystal clear, we are still wrestling with the accumulation of six months’ worth of fag-packet guidance and half-baked, oven-unready laws with which even the most seasoned and geek-oriented legal buffs cannot keep pace as we hurtle down into a seemingly inescapable and baffling helix.

The overarching stratagem has been to not move us forward but to move everything else backwards, while plopping the population, bound hand and foot, into an all-encompassing, steaming, national clusterfuck.

If you fondly recall the halcyon days when we skipped merrily into a national lockdown on the basis of sub-GCSE science. you might now be inadvertently suiciding by facepalm to witness the troubled press conferences gibbering that we are still going full tilt for the iceberg.

Don’t forget that the Charlatan-in-Chief himself had only just instructed 80% of Civil Servants to get back to work by the end of September in order to spearhead a national return to normality. It’s as if he had only started to look at the data at the weekend. Well, you know that is probably the strength of it. ‘Oh crikey, that’s torn it’, he doubtless exhaled through the top of his top hat.

His answer to everything is word soup and top-down, last-minute inhospitable legality when nobody can decipher what his gobwaffle missives mean.

The latest draconian, dunderheaded disaster is the proclamation of Gargantuan fines for those who refuse to self-isolate after a positive test. So, now people just won’t bother getting tested. Another gem from the huffy, flouncing playbook that wasn’t thought through past the first glaringly obvious chasm. In this instance, not knowing where you are going means that you end up with fewer tests being done, which contradicts your new $100bn flagship policy. Nice work for a supposed intellectual whose public demeanour resembles a loose confederation of warring albinos.

Yes, these shameless snakeoilers might have a thumping majority, but they can no longer summon up the merest shred of legitimacy.

Yet while the grand shaggamuffin himself deserves a monumentally brutal shoeing, those most deserving to be flogged to within an inch of their miserable lives are the wider space-wasters who languish on the green and red leather of Westminster’s palace.

Cast your minds back to last year’s unanimous Supreme Court ruling when it ruled against the proposed prorogation of Parliament and reiterated the criticality of the rule of law and its protection of parliamentary sovereignty Indeed, the purest flavour of ‘Take Back Control’ that we had savoured for many a year.

And then came COVID, an unknown and unquantified mystery factor, and they chucked it all away, allowing laws to pass via statutory instruments without the slightest scrutiny. On occasions, updated legislation was being announced online with a few hours’ notice before it came into effect.

It is indeed supremely distasteful how our MPs ponce about, cranking up their expense accounts and demanding attendance at their facile scrutiny committees, and they cannot even muster up a fizzle-fart in genuine opposition to a wrecking ball being swung into our prosperity by a clueless band of self-serving, bullshitting autocrats.

This whole sagging, fetid mess has been facilitated by a reptilian nest of both egregious sycophants who have kissed Johnson’s Brexit ring and an opposition that cannot work out how to throw a decent punch, let alone land one.

The Starmbannführer is purportedly adopting a laissez-faire, give-’em-enough-rope stance.

Someone needs to tell him that it’s not just about accumulating enough evidence to get the jury’s verdict in 2024 – it’s about action posthaste to stop the ship going down while there is still something left to save. But for a gormless twat who, as the Director of Public Prosecutions, decided that Jimmy Savile’s escapades never warranted even one criminal charge, he’s probably not necessarily convinced that the Johnson’s cock-ups merit censure.

He – along with the other parliamentary placebos – may find that history ultimately judges them more harshly than it will the crooks who got us into this mess.