Small Man Summer is Hotting Up.
The Tantrums are loud, the stakes are deadly. But don't you worry your pretty little head about it, dear.
From Westminster to Washington, the world’s fate hangs on the whims of men who mistake tantrums for tactics, and posturing for policy. Welcome to Small Man Summer: where the bodies are bagged, the moral high ground is parched, and the temperature just keeps on rising.
The Boys and Their Bombs.
The girls are at it again,” Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez quipped on the Capitol steps, when asked about the dickswinging drama between Donald Trump and Elon Musk. A congresswoman with a voice? Scandalous. That she could be the next President of the United States? Perish the thought. Best leave the warmongering and economic sabotage to the men, dear. Women are just too emotional.
Lest we forget, it was on these very steps that Republican Congressman Ted Yoho once called AOC “a fucking bitch”.
Trump’s indignant, insolent fury rages with about as much predictability as a SpaceX launch after a heavy night on the ket.
When asked about US involvement in Israel’s attack on the Natanz Nuclear Enrichment Facility, the President offered the strategic insight of a man more interested in outshining Kim Jong Un than managing global security: “I may do it. I may not do it. I mean, nobody knows what I’m going to do,” he said. Quite.
His indignant, insolent fury now flares with all the predictability of a SpaceX Starship launch after a heavy night on the ket. Lethal. Unregulated. Cheered on by a mob too dazzled by the fireball to notice the flames licking at their feet. The world watches, transfixed, as the commander-in-chief loses control of everything from his friendships to his faculties. Erratic decision after erratic decision, culminating in one man’s choice to bomb Iran — a nation, ostensibly, mid-negotiation with the maniac Maharajah of MAGAland. The art of the deal, indeed.
Lammy finally musters the backbone to sanction Israeli extremists, only to bend over for a star-spangled spanking the second Uncle Sam cracks the whip.
Cats in a Sack.
On this side of the Atlantic? Same panto, different dames. Downing Street hides behind a tattered veil of respectability, but when it comes to war, Westminster and Washington are two cats in the same sack. Lammy finally musters the backbone to sanction Israeli extremists, only to bend over for a star-spangled spanking the moment Uncle Sam cracks the whip. Medics in Gaza are silenced, because the BBC, it seems, can only accommodate “questionable sources” if they happen to be IDF spokespeople or Reform Party puppets. And the Conservative MP for Newark busies himself filming fare-dodgers on the Tube — essential content for a country tiptoeing towards World War Three.
Tweeted to the Brink.
Early on Monday, Iran launched Glad Tidings of Victory — a missile barrage with a name as ironic as it is ominous — aimed at a US military base in Qatar. As rockets flew like pint pots in a pub brawl, Trump — too bloated with vanity and spite to see beyond the next news cycle — thumbed out his usual stream of bile. We’re being tweeted to the brink. No wonder the world is burning.
Maybe next year Charli XCX will gift the girlies something less Brat, more Bolshevik. Lord knows we need it.
Set to Be a Scorcher.
John Lyly got it wrong. Nothing is fair in love and war. It never was. Some men flatten cities and call it security. Others get flattened because the President had a bad hair day. Not since Iraq have our backbenchers and senators been so complicit in such a shitshow.
June may be coming to a close, but Small Man Summer is just getting started. Maybe next year Charli XCX will gift the girlies something less Brat, more Bolshevik. Lord knows we need it.
In the meantime, perhaps it’s the bombs — the bombs, the bombs, the bombs — that will bring us together.
Because if it's not love
Then it's the bomb, the bomb, the bomb
The bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb
Will bring us together
[Ask, The Smiths]