Chronicle of a Coalition Foretold

It's good to be out of the political vacuum. Just like the real one, it can make your blood boil. But imagine my surprise when I realised last night that one of the greatest poet-seers had predicted it all 45 years ago.

Many questions remain for this [dear subs: what's the opposite of a rainbow? Dirty puddle?] coalition. They'd be the ones that were hidden behind hastily erected screens of meaninglessness at the weekend, when the news media's agenda was apparently surrendered to a few hundred people who'd gathered on a London street and everyone stopped thinking about what was happening and started contemplating the electoral equivalent of their navel fluff. Real questions, real issues, like: is a meaningless promise to some vague possible future vote on trivial tinkering with the electoral system really worth more to Nick Clegg than his party's years-long objection to nuclear weapons [apparently so - the BBC reported at 9.21am today that Conservative plans to renew Trident remain in place], and if so, doesn't it mean that they're as risible and contemptible as Call-Me-Dave's resprayed Cons and Brown's discredited oldnewLabour? If there's to be a sea change in British politics, it needs to happen not in the surface detail and gloss all three parties seem obsessed with, but in the deep down and dirty world of forging real bi-partisan consensus to tackle the problems that will otherwise overwhelm both government and governed. I'll believe it's happened when the Treasury staff includes not just Cable but Clarke, Darling and Brown: instead we're going to end up with Osbourne. It's less the Third Way than third-time-lucky - a desperate roll of the dice. I prefer the odds in Las Vegas.

But anyway. Nobody comes here to read me ranting on about this stuff. Nobody comes here anyway! Boom boom. But as I was saying before I so rudely interrupted, Sir Bob knew which horse was getting endorsed and had all the right questions ready to ask the freshly crowned head of the chamber of commerce. So the new order of business seems to be:

a) Is there a hole for me to get sick in?

b) Whither Cecil B, and who's got some pillars?

c) And who the hell is going to write the melody to hold us from going insane? 

One correction, though: the town has every need to be nervous.


Keep posting the bile-filled diatribes, Angus. We over here in the colonies need your no-holds-barred explanation to supplement the dim-witted American news reports! +:)

posted by: Mewsician: 12 May, 2010 18:09:20

I always come here when you post!

posted by: Martin Millar: 12 May, 2010 20:45:19

Engineer Chuck Plotkin actually posits the idea that Bob can shape shift in Howard Sounes Dylan biographer.
And Tombstone Blues is but one of many tunes attained via his better living through chemistry that have uncanny prophetic value.
Something that hits home time again - Maggies Farm as a precognition of Fatcher and now the much derided ("eek, its a Christian album - run for the hills") utterly brilliant (musically, vocally, compositionally, attitudinally) just has more and more actual lyrical relevance, everyday.
Middle east wars, Florida oil spills, worldwide hubris
I could go on but start me on Dylan and its the day, a week, several months gone .

posted by: Gavin: 13 May, 2010 16:41:10

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