It is 5 am in London, which is equivalent to 9 pm back in Vancouver. We are already into a brand new day here, while the Canadians are still living in yesterday.
We flew from Vancouver to Calgary, then Calgary to London, flying over northern Canada and Greenland. I just read that a billionaire tried to talk Trump into making an offer to buy Greenland from the Danes. Apparently besides melting ice caps, Greenland has oil, and oil is money. That is one thing that Canada knows- dirty oil buys lots of funny money. Canadian oil is derived from bitumen, and pricing is heavily dependent on global oil prices. It is boom boom bust and Calgary is centre of the Canada’s hustle and bustle.
Alberta hates the Prime Minister. They have hated Justin since he was a child. Probably before he was a child, when they hated his father Pierre Elliot Trudeau, who famously gave Alberta the “ finger”. Fuddle Duddle, he said. But oil greases the wheels of confederacy, and Junior bought a pipeline from some tricky Texans, so forget Climate Change, the Green economy. Our fragile future had better wait. The Liberal’s oil and environmental policy is tortured at best, arguing that revenue from global destruction will somehow fund green technologies. Even a child knows that’s a load of horsewallop. Greta Thunberg, the unwanted child in question, rolls her eyes in disgust.
Anyway, a bit hypocritical of me to criticize Canada’s oil policies when flying over the North Pole. London swings like a pendulum do. It is simply one of the great cities of the world, with the “good multiculturalism”, as opposed to Vancouver’s emulation of third world squalor.
So many good looking people here. Now England was once the world’s other white meat, but today we have a rainbow, a schmorgasbord, a runway filled with the coolest and beautiful, an epitome of chic. I’ve never seen so many men with good haircuts, or women …..England Swings.
As we normally do when we travel, we walk everywhere. About 16,000 steps on our first day on about two hours sleep. Not bad for two over-sixty somethings. Using wi-if and our phones GPS, we navigated the urban jungle. Beware of crossing the street!
I was just about killed by bicyclists, ringing their bells and not slowing a bit as they bore down on my deer in headlights Canadian innocence. Perhaps casual non- observance would be the better description. All that to get to the nearest Boots to buy the baby aspirin that I left on the counter at home, as well as shaving cream confiscated by the Canadian airport guards for being over 100 ml. The regulations are 100 ml or under, so a Foamy sacrifice was necessary to slake their lust for safety. Everyone at the Canadian airports were masked, and we had to wear our masks for 10 and a half hours on the flight, with time off for eating. Will that be pretzels or cookies? White box wine or red? No sir, we have a gin shortage, so we can only offer tequila, rye whiskey or rum. WHAT? Who runs the bar for Westjet?
We’re not talking Craigellachie at $3050 a bottle!
Isn’t it amazing how the smart coronavirus knows just when to take a break while we eat, resuming its virulence once the beef meatballs and Oreos are consumed.
In London very few people are wearing masks. Did we miss the memo noting that the pandemic is over? Or will Canada get to be all sorry and superior when the rest of the world goes into the next wave, surfing on the Rona. I am beginning to wonder if we wasted two years of forced isolation for nothing. Are we now in the Covid theatre stage?
London is in mourning for the death of the Queen. She was 96, so a good long run, nothing to be ashamed of there. We are drowning in a social media medley of Royalists and Irish, Puritans and Fundamentalists, Anglicans and Republicans, monarchists and anarchists, a virtual battle royale on the Socials for who has supreme rage, righteous indignation, and is good at manufacturing humorous (and humourless) tweets. History in the making, and the proof is in the sticky toffee pudding.
Or would you rather that I order blancmange or Spotted Dick? We look forward to a better time, like the upcoming Sunday at the Pub with Yorkshire puddings and roast beef.
On the flight over the pond, I was reading a mishmash of The Book of Disquiet, Facebook, and John Buchan on Oliver Cromwell. Revisiting the time when they rose up to behead the king, King Charles I. They were coming out of the Middle Ages, while breaching the birth of the Middle Class.
Now we are sinking into a New Dark Age with a middle class waiting to be officially declared dead. If not dead, at the very least resting.
More like a Weekend with Bernie’s. We are all propped up, false smiles plastered. These are the faces of the groomed and doomed.
I’ve come to change my belief over time, that much of the dominant RONA narrative is theatre, motivated not by nefarious conspiracies, but by political opportunism and greed, all aided by a corporate media acting as stenographers.