I’m reliably informed that the scientific word for ‘tone deaf’ is amusia. You can be congenitally tone-deaf, or you can acquire amusia via a blow to the head. I don’t see the Prime Minister wearing a plaster, so he must’ve been born that way.
Because why would somebody who’s already been hung, drawn and quartered for his untimely Hawaiian trip while Australia burned now holiday in fucking Cornwall while we’re plunged into yet another lockdown??
G7 Summit my ass.
I don’t know who checks his itinerary, but if I’d seen “little sidetrip to Cornish pub for cold pint and ham sandwich” pencilled in, I would have been reaching for the eraser. Instead it took three pubs — the Jamaica Inn, Old Quay House, and Three Tuns — to find some Korev on tap, and a midget, a gimp and some decent totty for the obligatory gauche photo-op.
He also managed to visit St Keverne’s church to commemorate the birthplace of his First Fleet ancestor. I guess the message to Aussies who haven’t seen their living relatives in 18 months because of his border policies is — you can see them when they’re dead.
Either that, or “Get fucked, I’m the fucking PM mate, what are you gonna do?”
Our Scotty also popped in to tour Bodmin Jail for an “immersive and educational journey through Cornwall’s dark past” which, in retrospect, was a missed opportunity for his many detractors. But a sly coup would have left us with Barnaby “Mad Rooter” Joyce in charge!
But that’s a whole ‘nother post.