Ten Years, Is It Really Ten Years

I remember it as though it was yesterday. Mrs D was away from home on a business trip and I'd spent the evening before down at "The Black Hole" (a.k.a. The Black Horse, our local village watering hole) where they had a sort of bring along your penny whistle improvised folk-a-thon for May Day. I'd taken the harp and jammed along to a few folky classics - I remember playing O'Carolan's Concerto and it going down well.

Everyone was in a good mood because everyone knew that John Major's Tories were in for a slash/slash/breath-weapon 10d6 damage beatdown and no saving throw.

I didn't even bother to stay up to watch the results.

The day after the election was lovely and sunny. Every other word on the TV news was "Landslide" and we all knew the words to "Things Can Only Get Better" and we all smiled because after what seemed like forever of sleazy Tory government we all, even the Tories, believed that they could.

I drove to Gatwick to catch a plane to Germany as I'd been invited to a premier performance by Cirque Zingaro by a friend of mine who takes pictures of horses for a living. I remember "borrowing" all the papers from the departure lounge to take to my friends just so they could share the joy. I remember Zingaro being brilliant if a little odd (never having heard Korean music before - seems to involve screaming a lot) and meeting with Bartabas after the performance and acting as translator for my photographic friend who didn't speak French.

We all felt great, after all things are going to get better now.

Things... Can Only Get Better... Only Get Better...

We trusted you Tony. We trusted you and gave you all our hopes for a better future. And you bent us over and fucked us up the arse with them.

And for that alone, I hope you rot.