The earth-shaking elections are over. Greg gets worried, because he observes a mystifying modification of politicians’ behaviours – former antagonists start friendly chats, forgiving each other anything ranging from gullible gaffes to grave accusations (which commonly implore criminal investigation). After furious brawls, the performers laze in the armchairs, shake hands, smile affectionately, laugh relaxingly, pat shoulders – a paradise of agreement and synergy. Does lesson number five confirm a famous adage that nothing ever changes? Is the next act of WWE over, so entertainers can proceed to the locker rooms, take showers, count earnings and choreograph the forthcoming game? Is it all about the pleasure of getting to the throne, lounging in the throne, intoxicating oneself by the scent of the throne, glancing with contempt at the subjugated contenders from the height of the throne? Pure power-mania to become a quasi-sovereign, as the job is done by the shadow elites anyway? Disconcerting thoughts…
Coming back to the American topic… How on Earth did the condemned, ridiculed, belittled, diabolised man with a cheeky fringe emerge victorious, against all bets, prophecies and bedside fables? The solution to that conundrum could be seen in the melodramatic aftermath. Cameras and keyboards of “correspondents” were busy either filming or describing hysterical mortals, especially students, who were crying, swearing, threatening, fainting, convulsing and theatrically exhibiting other expressions of emotional fury. Later on the frustrated troops moved onto more physical techniques to externalise polarity, like breaking windows, demolishing police cars, burning Trump effigies, beating up Trump-connoisseurs. The posttraumatic stress disorder drifted somehow to remote South Africa, where small groups of Clinton-fanatics, with eyeballs weirdly protruded, were sharing horror in creepy whispers: “It can’t be!”; “It’s dreadful!”; “What’s going to happen now?!”; “Oh my God!” Those reviews of events somehow did not enlighten Greg as to the concrete causes of the terror, so he interrogated panic-stricken individuals closer: “What’s wrong?”; “Why do you mourn her?”; “Why is Trump so bad?” Replies were undeniably telling: “Markets will collapse!”; “It’s awful for global economy!”; “Social stability is finished!”; “Peace is history!”; “She was the best suited for the job!”; “He is a racist, misogynist, sexist, homophobe, xenophobe!” Like Clinton-admirers in the USA, they were echoing previously proliferated by the main stream media axioms, without suggesting basic rationalisations.
Was there anything that Greg could learn from recent developments in the USA, namely the election of Mr Trump to be the next president of that mighty land?
Well, a few valuable lessons…
Greg is not an American, which he openly admits, somehow with relief. He cherishes the fact of belonging to the Polish clique – almost uniform, homogeneous, one would say standardized clan of white Catholics speaking an unpronounceable language (considered one of the most difficult languages in the world – our key weapon against intruders, equally effective as walls, alternatively moats, along the borders). As a born non-cosmopolitan, he should refrain from sticking his rural nose into some other nations’ affairs, especially from commenting on voting for this or that sovereign. He cannot resist though, because the country in question is indeed huge, powerful, armed to the teeth, hawkish, uncompromising and omnipresent (in the form of fast-food chains, news channels, drones and marines), affecting therefore the entire globe. Simply speaking, Americans literally beg for attention, so Greg politely fulfils their wishes.
After reading the title, you will ask immediately: “Why does some Pole interfere with our matters?! Just mind your business, would you?!”
Excuse me – “your matters”?! Since when did decisions with regard to the future of the United Kingdom become “your matters”?! Are you asleep, confused, perhaps suffering from amnesia? We belong to the same European Union cartel, so not only Poles, but also Magyars, Spaniards, Cypriots and so on (soon Turks, Albanians, maybe Egyptians) have the right to determine – and to put into the formal decree via Brussels – what the best for British citizens is. Obviously, since we form one cheerful European family, any Polish comrade should know by heart what your needs, habits, desires, problems, traditions, dreams, routines and worries are. Kindly stifle your unreasonable gripes and listen attentively, especially when a fellow member provides valuable tips.
Being a doctor is, apparently, a noble, fulfilling, humanitarian, interesting profession. Many dream of joining the medical fraternity – a selected group of modern angels, superheroes, gods of life and death, who dart silently along hospital corridors in their white coats, like clouds in the sky during windy weather. Swinging stethoscopes around necks, batteries of pens in pockets, name tags pinned to chests plus other tools of trade attached here and there (torches, tourniquets, tape meters, handbooks, smartphones, chocolate bars, fizzy drinks) add to the mystery of those creatures and boost public respect.
Surely, all doctors think about is the next case: diagnosis, optimal prescription, maybe an operation. Undoubtedly, their tense faces signify concern about patients, worry about the initiated therapies’ outcomes, care about sick, injured or the otherwise troubled (labouring mothers; snoring husbands; climacteric wives; victims of nature who cry for more pouty lips etc.). Certainly, constant restlessness of medics affirms sufferers – their saviours rush to assist instantaneously. Right?
One day Greg honestly assessed his economic affairs.
The truth was all too hard to swallow: liabilities were set to exceed earnings for a number of years to come. In spite of employing an array of calculation methods, the math refused to obey his wishes. Damned numbers painted a picture of rather miserable prospects: occupying empty, dirty, microscopic rooms in shabby suburbs; riding dilapidated bicycles or hitchhiking; wearing shoes with holes; zero entertainment; no girlfriends; prison terms for unpaid bills; depression; death of hunger; disposal of his withered body by state (with nobody attending the cremation procedure).
Greg was standing in front of a shopping mall with his head perked and mouth gapping.
He was staring at an impressive – maybe four by eight metres – billboard, which was prettifying one of the building’s walls. It was depicting a sprinter taking off from starting blocks. The sportsman had a decisive, chiselled face, although the rear contour of his body was smudged (the effect of skilful usage of the Photoshop motion blur filter). A string of similarly smeared, bold italic letters was whizzing above the aggressive runner. The zooming caption read: “You Are It!”