Prat of 2019 – We have a winnah – St. Greta!

Posted by Pointman on December 21, 2019 · 15 Comments 

We get to this time of year and I know this thing I’m writing is going to be my last article before a two or three week break. Much as I love laying down a few words each week, they’re carefully polished, the articles are all thought through in a rough way, it’s all honest craftsmanship, and no sunshine being blown up your fundament. But it is work and you do you get tired at the end of a year’s work.

This year has been a challenging one for me, I feel like I’m landing the Belle with only one wheel down and the ass shot out of her, I’ve got casualties aboard, the stick is fighting me like it never did before, but while it’s now the ruins of a once fine aircraft, you feel her fighting heart is still up for wielding a broadsword. This one is as mean as me when it comes to determination.

You’re the master and commander, it’s all on you Kiddo. Let’s just land the babe, get them all home, and then you can slump over the controls and no more responsibility like that will ever drop in your lap again. Ever.

Just do the end of year wrap up article of the pratties, and then I’ll do flute all except look forward to the lovely smell of festive food being cooked by people I love and working out why a strange and enigmatic grandson just stares silently at me when I look up from my keyboard and decide to tickle him. He has a lovely laugh when he chooses to laugh. The Force is strong in this one.

Coming in last is AOC, which is a bit of a surprise. She was nominated but attracted not much in the way of votes. On further thought, I understand it.

We’ve all had these youthful experiences of Saturday night crash dating. You tarted yourself up a bit and went out on the hunt at what were the currently fashionable dating spots. In my era, that’d be the King’s Road Chelsea, and the Trafalgar or World’s End pubs in it. Given the fast and desperate market you all lived in, we’re talking immediate decisions after three drinks on either side.

You wake up the next day in a strange bed and start wondering about how the hell you got there, but there’s this pickup girl you vaguely remember from last evening and a lumpy but unsatisfying fornication overnight who’s standing before a full length mirror with a tit in each hand carefully weighing them. A bit of very careful jiggle jiggle going on between the two, but to be frank she was never massively gifted by God on the mammary size front.

“What do you think, is the left one bigger than the right one?”

You can see it’s a vitally important question for her, and all you’re thinking is if there’s possibly a Scottie on an orbiting USS Enterprise up there somewhere in the troposphere, beam me the fuck outta here. You’ve got one leg down your trousers, doing a bit of hopping and promising to call her for sure next weekend without absolutely any intention of doing so, and thinking you’re going to have to seriously re-address your taste in girls.

She’s so interested in herself, her tit equilibrium and other similar Earth shaking events, it’ll be a miracle if she even remembers you by the end of Sunday afternoon. She’s the only one who can’t hear the warning klaxon going off and its automated message – “Warning, warning – brain cell count is now critical.” At that juvenile stage in your life, screw anything warm that’s still got a pulse is the rule of thumb, but you do realise in the end there are limits in all decency, even for a relatively primitive creature like you.

In fourth place, we’ve got John Bercow, the previous occupant of the office of Speaker of the House of Commons, which is like being the umpire of what can be at times the unruly playground of a bunch of privately educated, noisy and unruly prats in their own right. Given that Britain doesn’t have a written constitution, the whole thing works on established precedents. He tore all the precedents up and tried to invent a few new ones for himself.

This year hasn’t been a vintage one for prats, and Bercow is the perfect example of someone who isn’t a prat, but someone you totally despise. There’s something small and snivelling about the man. Leaving aside his curious brexit rulings from the chair, what I do remember about him was a tawdry reference to Jacob Rees-Mogg who’d one of his children in hand pushing his way through a bunch of journalist cadaver feeders. Not even in the Mafia, do you involve family. Yes, kill the man, fine, but his wife and children are strictly off limits. That’s the sort of scum Bercow is.

In third place we’ve got David “national treasure” Attenborough. As children we all remember those senior members of the family you were supposed to be very respectful to, but that great aunt smelled vaguely of mothballs and it soon became obvious not all of her doggies were on a leash. In a similar sense, “national treasure” is becoming embarrassing. A population controller, a BBC luvvie and they’re starting to smell faintly of dried piss. Mebbe it’s time to take them out into the field and do them a back of the head shot favour. Retiring gracefully into obscurity might be his best option before he becomes too embarrassing at this point.

The last two contenders are a slight dilemma for me because I’ve already done an article on both of them, so my venom in their direction is slightly used up, but I’ll give it a go. Coming in as this year’s runner up is Adam Schiff. Again, not a genuine prat, merely Nancy Pelosi’s tame and controllable creature. Talk about one idiot being led about the block by another idiot and you’re in the picture in terms of that relationship. Apart from being the wide eyed and unblinking face of a grand impeachment process that stands absolutely no chance of passing through the upper house of congress, his only claim to fame appears to be beating up his black boyfriend.

This year’s winner is St. Greta of Thunberg. One of my several misfortunes was that I never had a daughter. Instead of various football boots littering the place up around the house I’d kick out of my way in irritation, I never had to have that conversation with my girl to be careful, so perhaps that’s a blessing. I’d have been terrible on that front I think. Knowing myself, it’d be full on helpless male protectiveness mode. On balance, I think it might have calmed the whole house down.

She’s a victim of political child abuse, so I’m kind of sad that she’s this year’s winner. How parents can so cynically exploit one of their children is totally beyond me. However, it is what it is.

©Pointman

Related articles by Pointman:

Description of a climate prat.

Prat of 2018 – We have a winnah – Theresa May!

Prat of 2017 – We have a winnah – Hillary Clinton!

Climate Prat of 2016 – We have a winnah – Justin Trudeau!

Climate Prat of 2015 – We have a winnah – Barack Obama!

Climate Prat of 2014 – We have a winnah – Chris Turney!

Climate Prat of 2013 – we have a winnah – Dana Nucitelli!

Climate Prat of 2012 – we have a winnah – Peter Gleick!

Click for a list of other articles.

Filed under Article · Tagged with Humour, Prat award, Pratties