Fraught events are besieging England like wild weeds o’er the green grass of Wimbledon.
Brexit was (and remains) unsettling enough.
But then Islamists started terrorizing the place.
Then Prime Minister Theresa May called a snap election, which she (and every pundit) thought would forge national unity and seal her mandate. Instead, it left the country more divided than ever with May looking like an utterly clueless captain of a ship of state adrift at sea.
Now England is fighting fallout from a fire, which raged for 24 hours like a purgatorial imperative for national rebirth:
More than 70 Grenfell Towers residents are now feared to have died, as the official number of deaths yesterday climbed to 30 and police warned it could take months to locate victims inside the blackened tower.
The policeman heading the inquiry into Wednesday’s fire, Commander Stuart Cundy, said he ‘hoped’’ the death toll would not reach 100.
It comes as protests turned violent in London, with residents and activists demanding action in response to the tragedy.
(Telegraph, June 16, 2017)
Naturally, my thoughts and prayers are with those affected by recent tragedies.
But so much of what has afflicted England has been self-inflicted, including that infernal Grenfell fire. Therefore, I offer this expiatory requiem for her, with apologies to Shakespeare’s John of Gaunt:
This fawlty tower of realms, this battered isle,
This place of tragedy, the fate of Pluto …
This cursed lot, this place, this blot, this England.
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* This commentary was originally published yesterday, Saturday, at 8:13 a.m.
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