August
Absolutely nothing happened in August. Nothing at all. It was quite depressing really. We still had lots of heat to talk about, and even on the cooler days we could recall July when it was so hot for those two days that we couldn’t go outside. But that’s no way to live, is it? Worst month of the year!
September
September ended August’s reign as the worst month of the year, cramming 10 years of chaos into 30 horrible days. Let’s get the Liz Truss bit out of the way first. Harry Styles was or wasn’t spitting on Chris Pine on the day that Truss was voted in as Prime Minister by Tory members, half as a Victorian joke, half to categorically show the rest of the country how much they despise us. Two days later, the Queen was dead. People were saying it couldn’t have been a coincidence, until they saw more footage of Truss doing absolutely anything. She appeared to be using every ounce of her strength to pass as a sentient being. “Breathe, breathe, breathe, cheese,” went her mind. “Breathe, breathe, breathe… breathe then!” A killer? Of livelihoods, perhaps, but not our Queen, whom I imagine simply met Truss and finally thought: “Annnnd, I’m done. Goodbye!”
Truss got to attend the funeral, where she harboured a deep secret: her plan to ruin the lives of everyone in the country (but not the rich) within… let’s be kind and say two weeks, but it was really 24 hours. We made the most of this Tory wheeze by having a laugh at Truss less successfully fulfilling her role as PM than a lettuce did fulfilling its role as a lettuce, but considering how her appointment and actions will be strongly felt by many for years to come, it’s actually very depressing.
Meanwhile, the Queen was dead and because all television and fun was cancelled (the Queen must have really hated fun and many common aspects of life considering how much of it was now seen as inappropriate all of a sudden) thousands joined a queue to pass the time and show other countries just how correct their reductive stereotypes of Britishness can be. We either queued or watched the queue, which was streamed 24 hours a day on the BBC, which now went by the name MournHub.
And yet there was still enough time for Ian Brown to tour as a karaoke act and for Johnny Borrell to launch a new band called Jealous Nostrils – a classic politician play, that, sneaking some awful news out while the country’s attention is elsewhere, probably queuing.
All other music was cancelled. The Queen had died. It just wasn’t appropriate.