In South Africa, the neo-feudal death-cult capitalist dystopia, crisis statism is in full flower. The poor are confined to heir shacks, the petit bourgeoisie stress over their evaporating stock portfolios, and dogs have forgotten how to walk. Meanwhile, the ANC elite are publishing their brunch dates on Instagram. The revolution, it appears, is but one perfectly photographed mimosa away.
The metaphorical ventilator
Let's begin with a morality tale. Following the meltdown of one of the world's oldest and most powerful parliamentary democracies, a shaggy, glib opportunist of no identifiable political ideology emerges as the only member of a denuded ruling class capable of winning an election.
Regarding the most pressing matter facing his country in several generations - Brexit - he appeared to support both sides of the argument, eventually settling on the one that afforded him the greatest chance of professional advancement. Now occupying the highest office in his land, and with that last matter rendered quaint by the emergence of an unprecedented (if widely prophesied) global pandemic, he scoffed at the available science, admitting that he'd kept shaking hands like a proper English gentleman until the last possible opportunity. Shortly thereafter, he landed himself in an ICU.