This deleted poem from 22/1/13 summarises the general situation in Slovenia on this day and Gregor Virant's ultimatum to JJ - which was basically "this government isn't big enough for both of us - get out of this government by midnight...or...or...I will."  The SDS just ignored Virant so he had to fulfil his threat and break the coalition.

From the PR perspective it all looks like an eye-scratching contest. Two elections later JJ is in jail, while the DL party has done a rap and promptly vanished:

The actual mention of midnight - without which I wouldn't have written mah own rap - also seems to have disappeared for some reason, along with my rhyme.


Listen my children and I'll recant
Of the midnight ride of Greg Virant,
Twenty-second of January, twenty thirteen;
Political tragedy, very Slovene,
Will Ivan resign?  He's recalcitrant.

Said Greg to his friends, "If the SDS
Won't take their hands off of power tonight,
Whose turn is next, well that's anyone's guess
We have a trumpet, so it might
Be us, plus them, and the other three;
My turn to PM next, maybe,
So take the tram, spread the alarm
Through every Slovenian village and farm,
Folks, you're the syringe, and we are the arm."

So, up until twelve, it remained quite a bore
Would Ivan up sticks, or stick round for more?
As it seems the accused will probably stay
We'll get nothing done before the end of May:
Elections, and to the victor go the spoils;
Meanwhile, and after, additional turmoil -
A new rain of frogs, or the old plague of boils,
Stately ghost-ship, figurehead adorns bow:
JJ and his alleged two hundred thou.

So the strikers, they readied to take to the streets
Again. The witching hour draws near,
The zombies raise a weary cheer,
In hopes JJ will disappear.
Soldiers, cops don't plan sedition:
They're on strike too: Mario's repeats
Are better than rioting, getting cold ears,
Defending self-hating hodge-podge coalition.

In the tower of the kiddy-fiddling church
On an island, in the lake of Bled,
The RKC books, all writ in red,
Whichever way the voters next lurch,
Expect, like government, resumption
Of peasant-sponsored gross consumption.
For sooner than having to go to the wall
They'd prefer to bad bank it and not pay at all;
Support for both elites is down -
Both types of ministers' pants are brown,
Both their accountants' stories...tall.

Beneath the Slovenian bond yield curve,
The parties united in a single cry:
You're a slave to (our) money, then you will die,
(As explained in that Symphony done by The Verve).
The lenders don't care if you're bent
Or if half your citizens live in old tents -
The only mill here that they need create
Is the mill which makes rumours concerning the state
Affairs, which ironically, given Slovenes
Are, top to bottom, pure gossip queens,
Decides the rate at which the cash is lent
For Parliament to spend at will
On banks...whose assets always head towards nil.
Their slim liquidity's always a bore,
A crisis! - Bail them out some more!

KPK sounds the gallop, Virant rides,
Offers JJ the boot, only with lies implied,
Opposition will let the DL party flex.
Everybody is of course still on their own side,
For deputies dogged, whose neck is next? -
New parties each evening, prepare for more mirth.
As an envelope size, DL's primary birth
Successfully wrapped up your letter, though dumbly,
Some contents fell out, no referen-dum - see?
When found out, SDS and DL could agree!
As all sides coalesced to chime "It wasn't me!"
Other public participants lost in the mix
Opposed dismal coal power plant known as TEŠ6.
There's a hole in Velenje, near where it burns
If the hole catches fire again that's quite a fix -
It's a brown hole of brown coal, from carbonised ferns.

Yet again, all the parties appear to agree
Unglamorous stuff like TEŠ6, and skies dark,
Politically rate on a par with skid marks -
Not important themselves, but of priority
As politicos struggle to give a green light
To that whose approval obviously might
Involve large sums of cash to ensure that lignite's
Greenwashed in environmentalicity;
Leaving discharges, future health costs pretty steep,
While beneath us, mystical compounds will creep,
All too complex for the smiling XXS chap
Whose election advertisement you saw adorn
Your town. Where once local hero was born,
Party animals trample - vast herds of bullcrap.

Night rider Greg Virant, self-driving chap;
At the toll of midnight went his cry of alarm
To every Slovenian village and farm,---
At least the ones registered, shown on the map,
A quite claustrophobic political scene,
A country of dastardly plots - pretty mean.
Born like delinquent, crass, lying youth,
Slovenian history's semi-half-truth:
Where what the most people most want to hear
Is the only reliable determinant -
Virant at canter, just banter dear,
Is the minority message of Greg Virant.
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