on how Labour will manage
your lives from
Potty Training to the Care Home
I thoroughly enjoyed Thursday and Friday – the failure to organise the London Mayoral count properly meant we could have Labour Drubbing II straight after Labour Drubbing I. There was shell-shocked Ed Miliband, normally a smug and hubristic sort, gulping down pints of the bitter bile of utter humiliation, an experience for which life under Smuggo Blair has left him quite untrained.
Then there was the classic ‘failure’ of the link to Geoff ‘BuffHoon’ Hoon when he was bowled yet another nasty bouncer by David Dimbleby: ‘I can’t hear you’ had become ‘I don’t want to hear you’.
Other assorted and suitably bemused Socialists were forced to walk the plank in studios all over the land. Some remained defiantly on another planet: ‘They’ll get the point and when they do we’ll have an historic fourth term too”.
Others did a suitable imitation of a beached haddock, unable to explain why the New Labour balloon had been so efficiently pricked and deflated. Well people have got the point and discovered that it does not pay today’s bills. Labour is so busy working out yet more devious ways of running your life on your behalf that it has become utterly detached from the real world in which people have to pay £1.20 for a litre of diesel, in which the cost of day-to-day essentials from the supermarket have shot up 10-20% in price in a year, in which it costs and arm and a leg to travel even a short distance by train, in which the Stasi goes round checking up on the view from your house with a view to jacking up your council tax….One could go on at length, but you will have the idea by now.
My favourite moments: one was the sight of Michael Portillo doing his Colombey-les-deux-églises thing, opining that 44% for the Tories was an inadequate result. Demonstrating his Ken Clarke moment, namely proving beyond a peradventure why he should never have been allowed the leadership of the party, he looks set fair to emulate Ted Heath in the length of the sulk he is going to have at being rejected.
Then there was the poor man’s Polly Toynbee, one Yasmin Alibai Brown on SKY, contemplating the victory of one Boris. At one point she actually became quite incoherent with rage at the result. For a minute or so only the odd word was audible:
as she spluttered and choked her way through a newspaper review. I look forward to watching her on election night in June 2010 when another Etonian spoils her day. Like a deflating weather balloon, she will zoom rapidly into the air emitting a loud raspberry and be gone.
There were more: Yvette Balls-up (“Yap, Yap. Yap!”); Hazel Blears (“Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap,Yap!!”), whiny comprehensive school teacher Jacqui Smith, who said she was ‘listening’, to name but a few. All in all it was a wonderful experience for those of us who view these awful people as nothing more than legalised and very expensive wrecking-ball merchants.
The delicious thing is that all this has been brought to you at the behest of McStalin who was, of course, nominated for the Leadership by no less than 313 numpties out of the 367 Labour MPs. The vast majority of them thus have no excuse for the irradiated hole in which they now find themselves, since they signed their own death warrant by choosing this mendacious, devious, manipulative, dishonourable 1970s Socialist to lead them. It should be no surprise to them, therefore, that the public have suddenly decided that they did not want, after all, to experience ‘Life on Mars’ and that they no longer want the likes of Balls and Mrs. Balls to balls up their lives any more or do any more long-term planning on how Labour should run their lives for them from potty-training to the care home.
Thus, for the first time since 1987, I sat up till the wee small hours and enjoyed myself. What about 1992 I hear you ask? Well the only joy in watching John Major’s victory was seeing the humbling of the Welsh Windbag and feeling an intense moment of pleasure when Chris Patten lost his seat. For the rest I can say, honestly, that I was sure Major would be a disaster and anyhow I wanted nothing to do with the Regicide regime which he represented.
I shall stick my neck out once more. Labour ought to be stuck with Brown: sending him to the Knackers yard a year and a bit after he took over upon the nomination of 85% of the Parliamentary Labour Party will make them look seriously ridiculous. They may yet do so: but who would want to take command of the Titanic after it has struck the iceberg? In any event the business of a leadership contest is, for Labour, a cumbersome one which would only serve to enhance the impression of division and leaderlessness that prevades the regime of Scottish sociopath Gordon Brown.
back a sense of fun to politics
as well as a frisson
of living dangerously
Yet there is still a long way to go. The Tories have yet to marshal a full and coherent programme for power and there are still two years in which they can foul up. Their present economic plans are prey to the vicissitudes of a declining and possibly imploding global economy. Their policy on the EU , to say the least, lacks the firmness its supporters want. Last year Cameron looked to have grabbed defeat from the jaws of victory between the departure of Blai and the autumn and might yet repeat the feat. They must be on notice: discipline and hard work are the only possible orders of the day.
But the very best thing in all this has been the eviction of the Red Reptile. Boris, having been brought up properly, was suitably polite and generous in seeing him to the door. The rest of us will feel immense satisfaction that this nasty Marxist extremist has been sent packing, along with his greedy fat cat cronies, the minorities client list, Fidel Castro, Hugo Chavez and all the impedimenta of class warfare. The eclipse of this lizard who has spent so much of his time cosying up to the enemies of Britain will bring a smile to the face of so many people in this land who will be glad he was beaten on the field of battle and not allowed to die in his bed.
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