CHILDREN around the world are counting down the days with mounting excitement, their behaviour never more keenly considered than when mum admonishes them, “you’ll end up on Santa’s naughty list!”
Santa Claus. Father Christmas. The greatest, most enduring work of adult fiction; a lovingly intended conceit rooted in keeping alive a spirit of magic and imagination, of love and generosity.
Any Scrooge-like adults who consider Santa a sorry case of parents cynically lying to children don’t get it and never will. Best leave them to their misery.
Santa isn’t a lie, he’s a treasured tradition, and a much needed one especially in these troubled times.
Because I have to confess folks, pretty much everything else I witness in British public life today is a lie, a deceit, a betrayal, a plot, or at very best a selfish act of vain ambition.
I ask you, who, in positions of power and authority in British public life, can you remotely believe or trust?
Who? From the discredited, compulsive liar that is Theresa May and across the political spectrum, through local authorities, police forces and even the shameful mainstream media – who can you trust to tell the truth?
The mantle of authority is gilded with deceit.
The blatant lies of May and her apologists are the most brazen example, but everywhere you look the general language is – at best! – evasion and equivocation.
The non-answer; the boring mantra of parroting policy while refusing to impart uncomfortable truths. Simple honesty has gone, disappeared from public life.
We’re not trusted with truth, is the truth of it.
You can’t even trust the church, or at least that evangelist of political correctness Justin Welby, the Archbishop of Canterbury. Where in the gospels does it mention voting Leave as one of the seven deadly sins?
I’m sure there are journalists of integrity within the BBC – the Biased Broadcasting Corporation.
Unfortunately I doubt there’s a single editor not infected by neo-liberal brainwashing, psychologically incapable of professional objectivity; their dogma defines them, and they don’t even understand why that’s a problem.
On some subjects – not all – you shouldn’t believe a word that comes out of a BBC newsreader’s mouth, and heaven forbid that current affairs programmes pretend towards any semblance of balance. Lord Reith must be turning in his grave.
I’m a few thousand miles away, so I’ve only seen social media accounts of UKIP’s Brexit Betrayal march in London on Sunday.
Apparently national newspapers and broadcasters reported that a paltry 1,500 attended, while ‘tens of thousands’ of People’s Vote opponents gathered in opposition. From what I’ve been able to see, someone got those numbers back to front.
Was there any mention on the BBC news that the main march passed off impeccably, while the opposing Momentum and Antifa thugs of the Fascist Left did their best to start street battles?
Was there any TV news coverage at all? Because you know it would have led the bulletins if it had been a ‘People’s Vote’ protest.
And it’s not just the Beeb, it is a conspiracy of the entire media establishment, which becomes entirely fitting when you consider the other end of the spectrum, our universities.
We’ve bred a generation of young people screaming out that they can’t handle the truth! They want ‘safe spaces’ and the silencing of anyone who speaks a truth they are uncomfortable with.
And between them all, sit us – the real people, no longer represented, no longer listened to.
SO, THANK heavens for Santa and a couple of weeks of fantasy and festivity.
We can’t have needed it more since the winter of 1939 when, lest we forget, the spiritual ancestor of May was still Prime Minister – Neville Chamberlain. Winston Churchill’s time was still some months distant.
Why did May survive on Wednesday night? Well, there is no apparent Churchill, and at least not one that a House full (mostly) of snivelling opportunists, is willing to rally around.
The Tories this week were busy pushing women and children out of the way as they grabbed their metaphoric life-jackets and the Commons bars on Wednesday night would have been like the Titanic’s lifeboats: “Phew, that was a close call,” as they raised a glass, rehearsed their lies and deceits to the Britons who elected them, and left the ship to sink.
And when in due course those Conservative MPs pay with their seats at the next election, they will still blame May, not themselves.
“What could we do?” they’ll whine, like deserters who left their mates to go over the top at the Somme, or Ypres. “It wasn’t our fault…”
I half wish the country gets a Jeremy Corbyn government, and very soon – but like those yellow-bellied Tories he doesn’t want it just yet, because then he’d inherit the poisoned chalice of sorting Brexit.
At least the economic misery of the Marx(ist) Brothers in Downing Street would ultimately be worth this newly extremist Labour party being consigned to the political dustbin, hot on the heels (hopefully) of the Tories.
“It’s my deal or Corbyn,” May threatened. Well, at least we can get rid of Crackpot Corbyn and Marxist McDonnell, so she was wildly askew in equating that with surrendering UK sovereignty to the descendants of Hitler and Petain.
I hope and pray that this betrayal not just of Brexit, but of democracy, brings radical change. It’s time.
We’re not going to get a military coup – sadly – because the PC-infected general staff is as selfishly focused on knighthoods and peerages as the festering sycophants in Parliament.
Which leaves the people – 17.4 million at the last count, a number which I suspect would be rather more now, despite the propaganda of the BBC and friends.
What, we need to win a second vote, I hear you ask?
Oh no – the time is coming to march on Westminster. Not ‘to’ Westminster, but ‘on’ Westminster. To take the place, to clear the mess out of the stables.
Because while we might not have a single Churchill to look to, we have millions who hold true to his spirit; who will not see the sacrifice of generations betrayed and surrendered quite so meekly as our political classes.
If anyone’s having a whip round for hi-vis jackets, as witnessed in Paris this past month, put me down for a sizeable contribution.
SORRY I couldn’t be over on Batley Market Place on Saturday morning where apparently 63,000 turned out to protest against the racist media, amongst other things (Note: it was just a few dozen, but then again Diane Abbott did the headcount).
I don’t think I got a name-check, despite this being partially about cat-got-your-tongue councillor Fazila Loonat having a mass cry-in because I called her a few names.
But that’s the Fascist Left for you – all mouth and baggy-trousers; not really got the balls to go face to face, let alone toe to toe.
Between their playground rhetoric and their balaclava’d Antifa militants, there is no intellectual middle ground.
So, sorry I couldn’t attend in person, although watching a video of Diane ‘me, me, it’s all about me’ Abbott’s speech, was funnier than a Christmas Morecambe and Wise special.
I heard her mention a racist attack on Fazila? Really? Is that something I don’t know about, or just these warped people twisting another truth?
Abbott is one stupid individual and I really don’t care about her colour or gender, although she’ll no doubt chalk that remark up as another ‘racist’ or ‘sexist’ attack on her, because that is the stock in trade of these infantile cretins.
Abbot, a hypocrite of the highest order, is Shadow Home Secretary because she spent a youthful summer hooking her paws into Jeremy Corbyn’s bony backside.
That’s how power works, folks. That’s Labour’s brains trust for you.
But still, Abbott being thick has nothing to do with anything except the fact of it, just as Coun Loonat’s situation is nothing to do with her religion, but everything to do with her refusal to fairly represent and answer to her constituents.