I’M NOT often seen dancing a merry jig round the village pub but I was on Thursday at about 10.05pm, as the stunning General Election exit poll was announced.
I doubt many of my staff were in raptures – some were probably crying buckets – but they should have been. They still had jobs. Would I have flipped a Corbyn government the middle finger and walked? I guess we’ll never know .... fnar, fnar!
I felt a teeny bit sorry for Paula Sherriff when voters sent her packing, because I quite like the lass. But between flipping Leave voters her own middle finger, that ugly Commons outburst, compounded by terrorist-loving Corbyn’s economic insanities, she was always at risk.
Later, between crying my own buckets of tears (tears of laughter at the Snowflake meltdowns), I spared a brief moment to reflect on Britain becoming a one-party democracy, because that’s not good.
It’s certainly not good long-term, but for the next five years I think it’s kinda fan-dabby-dozy! (Sorry, I can’t type for breaking out in spontaneous fits of laughter…)
Where were we? Ah yes. Those half million jobs that would be gone on June 24th, 2016; 15% interest rates, soaring unemployment, plummeting sterling; the masses of city bankers, traders and companies running to get the last Eurostar out of London. Well we’ll see now, won’t we?
But while I might have felt a slight twinge of regret at losing the Labour Party of hard-working, aspirational working folk, by the hour it became clearer and clearer that all of them, extreme and moderate alike, are deluded. They really don’t get it.
The rabid, Brit-hating Far Left are happy to throw Corbyn on a token bonfire, but in every interview they were blaming Brexit and the treacherous media (and there was I thinking the BBC and Channel 4 are just Diane Abbott with half a brain – as opposed to none).
The nation loved their manifesto – that’s what they actually thought! It was just that nationalising everything (possibly including the air that we breathe), free wifi and generous benefits for every lazy sod, from home or abroad … well, it just wasn’t enough. Their economics work, they just need a more plausible front man. They’ll really punish the dastardly rich next time...
(As a brief aside, the top 1% of UK earners might pay 27% of all income tax, but they still only have 1% of the vote. Don’t blame them).
Meanwhile, the myopic moderates who self-indulgently ushered in Corbyn, McDonnell and Momentum are in just as much denial. For them, Jezza lost it, and if they can only elect a sane leader, No.10 will be theirs...
What a treat we’re in for, watching horrible Emily Thornberry, the up-his-own-wotsit Keir Starmer (sorry, ‘Sir’ Keir – very man of the people), and a selection from Angela Rayner, Lisa Nandy, Rebecca Long-Bailey, Yvette Cooper and Jess Phillips fighting like cats in a sack.
Oh – except for one thing. As with Corbyn, it will be the Far Left loonies picking the next leader and I don’t see the Marxists yielding power quite so easily, after waiting 100-odd years to get it.
It’s not hard to read their minds: “If only we could extend the vote to over-11s, legalise state euthanasia – preferably at 70, so as to hasten the departure of those crusty old xenophobic bigots, who can’t be trusted to know what’s good for them….”
Ah, but that’s the point you’ve missed, Labour. Those people have their own homes (many of them ex-council houses), they support their kids, enjoy their holidays and Sky telly; they’re proud of the lives they’ve lived and love the country that made it possible – even if still being a bit peeved at fat-cat FTSE directors and the many injustices all societies have.
No country’s perfect but when all’s said and done, this England of ours isn’t anything like as bad as Labour’s oafs hysterically pretend.
And the bottom line is this – if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck and quacks like a duck, we know a duck when we see one. And this Labour duck will be dead in the water for some time.
I wouldn’t trust Boris to walk my missus across the road without trying it on, but he’s smarter than the entire Shadow Cabinet. And I was going to say that a lot of people could end up eating ‘humble’ pie, but there’s no humble about these haters. That’s one of their biggest problems.
OVER the years I’ve dragged myself out of bed and into work in some desperate states. There might (though probably not) have been a pair of grundies pulled on back to front, or a rare pair of mismatched socks. Again, I doubt it.
But while I remember EU President Jean-Claude Juncker the Drunkard being filmed staggering onto a stage wearing odd shoes (one black, one brown), at least the old soak had them on the correct feet. Did you see the picture of Shadow Home Secretary Diane Abbott going to vote on Thursday? Not just odd shoes on, but two left feet? Firstly, how do you even do that, but secondly, how do you take more than two steps before realising something is wrong? Being ‘far left’ is one thing, but that’s a bit much.
Sure I once doffed my trews in Aussie rugby sheds to reveal a pair of my girlfriends’ frillies, but that was a legitimate laundry emergency. No bloke would wear a pair of those cheese cutters by choice, would they? (I need to be careful – that’s probably considered trans-hate speech these days).
But going out in full public glare? In two left-footed, odd shoes? All I can conjure is that having been tied up and gagged in a Momentum basement for the entire election campaign, Abbott managed to evade her captors to go vote, and those were the only clothes available.
But then again … nah. Just thick as mince.
ONCE upon a time ... back in the days of Jack and Vera Duckworth and Jim McDonald ... I actually used to watch a bit of Corrie.
Not slavishly, in a three-line-whip sort of way, but it was easy watching. The odd laugh. I saw enough of EastEnders to know the pub was the Queen Vic and the Mitchell brothers were never destined for a happy ending, but Emmerdale?
Thanks but no thanks. I’d rather pour bleach in my eyes than sit through a week’s worth of ‘Emmer’ episodes. Unfortunately, Mrs L, despite not setting foot in Yorkshire until 1995, is a soap junkie when it comes to Emmerdale.
I occasionally run through the room with my eyes scrunched shut shouting “blah blah blah” out loud, so I don’t get an Emfection, but just occasionally, the remote goes ‘click’ and I can’t avoid being exposed to the televisual rubbish.
She’s just returned from nine days overseas on business, which means endless hours of Emmerdale catch-up and if you closed your eyes, our house would sound like a mass marriage counselling session that someone brought a case of Special Brew to, and has turned violent.
That’s not me and the gaffer having a barney by the way, it just appears to be the default diet of the Emmerdale script-writers, who I can only assume are on day release from Armley Prison, having been persuaded to re-sit their English GCSE.
From what little I’ve been unable to avoid gleaning, it appears that everybody’s rumpy-pumpied with everyone else; everyone’s plotted to kill everyone else – and some of them have succeeded; every younger cast member is an illegitimate son/daughter of several older cast members – and I’m not exactly sure how that works given our incest laws – and every single flaming episode contains fewer laughs than the Parliamentary Labour Party’s Christmas fuddle.
Oh well, at least there’s the Gavin and Stacey Christmas special to look forward to, plus the usual repeats of Only Fools and Horses, Morecambe and Wise and Vicar of Dibley.
They really don’t make ‘em like that any more.