MY how we laughed. My, how all the world laughed! America, a great nation of 325 million souls and the best they could come up with for President was a corrupt career politician in Hillary, and a demonic, bewigged halfwit in Donald.
Who’s laughing now?
If you’ve been following the demoralising General Election coverage this past week, I challenge you not to despair at the choice facing us.
I haven’t a clue what Theresa May’s guard dogs have been putting in her tea, but it’s gone to her head.
A woman who was a safe, steady, understated pair of hands, has turned into Coco the Clown, manically running around frightening the kids with that scary face and her “vote for me, vote for me!” banshee wail.
Calm down, woman. It’s not all about you.
Except for Theresa and her puppeteers, Nick Timothy and Fiona Hill – who apparently won’t let the more sane members of the Conservative cabinet near her – it is all about her.
She’s like Trump after a charisma bypass. Suddenly a nation that was grateful for her calm, measured leadership after all the Brexit histrionics, has woken up to the depressing realisation that she’s just another self-absorbed egomaniac.
Mrs May’s the only person to trust with Brexit? After her manifesto omnishambles, I wouldn’t trust the woman to butter my toast.
Theresa – the woman who made Jeremy Corbyn Prime Minister. What, it couldn’t happen? Tell me that next Friday.
In this strangest, most unpredictable of political ages, anything could happen.
We really could wake up with a Prime Minister who despises England and the United Kingdom, who celebrated IRA and Palestinian murderers, and who would cheerfully bankrupt our children’s futures just to strike a last, fleeting blow for the discredited creed of socialism.
If people thought Brexit was a bad move for the national fortunes, wait until the reality of a collection of deluded Marxists running Downing Street sinks in.
If the Corbynistas succeed in introducing just half of their manifesto pledges, this country will be down the toilet. Last one out, switch off the lights.
And you know what? The one-eyed fools who get their mean-spirited revolution and ultimately find themselves potless will blame it on the bankers, on Brexit, on the Tories … on anyone and anything except their own idiocy.
I think it was Winston Churchill who once said: “Socialism only works in two places – in heaven where they don’t need it, and hell where they’ve already got it.”
But go on, indulge me. Tell me where socialism such as it is imagined by Corbyn, Diane Abbott and John McDonnell, has ever worked.
I’m not talking about the soft, democratic socialism of post-war Britain, but their hating, wealth-destroying textbook march of the masses. The Soviet Union? China? Cuba, the Eastern Bloc?
When socialism fails economically (and it always does), history tells us that dictatorship follows. Stalin, Mao, Castro … and you’re right, that couldn’t and wouldn’t happen here. We’ll just have a divided society and ruined economy for a generation. That’s all.
But anyone who tells you that open borders and unchecked immigration is compatible with a manageable NHS and education system, as Labour do, is either economically incompetent, insane or lying. Or all three.
That’s especially so when small businesses are driven to the wall and the big wealth creators (who I agree should contribute more) take their industry elsewhere.
But then again neither Corbyn, McDonnell nor Abbott has ever held a proper job, lived in the real world outside the political bubble of the trades union creche.
It will always be someone else’s fault though, not theirs. That’s underpinned the talentless myopia of socialism since its birth.
I FEEL sorry for hard-working, honest MPs at times like this and especially in this election when voters are being motivated by something of seemingly greater import than saving local services or representing local people.
Paula Sherriff and Tracy Brabin have both shown admirable energy and commitment to their constituencies in their brief Parliamentary careers, certainly more than their predecessors Simon Reevell and Mike Wood (I exempt Jo Cox for obvious reasons).
Speaking with a ‘local’ hat on, I don’t care what colour rosette an MP wears so long as they fight their constituents’ corner. I will be very surprised if either Miss Sherriff or Ms Brabin fails to be elected next week.
But this election isn’t about them and despite my horror at the prospect of a traitor in 10 Downing Street I cannot bring myself to vote for the vain hypocrite that is Theresa May.
The Liberal Democrats? Have you seen or heard Tim Farron? He’s away with the fairies and apart from developing a handy line in snippy sarcasm brings absolute zero to political discourse. The Lib Dems are no longer credible.
UKIP are a burst balloon, although they could forseeably rise again if Brexit isn’t delivered, or PM Corbyn offers a second referendum.
I voted Labour in every local and general election until 2001 (yes, even with the moronic Neil Kinnock at the helm) when I voted Independent Labour, having witnessed Ann Taylor’s corruption of the Muslim vote.
In 2005 and 2010 it was the Tories, in 2015 UKIP. And next Thursday? If Aleks Lukic or someone similar was standing in my constituency I’d vote for them, but I have no such choice.
So although I can hardly believe I’m saying this, I will drive home from work, go with my best mate Arthur for a pint in the village pub, then walk across to the polling station and deliberately spoil my ballot paper in protest at what UK politics has become.
It might be a swear word scrawled across my ballot. Heck, depending how quiet the place is and whether I’ve stayed for a couple or three pints, I might even wipe my backside with it.
Then Arthur and I will wander home and settle down to see what fate awaits the United Kingdom.
I fear the worst.
TALK about laughing – I howled at news the Met Police is recruiting ‘detectives’ straight off the street in order to boost numbers. Says something about ordinary coppers, doesn’t it?
“We’d promote you PC Plod, but have you noticed your shoes are on the wrong feet? And as for that missed 999 call?” ... “I couldn’t find the car keys gaffer!”
I can picture Met commander Cressida Dick sifting through the applications, hoping against hope for one from S. Holmes, H. Poirot, M. Marple...
The scheme wasn’t why I laughed though. It was the quote from a senior officer saying “people want an experienced detective investigating their house break-in”.
Which world do you live in pal? A detective for a burglary? You’re having a laugh.
It’s a civilian phone operator and a crime number for the insurance, if you’re lucky.
I can’t speak for Huddersfield but in this part of Kirklees the streets are largely lawless and the crime has to be significantly bigger than a break-in to merit anything more than rudimentary acknowledgment.
We’re reduced to policing via Facebook up here, with people doing all their own legwork and then hoping the cops will take it seriously. You have to embarrass the force to shame them into a response.
It can’t be too serious though – a proper hoo-ha and the Serious Crime Squad are wheeled out, with our lot back safe behind their desks. Mind how you go...