Ed Lines - June 8, 2018

Ed Lines - June 8, 2018

I’VE been leaving politics largely aside the past few weeks. Not because there hasn’t been much to say, but because therein lies the path to madness … or at the very least severe depression mixed with heart-pounding rage.

It’s not good for the health. But while I try to avoid the GP or emergency use of the village defibrillator, I sincerely wish someone would put the Prime Minister Theresa May out of her – and our – misery.

A couple of weeks in a padded room, with a rear-fastening jacket, would be a therapeutic start for the frayed, frazzled and frankly frit PM, judging by her nervous breakdown at Prime Minister’s Questions on Wednesday.

Talk about ‘rabbit in the headlights’. May was a gibbering wreck. Embarrassing. If they watch the BBC in Brussels, Michel Barnier and Jean-Claude Juncker must have been breaking out the champagne. The woman really is cracking up.

That was Wednesday June 6, by the way, 74 years to the day since 160,000 young British, American and Commonwealth troops stormed the beaches of Normandy. Thousands of them, literally, left their blood and their bodies on that sand. 

They were fighting German and French – yes French – fascists, attempting to liberate Europe, that it might have a free and democratic future. 

They sacrificed their lives not just for their own families and countries, but to free an entire continent. Don’t mention it folks … you’re welcome.

Have you visited the Normandy war cemeteries? You should. It’s chilling. And Jeremy Corbyn, the traitorous leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition, ought to be dragged there by his hair, kicking and screaming, to pay his reluctant respects.

Could Corbyn bring himself to, even forced at gunpoint on bended knee? He’d probably mutter the necessary platitudes in order to weasel his way out of any imagined obligations, while thinking all the while “they asked for it”.

My, how that man hates this country, how he relishes the opportunity to bring it to its knees, evidenced by Wednesday’s latest act of treason in the Commons.

My anger is clearly at the betrayal of Brexit and I understand entirely if you strongly take the opposite view. 

But even so, you should be concerned at the motives of Corbyn, who despises the EU almost, but not quite, as much as he despises all aspects of British society and government.

I don’t know if he’s ever declared how he voted on June 23, 2016. Like his friends and supporters of a certain cultural persuasion, he changes facts daily to suit the moment’s needs. 

He would quite possibly swear on one of his children’s lives that he voted Remain – if that’s what he thought was most helpful at the time. It would decidedly not mean he did though, because he is to his core a Leave believer.

At PMQs however, Corbyn gleefully propounded the ludicrous Labour ‘position’ that Britain pursue full Single Market and customs union access in achieving Brexit.

You do understand that isn’t possible, don’t you? Not physically, not practically, not intellectually – and certainly not legally, by the EU’s self-made laws which, by the way, we would have to kowtow to.

No vote or veto, open borders, just massive bills and not even a metaphoric, but  an almost literal chain around our necks, gripped tightly by Brussels.

And you Remainers want that? Really?

Corbyn/Labour, having voted through Brexit legislation right until now, stood atop the Normandy bluffs and started throwing mortars and grenades at British troops on the beaches below.

Like the Vichy French, the quisling collaborators, they sniffed opportunity.

If they ever actually believed in the cause, the whiff of power turned their heads. So what if they bring down their own government, betray the nation?

‘Prime Minister Corbyn’ … ‘Chancellor John McDonnell’ (who recently reaffirmed, in case you missed it, that yes, his main cause in life is to bring down capitalism) … how good does that sound? ‘Home Secretary Diane Abbott’ – and God help us all with that.

I feel for Labour voters, I really do, because their understandable hopes and dreams are controlled by radical traitors whose prime instinct, lying only barely below the surface, is to bring this country to its knees.

Their dilemma is best evidenced by local MPs Paula Sherriff and Tracy Brabin, committed Remainers representing an overwhelmingly Leave electorate.

I suspect that if Corbyn cynically enforces revolution in the Commons when the dithering May finally puts her Brexit bill before Parliament, Brabin and Sherriff, using that hackneyed old excuse of prison camp guards, will dolefully plead “we were only following orders”.

There could yet be patriotic blood on Britain’s streets, this time fighting the enemy within.


STILL, the Brexit mess apart, you can’t beat a bit of good old sporting jingoism to unite the country, can you? 

Our brave young lads, with their machine guns (tattooed on their legs that is) will be throwing their bodies prostrate on the ground in sacrifice (in foreign penalty areas) over the coming weeks.

As with Napoleon, as with Hitler and their Russian adventures, so I do not doubt with Gareth Southgate and his simpering troops as they venture off to contest the FIFA World Cup.

If they come back with their wallets and designer clothes intact, their fingernails still attached, and free of Novichok, then I think we can all agree that the campaign will have been something of a qualified success.

Knocked out in the quarter finals by Germany (on penalties naturally)? Break out the bunting, that’ll do nicely!

I’ll dutifully cheer along, though more out of habit than actual care or passion. The FIFA World Cup – FIFA, where the EU meets the mafia, except with bigger bribes and more widespread corruption. Some choice between this World Cup and next – being despatched to an icy Siberian gulag this time, boiling to death in a 120-degree Qatari desert in the next. Marvellous.

I find the modern game mostly tiresome anyway because so few of the players are actually likeable.

Some great athletes no doubt and I dare say great footballers too – but do you ever see one who looks to be actually enjoying himself? A quarter of a million quid a week to fall over and sulk?

Give me an honest sport like rugby league – where at least the modern Super League player throws himself about trying to buy penalties for only a modest salary.

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