God bless her, beseiged by stupid, ignorant, redneck fuckpigs at the Filth-O-Graph, Mary Riddell pleads for a reinvigorated Labour party, no man is an island, she quotes, divorced from the cuts made by indolent trust-funded wankers and she's right, but she's wrong to expect deliverance at the hands of the NewLabour Project-iles, so to speak.
The current Labour leadership election rivals
their Foot-in-Mouth Manifesto of Suicide
from 1983 and will be far more damaging;
the election of any of this hideous quartet
of maformed misfits, Blinky Balls-Cooper,
the bewilderingly gauche, fish-out-of-water
Milliband Brothers or AndyPandy Burnham,
the Revlon Boy of modern Westminster
- will consign the very idea of Labour Government
completing the Project begun by Mandelstein,
Blair, Brown and Campbell. It will be a historic
moment but not one of regret.
Whichever of them, or whichever combination
emerges triumphant, if that's the word,
will spend leadership in dwindling, irrelevant opposition,
or routed entirely, beyond even that meagre compensation.
And serve them right. All of them, party activist or pampered scumbag parliamentarian. Not worth shit.
It remains possible, in these strange times, that some amalgamation of Kennedy-ite LibDems, disgusted by Clegg, and NewNewLabourites might wrest control of parliament but that would not be the Labour party, just a ragbag of disparate, Not-Really-Tories.
The Labour Party membership should have risen-up over Ecclestonegate, in 1997, when the ghastly dwarf bribed it with a million quid, only to receive an almost immediate refund and still have his millionaire sport excused from tobacco-advertising legislation, the Nannystate sidestepped by the Dirty Old Man. Blair, a pretty, straight guy, could not stand any scrutiny and thus blithely insisted that Formula One was such an important employer that it should continue to advertise fags. Never mind the bung. Let's just move-on.
Ecclestonegate showed that the British prime minister, at any rate, in Cameron's latest, chilling, CheapLabour4U phrase, was open for business; he still is. The Labour Party membership should have risen up over Lashmi Mittal bribing Tony and Imelda, for steel, over the Hindujah Brothers bribing Tony and Imelda for passports.
I would never do anything wrong, cor, blimey, Sahib.
Instead, rotten, grassroots, peacocking imbeciles like John Burton, Blair's agent in Sedgefield, in the first steps of a long march to betrayal, hosannahed their personal closeness to power. Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer, we'll stop the red flag flyin' here.
The list of personal and institutional scandals attaching to Labour in office would run down off the page and onto the floor and are chronicled here and elsewhere in vivid profusion; they are inexcuseable and in a decent society would have resulted in their perpetrators' imprisonment . Perhaps the worst aspect of NewLabour's serial venality is that they have lowered the bar of acceptable behaviour and this current ragbag of lying arseholes will stop at nothing, will feel smugly justified in doing anything to maintain the government that nobody voted for.
their notional allegiance,swiftly forget their
supporters, witness Mr Suit-and-Haircut,
once their sternest critic, elected with a
mandate to oppose them, now a squeaking,
can't-believe-his-luck, deputy Tory prime minister. Labour haters, of whom there are justifiably many - both those naturally ill-disposed to any socialist-styled movement, and others, more bitter, betrayed, latch-on to this creep, this pampered, tongue-tied nitwit, little knowing or too frightened to realise that Clegg and not Cameron is the true Blairlite, Cameron will only betray one wing of his party for Power. Cleggy, like Blair, would betray his mother and father, his children and most certainly his voters. Quad erat demonstrandum - as we say at Westminster School.
This coalition of the unwholesome, ironically, is Labour's accurate and telling legacy; Blair, Brown, Mandelson and Campbell, between them and supported by the parliamentary Labour party and much of skymadeupnewsandfilth made Westminster a principle-free zone, virtually a party-free zone. Bluster as he may about new govament, Cameron's wool is dyed in the same rubbishy, nineteenth century capitalism as was Gordon Snot's and Tony Blair's. Not a Rizla paper, whatever they say, between them. NewLabour dumped principle like an elephant with diarrhoea, leaving us all with the Kiss-Me-Quick politics of career legislators; jobsworth prats, idle, thieving, braying layabouts and nitwits. Who, no, really, honestly, who gives a flying fuck about what Vince Cable says about anything, over-rehearsed, achingly ponderous, I Know Best, silly old man, spinning himself shitless, devising Reasons Why I Changed My Mind But I Assure You It's Settled Now, At Least I Think So. To whom does this horrid, creepy old fuckwit think he is talking, his fucking grandchildren? By what yardstick of incompetence is this clown deemed brilliant? Only by comparison with Gordon the Ruiner can this foxtrotting nitwit be deemed capable even of putting on his own shoes. Brown, in finally destroying the Labour party bequeathed us this Last Of The Summer Wine Codger, Cable; bravo Gordon, son of the fucking manse. Vince Cable Is A Star, says CallHimDave, mockingly; go on Vince, show them your one times Tory table,
Oh, alright, then, prime minister, but I'd rather get on with
the job than show-off, 'cos, you know, that's the sort of man I am.....one times one tory makes one liberal,
two times one tory makes seven liberals,
three times one tory makes twenty-seven...
And I get a bit stuck after that.
Do-ya do-ya do-ya do-ya
It is awful, isn't it, that this old fart is presented to us as salvation, albeit salvation with a horsewhip; that he is even given houseroom is down to the national revulsion for newLabour. Consider, never having done a day's work, Ed Balls, first as special adviser and then as parachuted MP and accelerated cabinet minister, devised all of the financial policies implemented by NewLabour, straight from Oxbridge to the levers of power, no apprenticeship, merely a friendship, or worse, with Gordon Snot.
Snotty made possible, well, all manner of shit, really, but principally he legitimised treachery and betrayal, made his currency blackmail and deceit and bullying, double-counting, hissy-fitting, poison-penning, tractor production statistics, the sort of gigantic hypocrisy rarely found outside police states or organised religion, this sanctimonious cocksucker, this overgrown, snot-eating, cowardly schoolbully and his henchmen embellished the damage wrought by Mandelstein, a man who, given the brown-nosing awe he is held in by all at Westminster, must surely have the QueerDirt on everybody, in high places and low; Labour's intensely relaxed view of people getting filthy rich was, pre 1997, as anathemic to his party as is gangbanging on the Sabbath to Brown's dire, sourfaced Presbyterian brethren, the horrible fucking bastard. It didn't matter that he shat on the Hunger Marchers, all that mattered to Brown was getting power and hanging-on to it. Come Hell or High Water. A tragedy born of massive personal shortcomings, Brown's, bad parenting and overweaning ego, destined to doom the party which made him, destined to usher in that which he claimed to loathe but so acutely imitated - a natural ruling class.
Brown's rotten behaviour made possible the continuance on the Labour benches of those who should in decenCy have resigned the whip, those who whispered betrayal at every opportunity, but why should they go when traitor-in-chief, Snotty, showed no sign of leaving but clung-on, briefing against the PM, blackmailing and bullying, undermining. Snotty set the tone.
The chilly, sour Jesuitical motherfucker, Frank Field, now working for this unelected prime minister, should have left the Labour party years ago, anyone in his position with any balls would have done so. The current Labour Party, if IT had any balls, would throw him out on his scabby arse, as he prepares to legitimise the workhouse on behalf of the Tories. Corbyn, the conscience of Islington, Marshall-Andrews, Q fucking C, the conscience of the Inner Temple; Diane Lard; these people were against the wars, why didn't they resign and form another party, do something constructive? Useless fucking bastards. Oh, it's my party, too, why should I leave, best stay and fight for change from the inside. Broad church. All that gutless bollocks. Too late now. Google left wing MPs and who do you get? Yes, Diane fucking Abbott.
That sums it up neatly, for the People's Party, a showy, pushy cheap entertainer, who sends her spawn to private school, Labour's Left Wing.
You have to hand it to them, the people of The Project, they have secured the longed-for destruction of an ailing workers' movement, and its replacement with an indivisible, political careerist elite, ruthlessly bent on self-advancement-but-with-a-conscience, reflecting, perhaps, it's remaining media supporters. Maybe that was always Mandelson's mission, a black-op against the only democratic movement which might hinder the smooth gangsterism of he and his ilk. Whoever is the eminence gris or the prime suspect, the Labour party sold itself to Money, Power, Celebrity and War. And now, serve them right, the envelope stuffers, the doorknockers and shopstewards, now, the Labour Party is dead, long live the New World Order.