I hate bullying, blinked Mr Ed Balls to the BBC's Eddie Smug, off PM. Mr Balls was Gordon Snot's most trusted and most influential lieutenant throughout his thirteen years in Downing Street. An Oxbridge PPE wallah, Balls imagined and drafted many of Brown's financial reforms, led the continuance of the late John Smith's infamous prawn cocktail offensive against Mr Red Braces - over expensive nosh, which we will have bought, persuading the likes of Sir Fred Goodwin that Yes, he could have everything and don't worry, if your greed fucks it all up, we'll just give you the keys of the Treasury to make sure you all get your bonuses, the people can pay for it all, 'swhat they're for.
Now, there was a time when a Labour politician wouldn't suck banker cock but that was a long time ago and by the time of Balls's entry to the stage, Labour - or newLabour - was run by the gangsters Robinson, Mandelstein, Tony and Imelda and Brown. The Light regulatory touch, the Ease at people becoming filthy rich and the whole squalid debacle of cash for peerages, wars, anything, really, was in full swing; Balls, then, no particular sinner, just a child of his times, flipping his homes, doubling-up the exes with the Mrs and generally shitting in our faces with the rest of them, actually no more a member of the Labour Party than I, curious, then, that he thinks he can and should lead it.
Given the scale of Brown's defeat, his hitherto only guessed-at vulnerability to the judgement of the people; given the rotten advice he was given in the campaign by the likes of Balls, himself, Mandelstein and the repulsive, gobby dwarf, Alexander, one would think that anyone so closely connected to him would, in decency, rule themselves out of a leadership contest and go and do an Alan Milburn or a Patsy Hewitt or a Geoff Hoon, you know, go and be a notional director of something and sell your connections, maybe become a tedious TeeVee performer like Portillo but Ed has something else in common with Snotty, something aside from the stuttering, the bullying and the never-done-a-proper-days-work-but-I-know-bestism, he's an arrogant cunt, blinking, short-sighted of the failures which have beggared the nation and which he and Brown authored, refusing even to recognise that millions of Labour voters will now, thanks to him, know penury and depression, want and anxiety.
Balls' entire existence, from his overpaid special-advisorship to his parachuted-in safe seat and immediate cabinet preferment as one of Brown's ghastly little nepotees, is an act of bullying; there are countless people in the Labour Party who might, given time, invigorate an anti-City, anti-Wall Street, pro-democracy consciousness, in keeping with the times, a balance to the two current Tory parties; that four or five misfits, blinking stutterers, inbred fuck-ups and losers who owe their prominence to Brown's insistence on surrounding himself with lessers now seek to close the lists to others is pure NewLabour; that Balls is not hooted from the stage in derision must be of great comfort to the New Dictatorship, as it launches its first Five Year Plan.
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Meanwhile, some of the right-of-centre bloggateriat are promoting a campaign to join the Labour Party (special offer, £1 for the first year) and vote for the Goggle-Eyed One in the leadership "battle", in order to bury Labour under a mountain for ever and a day.
Of all the scum that floated to the surface in the nasty soup that is the special recipe of Holy Tony and Mandleslime, NewLabour, Balls is the starkest example of their mentality, probably because he lacks the intellectual equipment to dress up the reality as anything else. Very few people have the ability to make me want to punch any image of them. Balls is one of the few.
Aye, it is hard to take. People were beaten and starved; fought and died for a Labour movement which wound-up making millionaires of Mr and Mrs Balls; hard to take.
All that is gone, Mr Ishmael. The politics of conviction, the struggle to achieve something, to change something, to move from dark to light, has been replaced my a simple managerial approach to a collection of political careers. The Oxbridge babies choose either the red train or the blue train. It matters not; the gravy still flows.
These people don't believe in anything, although some of them think that they do because their collection of slogans makes them think that they don't believe in something else. With what are we left? Some of the old left really do despise the right because they despise "Tories", and some of the right really do think the left are chav, commie scum who couldn't run a piss-up. But this is the best they can do. The politics of vacuous hatred. A pox on them all.
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