Tuesday, 26 May 2015

Anger is an Energy


But 'Anger is an Energy' - John Lydon.

Getting over May 7th I feel like some drunk in a pub who's looking for a punch-up over an insult to my wife whilst she pulls at my sleeve yelling 'Leave it, love, he ain't worth it!'.  Like a coward I walked away under the heavy burden of defeat and disappointment, wondering why I'd wasted most of my life kicking against the ever-growing concrete wall of apathy which has imprisoned British common sense. Politics for some of us is like smoking and drinking. I've given up neither, so if there's a triumvirate of self-abusing occupations, then the third, political expression, has been missing. In short, I can't shut up. 
I know that what I write here, unless it's something to do with unexplained phenomena, will only be read by, if I'm lucky, abut 20 people. I know who you are. Friends and acquaintances, fellow travelers,  people in the main of like mind. Fair enough. If those 20 people can radiate the outrage I feel among another 20 people, then perhaps the brief candle of  sanity might flicker on a little longer than the new Junta hopes. Yet I doubt it.

Liz Kendall poses outside number 10 with the regulation Blairsuit
she would wear in the unlikely event of her ever getting through the door.
The Death of the Labour Party

Amazing when we pause to think that the party born of such painful struggles and the sacrifices of men like Keir Hardie and Aneurin Bevan, the party which gave us new hope, the Welfare State and the NHS in 1945, should end up with only one clarion call to its name; 'Aspiration'. With this as their banner, they are already planning for their final cataclysmic defeat in 2020.
But why should I be bothered? I'll be 77 in May 2020. Since 1979, in any event, everything I believed in and campaigned for has been trashed. There are those who tell me "Just calm down, enjoy your dotage, chill out and forget the world. You're just a cantankerous old pensioner. Forget politics. It's over."
I know they're right. But like a gambler, I can't leave the table; I always imagine thet the next hand being dealt might be the winner. Stupid, yes, but until someone muzzles me I'll remain a rabid old dog.

Having already ditched the vaguest vestiges of that archaic idea 'socialism', having rebranded the franchise several times from 'New' Labour to the most recent, 'Tory Lite', by allowing its front line to be overtaken by over-educated metro-centric 'suits', Labour has backed itself into a political cul de sac  and there's no way out other than to call it a day. Even their title is an oxymoron. 'Labour'? When did Chukka Ummuna or Andy Burnham ever get their hands dirty? Which factory production line or supermarket checkout did the corporate-loving Liz Kendall ever work on? Yet now, as I write, she's front runner to replace the hapless, vanished and banished Ed Miliband. 

Facing Reality:
The Flat Earth Society = Socialist Beliefs.
So, as Joe Public has realised, why vote 'Labour' when 'Call me Dave' has offered something called 'Blue Collar Conservatism'? Why vote Labour, when a much more left-wing outfit called the Liberal Democrats have been sand-blasted away from the face of British politics? Any belief in Labour possessing any faint, dim embers of socialist thought equates to a belief in the Flat Earth theory, or a cream cheese moon.
No, let's get real: who needs the NHS? Not Britain, it seems. You can always pay for your operation with a Wonga loan, surely? Libraries? Let's turn them all into Starbucks and Costa Coffee shops. Let's have many more Mickey Mouse train companies and ever increasing fares. Give the bankers bigger bonuses for better criminality.  What's all this crap about a Human Rights Act? Who needs that - let the dullards eat zero hours and be happy on their shuffle to the food bank. The disabled? Tax the scrounging buggers! A spare room in your house? How dare you have one! 
Jesus wept, why are some of us still festering in volcanic anger? Because the lemmings have chosen the cliffs and a few if us are still hanging on by our blunt little claws.
Despair? thy name is Britain.

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