Thursday, April 29, 2010

I hadn't planned to watch the UK leadership charade. I'd happily avoided the first two and nothing I'd read had drawn me to the third.
It just happened to be on, and a masochistic curiosity prevented me from turning it off.

I felt a bit sorry for Brown, he seems to be catching all the shit that the slimy, lazy press couldn't get to stick to Blair.
So he called anti immigration granny a bigot, so what. She's just the type of person Nicholas Winterton and persons of the posh persuasion object to sharing train carriages with.

Out of the two prospective leaders and the stooge, Brown was the only one that actually believed some of what he said, but he really hasn't got to grips with talking to the public as if they're as stupid and ill informed as they actually are. All those facts and figures, allusions to recent history, directed to a population fed on bland scandal and tittle tattle. As Cameron said, "What country does he think he's living in?"

Clegg; that's the diarrhoea coloured horsefly where I come from, should have worn a narcissus in his lapel rather than the hint of lefty pink tie. He manifests a taste of Teflon Tony on valium, without the sincerity, conviction, or wit.
Talking to the audience as if they all regularly shared a sherry down The Old Bull and Bush?
I can see his appeal, he's like some hallucinogenic that's not quite strong enough to be scary. A lingering memory of faint euphoric awareness without being able to remember why.

My teenage son pointed out that Cameron sounded as if he was addressing his servants.
It reminded me that as a teenager I'd done some gardening in the ghetto of affluence where I was raised. My grandfather asked what I was charging.
He was a Tribunite trades unionist, introduced to the labour movement by a tradesman, who, when suspected of communist tendencies, never worked in the neighbourhood again.
£1.50 an hour I said.
Once my grandfather managed to stop laughing he said;
"You know all those grovelling old gardeners and chauffeurs who hang around the polling booth wearing blue rosettes. They're on 98p an hour. A couple of them asked for a pay rise last year, and their masters told them that it was unaffordable. They're doffing their caps at the polling booth because they've been told that if Labour get in, the masters won't be able to afford to keep them on"

I heard our prospective leaders spout vapid steam about immigration, unemployment and bankers.
The businesses they are all so keen to support were happy to welcome the influx of cheap labour from Eastern Europe. It avoids all the inconvenience of adhering to employment legislation. It's more profitable to let the natives live in the squalor and indignity of benefits. Let them eat spam.

Clegg's new found celebrity will no doubt see him aboard the yachts of the banker's bankers, sloshing champers with Rothschild, Cameron, Osborne, Mandelson et al. On such meagre salaries, it's hardly surprising that politicians take advantage of the occasional bonus.

Whatever the election result, one thing's for sure. The people in power won't be representing us, they'll be representing banks and multi-national corporations. We're just the people who foot the bill.








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