I swore I wasn’t going to write about the Labour leadership contest, because (a) they seem irrelevant right now as other people try to clear up the appalling mess socialists invariably leave behind – giving these jerks the keys to No. 10 was like allowing a teenager to use Facebook to advertise an unsupervised party to be held at your house while you’re out of the country, (b) we’re still waiting for any of these destructive wretches to apologise wholeheartedly for trashing the place and not even trying to clear up after themselves, (c) Diane Abbott is undoubtedly the single most stupid and hypocritical idiot ever allowed on television in this country, (d) the Miliband brothers look so weird they make Ed Balls seem normal, and (e) the fact that the BBC has decided to go on treating these raving incompetents as if they’re still running the country (which, in an odd sort of way, they are).
But I caught the aftermath of Ed Miliband’s narrow win on Saturday (Fleet Street’s worst political columnist, Mary Riddell, described him as having “breezed” to victory – I wonder what the weather’s like on her planet?). And I just couldn’t stop laughing at the fact that, having previously allowed the worst Prime Minister in Britain’s history to become Party leader unopposed, Labour have now voted for someone who makes Van Rumpy-Pumpy and Gordon Brown look like a couple of crazy party animals it’d be fun to spend an evening with. It makes Labour’s decision thirty years’ ago to have Michael Foot replace James Callaghan seem a political master-stroke in comparison.
Okay, I know it’s wrong to care about how politicians look, and I’d just about got over the fact that the Leader of the Opposition might turn out to be that gurning geek, David Miliband – but they seem to have ended up instead with a pudgy little supply teacher with a double chin, weird, goggling, fear-filled eyes, all the charisma of a filing-cabinet, and a set of policies which suggest he feels business in this country has had it easy for too long, and that the most important problem facing Britain is how to preserve gold-plated public sector pensions at the expense of the 23 Britons who don’t actually work for the state.
Good call, Ed.
Mind you, today, in a stunningly dull speech to the Labour Party conference (come the BBC Ten O’Clock News, it will be a triumph, I expect), he did concede that something would have to be done about the deficit – which was brave of him, given that the majority of the delegates are so economically illiterate and generally simple-minded that they can’t grasp this somewhat obvious point that if you owe the rest of the world a cosmically vast sum of money, (and you aren’t some noble, West-hating Third World basket-case) the rest of the world might get just a teensy bit restless if it sees you’re doing absolutely sod all about paying any of it back (if the whole nation just stuck its fingers in its ears and shouted “la la la!” loudly enough for long enough while grabbing all the spare cash from those banks which are now owned by the state and hand it over to Labour’s legion of public sector supporters, everything’ll be absolutely tickedy-boo again in no time).
The supply teacher (“Mr. Miliband? Sir? Why do you look so weird? Are you special needs, sir?”), who pipped his brother to the post thanks to the backing of the unions, then boldly stated that the unions should expect no favours in return. Well, I buy that, of course – just as I’m sure you can refuse to pay back money borrowed from the Mafia without anything untoward happening to you.
Let’s leave young Miliband in his new common room while the rest of the staff wonder how in God’s name they’ve managed to land themselves with someone just as bad as poor Mr. Brown, the Economics teacher who went mad and had to be carried kicking and screaming out of the school by men in white coats at the end of last term - and look on the bright side. What great news for the Tories! After all, Labour has rendered itself unelectable for a decade by choosing a union-backed leftie, who’s a climate change holy roller to boot, as its new leader. Dave and the lads can really go on the attack now!
Even better, that wicked little creep Ken Livingstone is Labour’s choice to run against Boris as London mayor. Trebles all round!
Only, the Tories can’t celebrate, of course, because they’ve just crawled into bed with a whole bunch of swivel-eyed, warmist lefties who make Ed Miliband look like a pretty sensible sort of cove: Vince Cable loathes banks and wants to make sure that no middle class types whose parents aren’tbankers can afford to attend a decent university; Chris Huhne - a real charmer, by all accounts - wants to destroy the countryside by splattering it with fabulously expensive and utterly pointless wind-farms and forcing the rest of us to live in teepees, where we can all sit around shivering, trying to keep ourselves warm by knitting spaghetti while our taxes are sent abroad so they can be diverted to the private Swiss bank account of whichever kleptomaniac tyrant we’re spraying dosh at that month.
So, while Labour’s ridiculous shenanigans have provided one or two welcome laughs – and there will no doubt be more to come – the simple truth is that New Labour hasn’t died: it just morphed into the Coalition.
I think it’s the rest of us who need trebles all round.
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