Easy Living

Watching the not-so-slow death of Labour by a thousand cuts_[typo] is a spectacle in turns amusing, horrifying, incredible and at times as predictable as a socialist calling everybody they disagree with ‘Tory scum’. Will they let Corbyn hang on over Christmas? Certainly the consensus seems to be that he’ll be gone after next May’s local elections, by which time Labour will be little more than a gibbering basket case, hoping to fail its Atos work capability assessment and stay on the sick forever. But it wasn’t always this way.

Once, Labour was the thrusting, purposeful party of the working classes. Hardy men who built ships, mined coal or withstood the blast of furnaces, pouring steel to improve the world beyond measure. A mixture of work ethic and pride in nationhood, such men would look disdainfully down at the soft-bellied career politicians who now seek to continue the legacy long after the workers’ battles have been won. Of course, contrary to the party mantras of oppression and penury, many of the old guard have risen far above their origins and now inhabit the leafier suburbs in their retirement.

One such working lad made good was out in the garden a few weeks ago and he noticed one of his neighbours – a typical Tory, made rich on the labour of others – lounging in his hammock in the dappled shade of a late summer’s day. He was sipping a cool beer and listening to the radio as he perused a catalogue of accessories for his BMW, but all the while his wife was working. One minute she was pruning bushes, then doing the weeding, then sweeping the patio before hanging out the washing

A short while later she began struggling with a rusty manual lawnmower to maintain the sward in pristine condition and the hammock-bound ingrate just carried on listening and drinking, not even asking whether his wife wanted a break, or some assistance. The horny-handed son of toil was incensed by this callous disregard for a worker’s plight and although he wished to respect another’s need for privacy, felt he nevertheless had to intervene. When the neighbour’s wife had gone back indoors he wandered over to the fence and stepped up on a bench to berate the idle one.

"Here, look at the state of you!" he began, “There you sit, lazing about, relaxing and getting drunk in the middle of the day while your poor wife has been grafting all day!” The lounging neighbour put down his catalogue and looked over with an air of amused indulgence at the angry man shouting at him. “It’s a disgrace, I tell you. A marriage should be a partnership, equal shares in everything, but here you sit, with your beer and your music, like a fat cat boss, while she does all the work. You should be bloody well hung!"

Tory boy gazed back, steadily before hitching himself up on his elbow, taking another sip and replying, "I am, old boy, I am... That's why she's mowing the lawn.”