The secret Diary of Edrian ‘Mole’ Miliband

Friday 06^th March 2015:

Well, what a smashing week it’s been. After I demolished David Cameron at PMQs by calling him ‘cowardy custard’ a hundred times in front of all his Eton chums, I came up with a brilliant idea. I’m a genius with fantastic levels of superior intellectual confidence, so it isn’t really that unusual but I was surprised it took me so long. When I am king Prime Minister I will make it a law that Cowardy Cameron must do a telly debate with me every week and then the electorate will all see how brilliant I am. It’s not for nothing the Tories call me their secret weapon.

Saturday 07^th March:

We really must do something about the press. I told them of my excellent idea and being the intellectually inferior class that they are they just didn’t understand and said some horrid things. Well, I’m standing up to them because it’s the right thing to do. Honestly the gutter press are so out of touch with ordinary people, it’s no wonder they are all racists and homophobes. If only we could get more people to read the Guardian, the only honest and honourable mouthpiece for the working man, there would be many more informed voters and they would see that we are right. About everything. Maybe I will ask the editor if he would run a ‘Page Three’ for a while - the proles seem to like that; we could have a topless picture of, say, Rachel Reeves and have her say a few words about everyday sexism or something. That would help spread the message, I’m sure.

And if that isn’t enough we need to work on the immigration problem; we must have more immigration because as every intellectual knows, immigration can never be bad and, besides, immigrants are much better than British people because we know we can buy their votes. Our useless specimens just seem to want more and more benefits to keep them quiet. That’s all well and good and happy to oblige and all that, but who’s going to pay for it, eh? And then they don’t even bother to turn up at the ballot box, so we need as many low-paid, uneducated, unskilled bods as we can lay our hands on and then tell the chavs we need them. Believe me, I understand the ways of the working class; my own butler is one of them.

Monday 09^th March 2015:

So today it’s back on the campaign trail and we have some super new policies to unveil. I can’t wait until Wednesday when I can smash Camermoron again with all my brilliance. The Labour Party really is the only party in touch with what this country needs. I have noticed that people are unhappy; well that is going to stop. We are going to make it illegal to be unhappy and as we all know, if you make something illegal it can’t ever happen again. So if people don’t cheer up they had better prepare to have something to be unhappy about! It’s much the same way with taxation; if you keep on taxing the wealthy they get used to it and happily wait to be taxed some more.

Bill and Ed's Excellent Adventure

Which reminds me, I must catch up with our economic policy; I’m a little behind schedule pointing at things for Ed Balls to tax and I really must tip my hat to Myleene for giving me the idea. And also I have a wizard wheeze to make sure we can enact all our plans and put me on the throne in Number Ten. I have a secret meeting with the Wee Free later this week. There’s no way Cameron and his cronies can beat a Labour/SNP coalition and Eck will do exactly as I say. Flawless thinking there, Eddy boy! Now, be excellent to each other – by law.

Out-Klassed

What is wrong with people? Well, according to some airhead moron on Radio 4 the other day it seems we harbour the pernicious social disease of – are you ready - Unconscious Bias. So bad is the epidemic that the BBC is way ahead of the game and forked over handfuls of your licence fee to be re-educated earlier this year. Now it appears big businesses have fallen for the snake oil chicanery and are investing heavily in ‘experts’ to deliver this kind of bullshit.

“So,” she said (Of COURSE it’s a she – Diversity Consultants are too irony-blind to even notice the utter bland uniformity of their practitioners.) “So, imagine a gay man.” A pause for effect followed by, “Now imagine he is eighty years old… and married.” At this point you could almost picture the upper lip of Jimmy-John Humphrey-Naughtie curling and quivering. “Then picture him as Japanese,” droned the drone. “If you had to alter your mental image during that process then it indicates that you have an unhealthy and potentially fatal unconscious bias.” Or some such bollocks...

Had I not got work to attend I was sorely tempted to run my car into the nearest lamppost and end it all right there and then. What? You tell me to imagine a gay man and you think the first person I should think of is not Boy George but George Takei? It takes some powerful effort of indoctrinated mind-control  to overcome all natural human instinct and play the non-judgemental automaton game. Because that is what the practitioners of this idiocy are trying to create; an army of counter-instinctive, creepy clones incapable of distinguishing talent from toss-pot, creative from crack-head. If anything the pursuit of the unicorn of diversity is more than likely to stalk only the cart horse of crap.

Then we will have the society the left truly deserve; the sort of delusional, quasi-religious mob morons who at the relevant signal will gang up on a sensible member of their own species daring to challenge a sacred living god… in this case Special Ed Miliband. When Myleene Klass took Ed to task over his knee-jerk, tax-everything, policy reflex you would think that while most people laughed, even the most diehard Labour supporters could only resort to the facepalm counter-reflex. (Couldn’t you just see that in church – Ed in the pulpit reading the scriptures and the congregation slapping their faces in response?) But no; astonishing as it seems, some people are so stick-of-rock Labour that they went on the offensive against Ms Klass with a petition to remove at least a part of her earning potential.

Oh, the irony of also reducing her tax bill. But some on the left are so blinded by their own unconscious prejudices and class/success envy they simply cannot face the truth of difference. Why can’t we have elitism? Why shouldn’t somebody who succeeds pass on to their own their wealth, their drive, their ambition? If we have a world where it isn’t possible to get ahead where is the incentive to even pull your own weight? Socialism, taken to its logical end can only ever result in a low mediocrity where any initiative is punished, any spark snuffed out.

When you put it like that I just want to smell you...

Instead, these equality and diversity goons would suppress our natural biases, our ability to pick the best side to play for, our natural tendency to pursue opportunity and success and replace it with a dull monotony of uniform; uniform action, uniform thought, uniform poverty, misery and a beige world of bland. The only people getting rich would be the party apparatchiks flying the calico flag of indifference and calling it multi-coloured, calling it diverse. Well listen to this you stupid, lefty mongs - I've thought about this and I can tell you, here and now, that there is absolutely nothing unconscious about MY bias! 

Ground Zero

“Zero-Zero” was the key message in Ed Miliband’s latest – some say the tenth – relaunch speech. Does nobody read his speeches before he delivers them? Oh yes, of course, EVERYBODY reads them before he delivers them because they are ‘leaked’ to the press beforehand as a matter of course. Why? Why would you hand your opponents the opportunity to pick through your thoughts and dismantle your cavalry charge before you’ve had the chance to saddle up? Into the valley of death rode the six hundred… and we all know how that ended.

But surely, a headline slogan of zero-zero at a time when Labour’s poll ratings have slumped and Miliband’s is the lowest, for any leader of any party... ever, can only look like a death-wish aspiration. The ineptitude of politicians to organise such apparently simple events as piss-ups in breweries reminded me of the story, a few years ago, when scientists at NASA developed a gun built specifically to launch dead chickens at the windshields of airliners, military jets and the space shuttle, all travelling at maximum velocity.

The idea was to simulate the frequent incidents of collisions with airborne fowl – bird strike - to test the strength of the windshields, fuselage, engine intakes and superstructure. As a result, airborne safety improved considerably and when British engineers heard about the gun they were naturally eager to give it a go. In particular they wanted to test out the windshields of a new design of high speed train and quickly got in touch with NASA, requesting they send them all the necessary kit.

Arrangements were duly made and the British team assembled trackside to test out the train during an unmanned trial run. In the distance, but rapidly approaching, the new train appeared as a tiny dot, getting larger by the second as it sped towards them at around 150 miles an hour. The chicken gun was aimed, loaded with one of the corpses helpfully supplied by their American friends and as the train came within a hundred metres the fowl was launched directly at the windscreen.

The engineers watched, horrified, as the chicken hurtled out of the barrel, crashed into the supposedly shatterproof shield, smashed it to smithereens, crashed through the control console, snapped the engineer's backrest in two and embedded itself in the back wall of the cabin.

Ground Control to Major Wrong!

In a state of shock, the head of the British team dispatched a telegram to NASA to inform them of the full details of their experiment and its catastrophic results, along with a request for help. NASA's response was just three words, "Defrost the chicken."

[PS: Since I wrote this, Nigel Farage has responded to Ed's trash talk and challenged him to a live debate. Miliband has wisely turned him down; his troops dreamed up excuses for this, but in truth he wouldn't stand a chance. Advice to Labour regarding their leader? Defrost the chicken.]

Team Ed… a One-man Band

In the confused world of the left all doctors are good and all business owners are bad. All state-employed teachers are selfless saints and all private tutors are instruments of class warfare. Those who live their whole, drink-addled lives in relative comfort entirely on benefits are put-upon, ‘vulnerable’ members of society, but fuck the homeowner who has to choose between upgrading his ageing car and taking his kids caravanning in Clacton. And those who donate to charity are angels from heaven above unless they are wealthy individuals, in which case they are cynically buying favour.

And it’s a life membership, too. You can be brought low from a high birth and earn your crust by picking scabs off lepers and you will never be a friend of the left, yet you can rise from the gobby gutter to be a two-Jagged lord of the realm but remain one of their own. Of course, should you attempt to pull yourself up by your boot straps and fail you will have only yourself to blame as you are admonished and shunned for daring to get above your station. Know your place, minion.

All those on the left are caring and fearless fighters for social justice, while all those on the right are hideous maladjusted monsters upon whom slow deaths by cancer are wished. There is no apparent contradiction in the collective mind of the followers of statist ideology that they can claim they strive for equality ‘for all’ yet would mete out disproportionately hideous punishment to those they deem unworthy of that same equality. All immigration is good. Only white people can hate. Diversity is always a boon; diversity is enrichment and the cultural traditions of the indigenous are not worth preserving. To the left, all cultures are equal… except ours. Free speech? Not yours, you monster; say anything they dislike and await censure.

Read a Labour/left polemic and you’ll read a tract full of bile and spite and conspiracy and fighting talk about bringing the bosses to their knees, the scabs to traitors’ gate and the rulers to a bloody end. Clearly there is only so much equality and compassion to go around. In contrast what they call ‘far right’ thinkers tend to deal not in illusory visions of sunlit uplands but in the reality of what can be achieved when individuals seek their own elevation. The most destructive of all left-leaning fictions is the fiction of equality and fairness because in their eyes the two are the same thing. The harder you graft the fairer it is to take what you produce and give it those whose only role is to receive.

Miliband talks about One Nation, about being part of a team, about working together. But teams are not about equality either; ask anybody picking sides for a kickabout… and those they leave until last. Ask any Premiership manager how they feel about equality. Teams need leaders and Miliband is not a leader. Teams are composed of those who have the ability to do their bit and accept commensurate reward, some of which is the reward of belonging. In a Labour-run Britain, the goal-scorers will be unwelcome and the only successful strategy of Team UK will be every man for himself.

Spud Gun

We live in a highly regulated world of standards and rules. You can’t get a job digging holes until you’ve jumped through the hoops of health and safety and gained – often at great expense – the requisite certificate that informs your employer’s insurers that you tick all the essential boxes to indemnify them against claims due to any shortfalls in your ability to actually dig holes. In fact, the more pre-eminent and pervasive the health, safety, diversity, inclusivity and equality agenda, the further down the hierarchy of priorities is pushed an ability to actually do the job.

I train electricians for a living and just as in every other industry there is a nagging suspicion that each successive intake is given more leeway than the last and there is little doubt that every decade sees a lowering of actual technical and academic standards, concomitant with a raising of the bar to entry of inconsequential hurdles such as site safety cards, registration with a plethora of upstart controlling bodies and a host of qualifications taught to the test, with little regard by the men in black in the awarding bodies for whether or not they contribute to or detract from getting the right men in the job.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose, say the French, ever ready with the mots justes for just these occasions. Same old same old, same old shit. But after all, it’s how we like it. The latest British Social Attitudes Survey reveals – surprise surprise – that we preferred it when we were all a bit more the same than we are now. We pretend to tolerate difference but really we want to be sure of what we’re getting. Which is the main reason why tons of Jersey Royal potatoes are being left to rot; despite being perfectly decent pommes de terre they fall outside the size limits set by supermarket buyers on behalf of their customers. Better in their eyes that we pay a bit more for uniformity than have agricultural efficiency driven by a demand for cheaper food.

What is wrong with us? An entire generation has grown up with nary a sight of Esther Rantzen’s misshapen home-growns. Which brings me to poor old Ed Miliband; Labour is falling out of love with its very own odd-shaped vegetable. Sunny Hundal wrote on Labour List’s website about why, in his view, Ed still matters: but once the buyers are dead set on having the right shaped legume it’s a hard task selling a mutant variant. Ed’s Old Labour rhetoric is far too earthy; from the days when you had to roll up your sleeves and clean your veg yourself. Voters today, the few that are left, want nice uniform, sanitised and predictable varieties of politician with just the right amount of cultured blandness. Or so they think.

Westminster used to be full of colourful and popular mavericks but as fewer and fewer Members of Parliament have ever lived outside of politics is it any wonder that almost none of them seem to know what their constituents really care about? Had they been given the chance, Jersey’s potato piles could have found buyers among the less squeamish public who only wanted mash anyway; sod that Tesco only wanted to sell them what they decided was right. Which brings us back to Ed.

Ed Lightyear: To oblivion... and beyond!

The scourge of governments in recent years has been the rise of the Special Adviser. They, the fresh produce of politics spring fully grown from their PPE degrees and run amuck through the corridors of power, whispering their clever-clever ideological thoughts into the willing, wet-behind ears of baby-faced ministers-in-waiting. But if Ed had been born in the north, as is traditional for Labour MPs, he would have realised that his inability to connect with the electorate stemmed from a simple misunderstanding of his Oxford-educated accent. You see, just like big John Prescott, instead of hiring SpAds, he’s all along been taking his advice from spuds.

Ho ho ho, it's magic!

Today’s hilarious yet hideous reality is the unedifying Queen’s speech in which the coalition promised to do loads of stuff they will never do and Ed Miliband’s response tried to suggest he had the first clue about the disaffection of the voters with politics and politicians. He used all the right words, most of them in the right order, then destroyed the illusion of temporary sanity by neatly listing Labour’s ersatz, listening-to-the-people response. A housing bill, an immigration bill a minimum wage bill… a bill for this, a bill for that, an energy bill, a lack-of-energy bill, a duck bill, a platypus bill, a bill for bloody everything.

For pity’s sake Ed, we are drowning in bills; for some of us our entire life is spent either working to pay our own bills or to pay the tax to pay you lot to dream up ‘those’ bills. We may as well just burn most of our wages for all the good they bring us. But I don’t expect Ed or his ilk to ever understand this; Justine probably does the paperwork in their household anyway, or maybe they have an accountant; doesn’t everybody? Tony Blair may have holed Labour's empty vessel with the outright lie of unfulfilled ‘education, education, education’ but the millipede wants to go further still and brave the stormy seas on a raft of legislation, legislation, legislation!

Fortunately, yer Uncle Batsby has his spies out and about with their ears to the ground and I can reveal that, like the BBC, ‘I have learned’ the following important rumours: Worried about your weight? Worry no more, because Labour’s new Gravity Bill will reset the dysfunctional ‘mass’ market. By capping the kilograms nobody need weigh any more than their ideal weight ever again. The obesity crisis solved by a waft of His Celestial Majesty’s magic philanthropy stick. But why stop with simply altering the laws of physics?

Replace the tedious and convoluted legal system, so tortuous and verbose that all it does is make rich men of the worst lawyers, with a law and order bill containing a statement banning all crime. I wonder that nobody thought about it before. Starving? Make starving illegal; job done. Similarly, why declare war on want when you can just pass a bill declaring want a crime in itself? Legislate for longevity, life, love and loveliness and all will be well, says Magic Ed… from his lofty perch atop the magic toadstool, waggling his limp little wand, down among the faeries in the bosky glades of Dingley Dell.

What is wrong with these people, who pretend to feel our pain even as they recline on soft, downy cushions, the powerful opiates of the money-morphine isolating their nervous systems entirely from the world of human pain and suffering? I don’t want my politicians to empathise – or worse, pretend to empathise – I want them to actually do something. I want them clean and sober, up off their arses and leading. I genuinely don’t need to believe they are my friends and every time one of them lays a metaphorical hand on my shoulder and tells me she cares, all I can sense is the unadulterated whiff of hypocritical bullshit.

But hey, look on the good side: today is the Newark by-election! And whatever happens between UKIP and the Conservatives, Ed’s lot are in for a thumping and could well end up disappearing in a puff of smoke. Abraca-fucking-dabra.

Diary of a Nobody

June 21^st 2014: Today was a busy day for the firm and we needed all hands on deck. Or on the train, in this case. I made a comment to one of the interns about the tardiness of his twitters. He said “All right old man, keep your hair on!” I had to remind him that as party leader I was due more-respect than that. Later in the day, as I was passing the interns’ carriage a scrunched up page of A4 hit me on the back of the head. I turned round but they all had their noses to their smart-phones. I think I know which one it was though. I will bide my time; this is a strategy that has served me well with my policies.

It was an exhausting day, not helped by being given a bacon sandwich first thing. I was in a quandary and really wanted to refuse it. I mean, I want to be the first second Jewish Prime Minister, so how would that look? But I was with the working classes and I know that a bacon sandwich represents about 50% of their daily disposable income so I had to grin and bite it. I hoped it might taste like a croissant, but it was horrible and the grease ran down my chin. Luckily my PR team prevented any of this getting out via the media, otherwise I would have looked like I was out of touch.

Now, I don’t usually like to make jokes but in a witty aside I rhymed Farage with garage and I think everybody was suitably impressed. When I tried it out on Justine last night the two of us laughed like drains for a full ten minutes. Then she said it was even funnier because, unless you live in the north, Farage does rhyme with garage. I believe they call this irony, which makes it doubly funny. We laughed so much we had to hug each other to control our mirth. Who says I’m not a man of the people?

I was reminded though, of how not everybody shares my intellectual self-confidence and subtle sense of humour when the joke I played on BBC Radio Wiltshire didn’t go so well. I wittily pretended not to know who Jim Grant was but, provincial outfit that they are, they took me seriously. Well of course I know who John Grant is, he’s the leader of Labour-run Swindon Borough Council; a fine man is our Joe. I wish we had many more mayors like Jason Brant to run our squeezed middle, one-nation cities.

Note to self: I must find out who this ‘Beaker’ is. I keep hearing it in whispers and I think it might be a nickname for David Axelrod, but until I’m sure I don’t want to use it and look foolish. I get the impression the poor fellow is the butt of much joshing among the ranks but for what we’re paying him to make me look good, I should think he can put up with our jolly British ways.

When I got home Justine cooked me a lovely meal – Ocado delivered this afternoon and she had prepared some good peasant food: eight-year old Italian Bitto cheese and sun-dried tomatoes on focaccia, drizzled with some good Tuscan olive oil and accompanied by some lovely artisan sausage flown in from Portugal that morning. All washed down with a rather nice Pouilly-Fuissé from our private cellar. Quite how she manages on £70 a week is beyond me.

22^nd May 2014: It’s Polling Day today and I planned to have a good early night last night, but Ed Balls and Chuka Umunna turned up so we played a few hands of whist to aid our spirits. In a happy coincidence they had brought spirits with them. Chuka produced a bottle of whisky and I joked that I heard he preferred Um-Bongo - everybody went strangely quite at that and Justine had to dig me in the ribs. Well Chuka is such a charmer, I’d completely forgotten he’s black. Not that black men can’t be charming, I mean, they are super-good dancers, aren’t they and um... I put on some rap music to ease the mood but I’m not entirely sure if that did the trick.

So, I tried out the new little joke I had been working on for today. I said we all needed to focus on winning but if we didn’t win there would be a good reason. I adopted my ‘Look natural, Ed.’ pose and said “We can always blame it on Beaker.” Well, that was it, what a winner! Ed and Chuka couldn’t help themselves, guffawing and slapping their sides as Justine clung helplessly to the doorframe. The laughter went on and on; I was almost embarrassed for poor David, although I still didn’t really get it.

Look natural, Ed

We really shouldn’t have carried on drinking as I have, unusually, a bit of a thick head today and my throat is a little tense. Practising my speech for tonight I detected a slight hint of a nasal whine but I’m sure that will pass. But this is what I say, I say ‘up and at them’ and I believe that; it’s the right thing to believe. I sense a great victory is afoot.

Budge it!

Lest I ever forget that Labour’s day is done and their entire approach is based on bribery, lies, envy and class war, Ed Miliband reminded me yesterday with his atrocious response to George Osborne’s budget speech. If you were looking for an example of evidence why Miliband and Balls are not fit to lead the country you would be spoiled for choice but the budget address really took the biscuit.

George Osborne – love him or loathe him – delivered a forthright and sensible budget based on getting us all out of the mire we were placed in, yet again, by  a profligate and populist Labour government. There were never going to be riches to divide and the message was to stick to a plan that by all accounts appears to be working, even though there are still some areas of concern and aspects that deserve close scrutiny. After the best part of an hour he sat down to await the anticipated incisive, analytical dissection of his plans by a worthy and informed opposition.

Instead he got – and this is pretty much agreed by every commentator in the land – a braying jackass, straight from the ranks of Militant Tendency, deploying every jaded, anti-Tory, comic-book  cliché he could muster. Dan Hodges in the telegraph called it “…a series of Labour Party press releases randomly thrown together without anything even resembling a coherent textual – never mind intellectual – structure”. I called it a load of lefty bollocks. He trotted out all the standard ‘”tax cuts for millionaires, looking after your mates, in it for yourselves” drivel that has been Labour’s entire ‘policy’ since 2010. It was almost as if – why, surely this could never be - Labour had no response at all.

So, sod it. I’ll do my own budget – I need the practice for when the country comes to its senses and puts me in charge. I hope you’re sitting comfortably:

Right. It strikes me that far too many of you are whinging and griping and moaning about your benefits being reduced to still-above-what-many-in-work-will-ever-see, for which I introduce my Whine Duty. It’s very easy; you complain about what you get for absolutely free and we cut it. Complain again and we sign you off. That’s it. If you’re not happy with free money, we will simply remove the source of your unhappiness. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

Child Benefit? You had children for your benefit and not for anybody else’s sake, so there you go –the children ARE your benefit. Do what you like with ‘em – veg picking, going up chimneys, furniture; you obviously didn’t give a fuck when you had them, so neither do we. In fact, forget child benefit, in future you will need to buy an annually renewable licence to have kids. If you don’t pay to renew it we’ll take them off your hands and shove ‘em up the chimneys ourselves.

Bingo Tax? Too damned right. If you’re so dim you think bingo is entertainment it’s about time we cut off your life support. According to every happy-clappy, new-age, joie de vivre, proclamation of all that’s good about the human spirit, life itself is a precious gift. I’d never go that far and for some it’s an unwanted gift, admittedly, but if the biggest mark you can make on the world is to amuse yourself dribbling over bingo it’s time to turn off the machine. Beeeeeeeeeeeep… Oh, that will help out enormously with pensions, too. Joined up, see?

And finally, food banks; they’ve caused nothing but trouble so we’ll close them. Free food? In the middle of a cost-of-obesity-crisis? That makes no sense and anyway, you’re always saying we should do something about the bankers, so there you go. Sorted. This is a budget for standing on your own two feet and not sponging off the rest of us and I commend it the house.

In Moncrieff's bar, Miliband was having a drink with a bunch of sycophantic goons. He was propped up on a bar stool while his acolytes stood around him and toast after toast was raised to the hero of the hour as he regaled them with quotes from his little red book. But one of the comrades was missing; in a corner, looking dishevelled and dejected, sat a broken Ed Balls, nursing a slow pint. I went over to ask what was wrong. “I’M supposed to be the braying jackass!” he complained bitterly. But why, I asked, would you want to be referred to as a donkey? Ed looked at me for a second, then nodded towards Miliband. “Ee-aw, ee-aw, ‘e always calls me that.”

Fighting talk

What on earth is going on? A golden rule in big business seems to be that if it’s all going wrong, reorganise. Or if it’s going okay but nobody’s noticing, reorganise. Or, what the hell, it’s two years since we last reorganised… reorganise. Maybe it’s all the jibes about parties being filled with career politicians who’ve never had a proper job? I know say Dave, Ed, Nick and Uncle Tom Cobbley and all, let’s make like a PLC and have a bit of a tidy up.

So, while the world was wondering what sort of a stance they should take towards the Ukraine and brushing up on their Crimean history, Ed Miliband, realising it had nothing whatsoever to do with him, took a break from standing in flood water looking baffled. In an effort to distance himself from the pratfalls that have marked his leadership and put the ‘special’ back into Labour he held a special conference on… now what was it? Everybody has already forgotten because of Andy Sawford’s brilliantly timed idiocy, writing to Waitrose to urge them to cease and desist handing out free coffee. (If you haven't already done so you really must watch @LeCreusetFiend's excellent Downfall spoof.) 

The Internet was alight with Costa Living Crisis jibes within moments and whatever electorate-engaging bollocks, Ed thought he was dabbling in, Sawford’s petulant missive took centre stage instead. If free coffee harms local coffee shops, then free food must hit the takings of local grocers too; so by Labour logic must they also demand the closure of their beloved food banks? It would be like the coal mining industry all over again - Labour hitting their own the hardest. Just what is it with socialists that they need to dictate how everybody should think and speak and act? And every time they do so, they demonstrate how completely unsuitable they are to hold any such power. Joined-up thinking? I wouldn’t trust ‘em with joined up colouring-in.

Under Labour we’d see quotas, tokenism, compulsion and incompetently micro-managed social engineering; they just can’t help it. What happens every time they speculatively float a policy? Shares plummet, companies threaten to leave the country, insurers refuse cover on yet another sector and wealth producers quietly take stock and calculate how soon they will be able to sell up and leave for early retirements abroad. But here’s the worst bit: if things remain as they are there is a very good chance that this clown will become the next Prime Minister, because the bulk of Labour's vote is delivered loyally and without question by tribal morons who harbour a seething hatred of the alternative.

Blind to reality all Labour has to do to guard its vote share is to tell people that Labour is good, Labour is kind and you are good and kind if you vote for them. It works; keep telling them, over and over again and watch as righteous, ill-informed mobs picket banks and factories and hospitals and crusade against cruise missiles, save whales, ban bombs and if necessary pillory people and harm their families, put them out of work and sometimes beat them up, all in the name of the loving kindness that Labour will bestow. “Labour evil is so much nicer than Tory evil, isn’t it?”

Some people actually feel good about themselves when they vote for Labour. They are bringing ‘social justice’ by condemning their own kind to perpetually rely on the state. They are ‘saving our NHS’ despite the partial privatisation of services being rife under Labour and its crippling inefficiency wasting ever more money. With unquestioning zeal the faithful accept at face value every lie they are told about the coalition. Or the simple ‘kind’ lies; that everybody is beautiful in their own way; that everybody has a talent; that ADHD explains and excuses poor behaviour. Leftism relies on having a narrative, even if it’s a warped one.

Cafe Warrior

But look, it’s so much more serious than that. Branding the Tories as ideological, Ed presided this weekend over reforms that may well give the unrepentantly Marxist unions greater power still over the party. If you want to see where communism inevitably leads, ask any citizen of the former Eastern Bloc. And here’s the kicker: if Labour DOES get in next year and if Ukraine’s civil war sparks off World War Three, we’ll be relying on Ed ‘Wallace’ Miliband to step up and be our next Churchill! Oh, yuss!

Lights out?

My blog is late today because I have been practising how it will be under an open and avowedly socialist Labour government. Tony Blair largely left the workings of business alone while he concentrated on eradicating Britishness. Under cover of the apparent wealth of the country he declared we were all racists and used our shame to snip away at the stiches holding our social fabric together. While people thought it could only get better, the malign forces of common purpose slowly eroded our resolve, so now we have little fight left and soon we will be outnumbered.

But now it’s Old Labour’s turn again. As I listened, aghast, at Miliband’s rabble-rousing medley of maudlin sentiment and undisguised, vitriolic hatred of (boo!) the nasty Tories, I could feel myself getting poorer by the minute. The news media like to portray a ‘lurch’ to the right; yesterday I saw a sickly limp to the left. While Red Ed’s words said “land of hope and glory” I could only picture the seventies; Land of no hope; and gory. The dead unburied, rubbish blocking the streets, the lights going out night after night and strike after strike after strike. Surely Britain can do better than this?

No wonder Len McCluskey was so pleased with himself; he worked his puppet like a master and had him strut the stage like an evil little pixie. Rubbing his hands with glee, Len was looking forward to a winter or two of discontent to fatten his little lambs in Unite. And when the lights go out this time it will be far worse than back then. Every waking moment of your life is now dependent on technology in a way it simply wasn’t in the seventies.

In that blighted age – blighted by Labour - people generally lived within walking distance of work. They had land telephone lines and corded telephones that could still function without a base station. Nobody ordered their life around a smart phone and only giant corporations had computers.  Open fires could be lit to heat your home and families could actually sit together, in the main, without too much strife, huddled together for warmth. There was little on the telly so that loss could be endured and there was no such thing as the Internet to be deprived of. Instead, people could and did read and could do so by candlelight if needed.Children didn’t need an iPad to do their homework.

Without electricity today you are fucked. NOTHING will work. No transport, no communication, no heating (your electronically controlled gas boiler will be dead too). No music, no YouTube, no Facebook, no Twitter, no games. Just imagine going around your home and workplace and quite literally, switching every single thing off. Commerce gone in an instant. No lights, no tills, no security cameras. No security cameras? How soon before the looting classes get wise to that?

And that is just one prospect. The share prices of Centrica and SSE dropped by 3% this morning and spokesmen have already outlined what this might mean. If investors pull out and prices are capped, businesses may fail or move; what value the price freeze if there’s nobody left to supply? Fewer businesses means less competition and ultimately monopoly and we all know what that does to prices. Coupled with yet more green taxes, Ed’s promise of a price freeze is virtually guaranteed to drive prices steeply up in anticipation of the possibility. In other words Ed’s undeliverable promise will drive fuel prices up right now.

Many others have commented today on the new Old Labour, most of the prognoses are gloomy, but to the unthinking greed of socialist minds it all sounds so horribly good. Doubleplusgood. Not one of Labour’s new offerings stands to scrutiny and some of them are borderline stupid. Votes for sixteen year olds, why not? Why not? Because they are fucking sixteen! And with the election two years away this means that Labour will be intent on grooming today’s fourteen year olds. Will social workers soon be saying “Can you show me on the doll where he ‘canvassed’ you?”

Coming soon...

Anyway, there is one shonky policy that won’t be needed. Ed wants to build hundreds of thousands of new houses whether the land owners want to or not. But the shortage of housing will actually solve itself. If Labour get into power in 2015 anybody who is able will simply emigrate. I intend to. And Britain will become a Socialist Labour bastion with the population it always wanted. State slavery, corruption, dependence and utterly multicultural (which is no culture at all). Can’t Britain do better than this?

The Reason for Treason?

I wasn’t going to write a blog today  - I often don’t at the weekend - but then I found this piece in the Telegraph: Ed Miliband nails his colours to the Euro-mast and says a referendum on Britain’s membership of the European Union is wrong.

He says Labour will always stand up for the national interest.

So it was in the national interest to bankrupt the country by subsidising already-failed heavy industries, preventing investment in new industries and new jobs? It was in the national interest that for a decade or more under Labour’s influence there was a strike somewhere in the country on any working day you’d care to mention? And it was in the national interest to borrow more than any government in history with no plan to ever pay back the debt, at the same time as deliberately opening our borders, bringing in cheap labour to displace a generation of British workers for a lifetime and create state dependency on hitherto unknown levels?

And his answer to the trouble and strife and socially engineered mischief engendered under Labour’s collusion with the EU is… more Labour and more EU?

“A diverse, multi-ethnic Britain is one of things that makes our country great”, he says. This not long after he admitted Labour got immigration wrong. Just as the miners’ strike devastated Labour's core communities, their version of multiculturalism – monocultural ghettoes – has once again brought blight on their own most steadfast voters. Just how much contempt does labour have for its loyal but confused constituents?

If it were just Labour there would be little to fear. Surely the penny must drop at some point that the left’s pickpocketing ways cannot continue when all the pockets are sewn up? But it’s not just Labour is it? David Cameron may be squirming a little just now, but sure as eggs is eggs he will find a way to renege on his hollow promise to offer a choice. And the whispered referendum pledge by Nick Clegg  just five years ago has also fallen by the wayside.

For forty years I have seen referendums offered and the offers whisked away, replaced by failed negotiations which have always ended up with us further up to our nuts in Europe’s guts. For forty years I have never seen a reasoned justification for ignoring the clear will of that portion of the population who have a strong and informed opinion. What I have seen is Jean Monnet’s plan for a Federal Europe advanced by stealth, year on year.

I can't believe anybody voted for this.

We CAN exit the EU. And we CAN do it with little strife and we CAN take control of our own affairs and it WILL bring us greater prosperity and a sense of nation once again. But first we have to take control of our political classes who, it is quite clear, currently have all their strings pulled by Europe.  To be in the pay of a foreign power, working to undermine the true national interest has a name. And until Tony Blair changed the law, it was a hanging offence. 

Once upon a time...

Once upon a time there were fairies and dragons and knights and princes and princesses and they all lived in the magical land of Albion and ate venison from happy, free-range deer and drank mead made from honey from happy, buzzy, busy-busy bees. And they all danced and played together; they danced all night and played all day and everybody was happy all of the time because nobody ever had to do any work unless they really, really wanted to.

Then along came the big bad Sheriff of Nottingham who took all the money and all the honey and put the people out into the fields. He laughed at them, working in the snow and rain and asked them if they would like to be inside. "Yes!" cried the people, for it was bloody cold out. So big shelters were built, but they were a dastardly trick and were full of machines. The mean-hearted Sheriff made them work in his new factories until all of the people cried all of the time.

"Oh, woe is us!" they wept, "This is horrid. Won't somebody save us from the nasty Sheriff and make us One Nation again?"

Then one day, the brave Sir Ed appeared. An off-white knight on a fearsome war-horse. "I will deliver you!" he cried and the people in the great hall responded, "Yes please!" and swooned before his oratory. For over an hour did Sir Ed declaim and verily he did say "One Nation" some six and forty times. (That's one every 84 seconds if you're interested. Ed) (<~~ That's Ed for Editor, obv. <~~ And that's 'obv' for obviously... obv)

And the people asked, "How will you deliver us, oh Sir Ed?" yet Ed told them not, except that he said they would rebuild it together. "Hmmm," said the people, "Rebuilding? That sounds a lot like work and we already work all the fucking time and we don't like it very much." There was shuffling of feet and a wringing of hands in the hall and a small voice rang out, "Haven't you got any NEW ideas?"

"Leave it with me!" proclaimed brave Sir Ed as he steadied his steed, "I'll be back in a minute." And with that, Sir Ed left the gathering and rode off into the setting sun.

And he was never heard of, ever again.

The Ex Factor

Day Two of the Has-Beens Ball from the Locarno, Manchester and predictably it's been a long, fruitless slog as we enter day two of the audition rounds. The prize is to present a credible alternative to an electorate wise to the manipulations of the talent show format.

Hello love, what's your name and where are you from?

Me name's Maria Eagle and I've come over from Liverpool an' Ah really really want this Cilla, it's my dream, it's my life and Ah'm gunna give yers an 'undred-an'-ten-percent and a lorra lorra...

*klaxon* Surprise surprise, my name's not Cilla! Now, what are you going to do for us today?

Well, Cilla, I'm going to explain how we can predistribute bus fares and...

*klaxon* Heard it. Next!

My name's Eddie Izzard... or is it? No.... or isn't it? Hmm, yes... or do I mean no? Spider gravy... True story...

*klaxon* Next!

What's your na...?

My name's Ed and I'm here for a punch up! I've got four billion quid and I'm going to make houses and anybody saying my figures don't add up is gonna get it, right? I know some Nazis, see... and if you want a copy of my speech, that'll be two quid, right? Yeah? That's cheap you know. In fact they're selling too cheaply, too quickly and it's time for Plan B,. Did I say I know some Nazis? I've got a uniform and everything - it's a laugh! Shoot my fox! Wanna hear me play the piano?

*scuffle backstage*

Fight, you say? You want a fight?

What's your name, darling?

Don't you darling me you lily-livered, class traitor, your arse-licking... arse-licking... licking... lickspittle! I'm Red Len and me and Mark'll take on the lot of youse!

(Len is bundled away, still ranting, by security)

Who's up next then?

*a strangled, adenoidal warble heralds a cartoon-like character*

Goodness, gracious, guys and gals! My name's Ed Miliband. Now then, now then, jingle-jangle jewellery, jewellery  jewellery... I want to fix it for all the young people, as it 'appens.

*stunned silence*

'Ow's about that,then!

I can't wait for the next show.