At the End of the Day


Are our legislators human?


I have, after a great deal of thought, decided that Dominic Grieve is a toadstool. That’s to say, I don’t mean he is a poisonous piece of plant life (although he is); rather, I mean he is fashioned from the excretia of a toad.

Some politicians are just good old fashioned toads, but Mr Grieve does not command such dizzy heights on the evolutionary tree. David Cameron has never been a discerning sort of chap when it comes to talent (he promoted Jeremy Hunt to  Health Secretary) but even he fired Dominic. That really is something to bear in mind when forming a judgement on the bloke.

He is a barrister, and should therefore by default be tortured with piano wire attached to his genitals, but in his case I rather fancy – if we had a referendum on the subject – such would be deemed infinitely lenient.

In the end, one falls back on comparatives. For instance, when put side by side with Grieve, the small Mancunian Welsh lamb Owen Jones seems a paragon of principles. This is because he actually has some. They are deranged and stuck in 1890, but delusional or not, he is a Flat Earther and always will be.  After all, a man who ignores every last scintilla of empirical data must (if nothing else) attract our sympathy. Sympathising with the former Attorney General would strain every sinew of a saint. I am not a saint.

Dominic Grieve is de jure British, but de facto French: he is a member of the Legion d’Honneur, was educated at the London lycée, broadcasts on French media, has a French mother, and would do anything to kill Brexit.

“I do not want to reverse Brexit,” he says through clenched teeth.

Words like ‘Lord’ and ‘Haw Haw’ spring to mind.

The contempt of the UK political class for the average Briton has rarely been better illustrated than at today’s PMQs. Anyone who thinks the dwindling number of viewers can”t see such lachrymose tribute incontinence on display for the hypocrisy it is has to feel that the electorate has, at best, an aggregate IQ only just in double figures.

Theresa May declared the creation of a Windrush day in the British calendar. She had been, she said, immensely moved by the Memorial Service for the Finsbury Park Mosque attack. Those trying to divide us would never succeed, she averred. The IRA apologist leading the Labour Party concurred. His Muslim friends, he recorded, had shown amazing restraint following the attack. He felt very proud.

Is there, I wonder, ever going to be a 2005 Tube Bombings Day? A London Bridge Attack Day? A Manchester Arena Day? Will there ever be, perhaps, a monument erected to the perfidy of Gordon Brown over hidden NHS psi debts? A ‘lest we forget’ memorial to the needless suffering of female SPA Reform victims?

Playing to the gallery is a hateful practice at the best of times. Playing to a gallery consisting entirely of one’s own bubble élite is the fast lane to extinction.

I am tired to the point of emotional exhaustion of being told not to “demonise” minority group behaviour.

Peter Mandelson once described press revelations of his dodgy mortgage deals as “a witch hunt”. Mandy never quite grasped the logic of using a witch hunt against a witch. On another occasion, Boris Johnson urged us to love the bankers. Yvette Cooper insisted that a bunch of rampaging criminals making the life of Calais residents a misery deserved our compassion.

Our rulers (and they do not work for us, they work for each other and Big Money) are always on transmit. They never switch to receive, because they don’t have any antennae. Twas ever thus; but the shower we have in Parliament today are evolving into an alien species.

Sooner or later, Independence Day will come.