Pick of the Political Pops: Robert Wyatt “At Last I Am Free”

Friends, readers, colleagues! Rejoice! AUK have held our election for the position of The Editor and we are supremely proud to announce that – for the nth year running – The Editor has pulled off a triumphant victory and we are beside ourselves with delight. As we have said before his was the only name on the ballot paper but that matters not a jot. He won. Get over it. Don’t even think about taking to the streets in protest. It’s the natural order of things. What the fuck are you thinking???

Err…

In other news it appears that countries outside the borders of The People’s Republic of Liverpudlia have been holding their own elections. Such things have filtered down here (the filter being very large amounts of very strong alcohol) and we are minded to cast an opinion. Nobody actually volunteered to offer such an opinion but, at point of pitchfork, your humble correspondent was put forward as ‘spokesperson’ amid mutterings of ‘political correspondent’. So this is my take on matters:

It came to pass some years ago that a Tory government (be they blue or be they yellow or some unholy alliance of both) coalesced into some form of administration. They had a problem. It was a problem that had bugged them previously in that some of their membership – at a point somewhere over to the far right – had been having a ‘problem’. Those members thought this: the friends and neighbours that we had were, apparently, not of our ilk. That is to say that they were bloody foreigners and weren’t giving us enough respect because we had once ruled half the world and now we didn’t anymore. Plus we had (historically) beaten up the biggest tough guy on the playground, then given his folk a large chunk of our pocket money and they still weren’t happy. The ‘leadership’ decided that the errant members needed putting in their place so a do or die referendum was decided upon. That’ll fix ‘em they thought. Oh fuck…look what happened…that didn’t work did it?

What had happened was this: a new Tory government determined that, purely for dogmatic idealogical reasons, the welfare state wasn’t working and that a programme of austerity was the key. Trouble is they didn’t garner enough votes on their own so they offered to buy the souls of the next nearest sell-swords in order to form a ‘coalition’. Their Illiberal Democrat allies – desperate for a sniff of power – jumped on board and said “Yay. Whatever you say”. So they ploughed on with this programme. This created the conditions for mass discontent and herein lies the supposed problem. There wasn’t any money. We couldn’t afford it. We didn’t have a magic money tree. “Fuck me” said the Masses. “What the fuck is this?” “Who the fuck do I blame?” Later, despite these questions not being answered, a further Tory government was elected. I know, right. The utterly incompetent incumbent thought it would be a great idea to canvas the opinion of the public on the basis that a large number behind him in his party and further afield was still averse to Johnny Foreigner and that the bloody munters in his own ranks would shut the fuck up right now once it had all been sorted. Then, in a sweet triangulation of fuck ups, the discontented Masses said: “Yep. It’s the fault of the EU. I’m in poverty because of Johnny Foreigner. Even sweet Dave can’t save us and we want out.” Dave, needless to say, was beside himself. He had, after all, managed to fuck himself in his own arse. So he fucked off.

Yeah. Sweet. He fucked off whistling a happy tune and somebody else managed to get his vacant gig. Nobody can remember who it was but she was shit. I mean really shit. No – seriously – she was so shit that shit didn’t even turn up to wipe its own arse. Skip forward several months and even shit didn’t want shit to do with shit and so she was a goner following a disastrous election in which everybody, including her own side, acknowledged that she was, in fact, shit. And then a complete shit turned up as Shit-in-Chief. At this point shit got real. Realising that he, Boz The Blonde Turk Bombshell, couldn’t even rely on his own loyalist foot soldiers to believe him he sacked them or forced them out into the barren pastures of irrelevant political parties or worse the Illiberal Democrats. Hence an election was called…

Now where, you cry, were The Opposition in all of this? Well now here’s a thing:

The Opposition had had trials and tribulations of their own. One has-been non-entity allotment owner who had a tack record of being awkward had had the temerity to pipe up and suggest that they really should be opposers and put forward a suggestion or two that might shake things up. Stupid fucking ideas like “People are in poverty – that’s bad”, “All the money is going to those who already have it – that’s bad”, “The things we used to own and which were for the good of us all are now in private hands – that’s bad”, “Potentially we could lose free access to health care because it’s a fucking pinko-commie idea – that’s bad”. Unaccountably and despite the best efforts of some of his ‘comrades’ in the opposition party this nobody went and got himself elected as leader. For crying out loud – they are only the biggest political party in the whole of EUROPE according to membership. What the fuck were they thinking? But it was what it was. The allotment owner fought the first of the above mentioned elections as leader and did ‘ok-ish’. The unmemorable one lost her majority and things were looking ok – a platform to build on and so forth.

After this a stark realisation hit The Establishment. “Jeez” they thought “That was close. That bastard nearly got in. Fuck that. We need to deal with this situation. That cunt has got integrity, moral principle and a hide like that of a fucking rhinoceros. That’s proper dangerous, that. Get rid and quick”.

So they conspired – the (actually) rabid billionaire owned right wing press attack dogs, the (supposedly) impartial broadcast media featuring a sneering Keunsberg and an obfuscant Peston amongst others, the (supposedly) left leaning press featuring a petulant Toynbee amongst others, the (supposedly) loyal fellow parliamentarians featuring…well…all sorts of rats and snakes. They conspired to ensure that this bloody geriatric upstart couldn’t possibly make it to anyway near the doors of power.

And it’s a good job they did otherwise we’d all being eying up the sunny uplands of a brighter future. And be thankful, dear reader, for that. At least now you will ‘know where you stand’. When a proven lying, misogynist, racist, homophobic bully can trump a principled, conscientious, sincere and conscionable human then we can all surely be thankful that we have the best of men in place to take care of us and that our collective forelock will be tugged within an inch of its life in order to reinforce his parliamentary majority. Hell yes. Rejoice, rejoice.

And so, in relief, here is my conclusion written in soundbites from my social media feeds:

“The Tories will always be better at telling lies than Labour is at telling the truth”

“I am not going to give you concrete, printed proof of anti-Semitism since doing so would be anti-Semitic”

“I just don’t like him”

“Most people earn over £80,000 except the fucking immigrants”

“Corbyn shits on poor people”

“We need to campaign on a platform of Remain. Who the fuck are we trying to appeal to?”

“We need to campaign on a platform of Leave. Who the fuck are we trying to appeal to?”

“If we say that we will give the people a say in a second referendum, like we’ve been told to do, will we win?”

“if we say that a second referendum is an anathema to the previous vote, like we’ve been told to do, will we win”

As was said at the beginning you may or may not agree with any or all of the above. What I think we can agree on is that the choice of tune this week is in no way Americana. That is understood. But, as above, this is a personal opinion and this is my personal choice for how I ‘feel’ right now. Apologies to one and all.

Author: Paul Villers

I am a professional curmudgeon. I don't care and neither should you. Buy me gin and we can possibly be friends.

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