Sunday Satire-Letters To The Editor

 “You choose him – you own him”: in the comments to our editor’s Wednesday’s Daily Betrayal piece someone laid into Hapless Hancock’s performance and record in government as spelled out in Wikipedia.  There is certainly something wrong with the system – how else could we end up with serial philanderers (Johnson), entitled spineless poshoes (Cameron), out-of-their-depth androids (May), spivs and chancers (Blair), traitors (Heath), blithering idiots (Major) or more traitors (Wilson), at the top of the political dung heap?

It is perhaps invidious to choose Call Me Matt (an amiable and polite young man who has been terribly over-promoted) as a target when there are so many failures and under-performers on both sides of the House of Commons, but he does typify the problems we have with those who fight their way up the greasy pole and end up ruling us. Examining his background and performance will help us understand what is going on. In 2017 he said on Radio Suffolk that he had always supported Brexit. You can search online and find an image of him grinning inanely while holding a Remain flag. His chief political talent is telling absolutely bare-faced lies without shame.  But that is not the worst that can be said about him.

As Energy Minister he didn’t know that electricity once generated has to be used or stored, it doesn’t just hang around waiting for someone to switch on their kettle. Without that knowledge – his Climate-Change-deranged civil servants hadn’t briefed him on that as they knew his unenquiring mind wouldn’t look behind their flim-flam about powering the UK with renewables – he just believed what he was told.

That same attitude has made the Health Secretary putty in the hands of SAGE and the modellers at Imperial. Anyone with the least amount of intellectual curiosity would have looked at their record on bird flu etc and immediately demanded a different team as advisors. Apparently his qualification to be the man dealing with CV19 is that he once watched a TV drama about a pandemic. Wide-eyed, trusting, he has swallowed the plague narrative and then excused himself from ever looking at whether the narrative matched reality.

The protégé of a horsey family which has millions to spend on getting one of their jockeys into power, the preferred candidate of the Jockey Club, he epitomises the failures of the Conservative Party to break free from its privileged roots. Hence lockdown, hence the Green bollards talked by our masters, hence the increasingly successful attempts by the Green nutters to seize power by rotting our institutions from within.

Balding Lothario Boris Johnson is cut from the same cloth: Arts graduate, a life where the realities of bills and making ends meet don’t impinge. Their class doesn’t understand that £3 a week for access to TV programmes, a fiver extra a week for electricity (it’s going to more than that, much more) really matters to many of the people who vote for them in spite of what they have done up to now.

In Groundhog Day Phil Connors, who is reaching the end of his tether, does a piece to camera which sums up our future if we do not resist these people, or, having resisted, lose “I’ll give you a [winter] prediction. It’s gonna be cold, it’s gonna be grey, and it’s gonna last you the rest of your lives”. When the price of energy leaps, when the cloud rolls in over the solar panels and the wind drops to damn all for a week, when the lights go out then maybe the great British public will wake up. Maybe. I’ll give you a forecast about our future winters. They’re gonna be cold. They’re gonna be dark. And our children will blame us.

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