Jeremy Corbyn trying to get into the subsidised bar in The Royal Westminster Arms Traders’.
Harriet Barman: ‘We don’t like your kind round ‘ere, mate’
In ever-increasing scenes of hilarity the termites are pouring out of their damp hovels, flushed out by the arid atmosphere that currently pervades the ‘Westminster Scene’. The fresh air thrusting the rank and file foot soldiers: one by one they utter their scripted fears for the future of the ‘party’.
He of the crooked grin and spirit Blair, none more working class than ye Johnson, orally un-gifted Brown, toxic chemical Ali Campbell, Jim Henson cast-off Miliband and Euro lackey Kinnock, who next, volte-face Enoch with his ‘It’s just not cricket!’ war-cry?
The doom-mongers of the neo-liberal left, the moles and their myopia seeing only as far as their perception-deception allows, in their can’t lose situation of wishing that their warnings come true to validate their own stance and positions as guardians of democracy, to re-cement their earnings as ‘told you so experts’ and if they do get ‘their ‘(wo)man’ then they’re equally quids in.
‘Don’t vote for that form of democracy, our version’s tried and tested .. and redundant. If you’re not with us you’re against us … ad nausem.’ The fear’s about to be cranked up.