Does the phrase two fingers mean:
A) A generous measure of whiskey,
B) A chap’s bare minimum service level agreement obligation for a first date with an
C) A conservative’s bare minimum obligation to render unto Caesar this election time?
Having finally sneaked into the fray with my Dawn Chorus leafleting campaign in Castle City, I have to say that C) is definitely what I have to keep in mind as my arthritis and tendonitis accompany me by riding shotgun and walking point as I schlep along the terraces and through the registered social housing estates and up the garden paths of Castle City’s slumbering voters.
Both my advancing years and my bladder have decided that I shall perform my democratic chores first thing in the Ayem, and they have been joined by my cowardice and therefore unwillingness to meet the aggrieved and time-wasting fascists of the establishment parties as I put UKIP’s glossy purple election addresses through the deadly letterboxes of my neighbourhood.
I recall in my youth canvassing and leafleting for the Tories, and how incandescently worked up some of the (usually female) leftie residents would take every opportunity to delay and interrupt us in our free exercise of persuasion by going ballistically bonkers in the middle of the street at some imagined or concocted offence – just as they had learned to do at student union meetings when any conservative said anything at all. This kind of pseudo-insanity is not only universal in any public political event containing patriots and conservatives these days, it is also par for the course and legally enforced via ‘hate’ legislation and in police practices as the ‘authorities’ hassle the enemies of the politically correct dispensation that is New Labour’s Gramscian gift to the nation formerly known as Britain.
Hence the early starts. Like Woody Allen’s Russian soldier in Love and Death, I don’t have a yellow stripe right down my back: it goes across.
I didn’t watch the so-called leaders’ debate on television this week because after all those 5.45 AM starts followed by a full day’s work I have better things to do with my evening than watching three identikit social liberals discussing the fine details of those rare variations in their plans to sacrifice the last surviving morsels of our self-government to the EU while ignoring the colossal and metastising public debt to which their ‘caring’ statist consensus has delivered the wealth creation that would have supported my daughter’s dreams and ambitions.
Tweedledum, Tweedledee and Number Three may still seem to some like the leaders of distinct political parties, but they are in fact little more than three children in an upstairs play room, squabbling over a few toys and some of Mummy’s old clothes while elsewhere in the house their parents are deciding whether to sell the house to those nice Chinese neighbours and rent it back, or to just ignore the final demands on all the bills and try to apply for another credit card to max out, whilst ignoring the large gangs of hooligans looking meaningfully in through the downstairs windows as they plan to share out the household goods between them.
The faithful family guard dog hasn’t been decently fed or had his health properly cared for in a long while either, and is running on his happy memories of the esteem in which his master and mistress formerly held him.
And so the BBC and other mainstream media and their pals big up Clone Number Three (banana-coloured tie) as the leader of the only Left-wing party that the non-Marxist middle class will trust for a generation, as if his plans to eventually end our nuclear deterrent just as Iran seems sure to get The Bomb were not worth mentioning.
They’re all alien invaders in our body politic, pretending to be British and pretending to be democrats.
Anyone still wonder why I want to raise a Harvey Smith to the whole rotten lot of them?
We won’t get an outright victory this time, but in a guerilla war when the Establishment doesn’t win, it loses. A hung parliament is a victory for none of the above, and thus it is that I’m willing to risk my first and second fingers as I push something shiny and purple through the various letterbox booby traps ( the guillotine, the lobster pot, the dog) of
Shameless UKIP Plug Number One.
Though I joined UKIP mostly to punish the Tories in the hope of a renewal and realignment of the non-totalitarian Right which this chap is sure that we need despite his disdain for UKIP, the party has some policies which I think might actually improve everyday life for most of us here in Britain.
Remember that as a plan?
Here they are on benefits.
Child Benefit, the Child Trust Fund, Child Tax Credits and the Education Maintenance Allowance should be merged into an enhanced Child Benefit payable for each of the first three children in each family.
Ending the socially corrosive and immoral practice of baby-breeding for benefits after the third child is just like a dream come true for me (except, of course, without all the lesbians.)
Worth a try, I think.
Picture from here.
Dawn chorus here.