I see you Theresa May

I see you Theresa May. I see your cold dead eyes, those prematurely aged windows to your bloodless soul. I see the way you stand, your body language, your awkward gait. Your back hunched over with the weight of the lies that you carry.

I hear you Theresa May. I hear the words that leave your lips but tell us nothing. The barely concealed tremble, the disdain in your voice when you lecture one of the desperate about the missing ‘money tree’; the money tree that isn’t there for the nurses forced to feed from food banks. The money tree that mysteriously reappears when it comes to you and your own. They get one percent of nothing. You get ten percent of everything.I watch you Theresa May. I watch as you hold the hand of a monster and a monster holds the hand of you. Two monsters together. A match made in hell. I watch you say nothing as he sets the world on fire and condemns our children and their children to eternal misery. But then that wouldn’t concern you would it? Your frozen soul has no idea of what it is like to bring a child into the world; of the love that is sure to overwhelm you. Nothing so prosaic as children to suck on your withered teats, Theresa May, not when the intoxicating scent of power fills your head.

I grimace. I groan. I hold my head in my hands and want to cry. I see you sitting together on that couch. You and him. Fake smiles painted on your fake lips. ‘I thought: ‘what a lovely girl’,’ he tells us of your first meeting. ‘I fancied her straight away!’ Even when you try to stage manage you cannot hide the lies. You cheerlessly tell us about your ‘boys and girls jobs’. He takes out the bins and rakes in millions from the global investment company that he works for (never once getting any insider information from his wife). You refuse to put his dinner on the table because you’re too busy selling guns to terrorists.

Ah yes, those guns. Those guns. You little gun runner, you. ‘It keeps people on the streets of Britain safe,’ you tell us. Yes of course it does Theresa May. Of course I made sense in Manchester and fortnight ago and in London last weekend. Of course it makes perfect sense to sell guns to Saudi Arabia. Of course it makes sense to make money from the misery of others. The atrocities in Yemen, the dead mothers, the dead children. Do you smell their blood Theresa May? Do you hear their screams? And do you hear the cries of your own people as your actions are paid for in horror and tragedy? Are the billions that you make from your evil trade really worth the thousands of lives that will never be lived?

I see you Theresa May. I see the corporate Britain that you try to engineer. Not so much a country as a company. GB PLC. A Britain bereft of love and compassion, in which people are relegated to mere workers overseen by a rich elite masquerading as their bosses. A Britain in which the working classes are a disposable commodity like chickens in a battery farm. In which the old are tossed aside, their possessions stolen from them and their children left with no hope. A Britain in which the poor are left to starve on the streets; in which the weak and disabled are stubbed out like spent cigarette butts. A Britain that belongs to everybody but Britain: electricity sold to the Chinese to sell back to your minions at a vast profit; gas, water, trains, schools and finally the welfare state, the eternal gift that Bevan bestowed upon us, dismantled and sold to the highest bigger. A Britain bled dry for the privileged few.

I hear your lies Theresa May. I hear them every time you open your dry lips. You want to stay because ‘it’s the best for our country’. Then you want to go because ‘it’s the best for our country.’ But it benefits nobody but you Theresa May. Nobody but you and your insatiable pursuit of power. Didn’t hubby helpfully tell us about how you had plotted and schemed for years to achieve your ugly ambitions? (Didn’t hubby suffer for his loose mouth when he got home :))

You’re a coward Theresa May. I smell your cowardice. You’re a coward because even you cannot defend the indefensible. You refuse to meet your main rival face to face and instead send an underling. An underling whose father died only three days earlier. An underling on whose shoulders you lay the blame after she takes the blows that were meant for you. A coward Theresa May: if this is how you treat a friend and colleague what chance the rest of us?

You see yourself as Margaret Thatcher. Margaret Thatcher. And that, Theresa May, is the biggest crime of all. You’re the new Iron Lady ready to take your revenge on everybody who is not you. You see yourself as Margaret Thatcher but I see you for what you are.

I see you Theresa May. And others will too. I pray it is not too late before they do.

God Save Jeremy Corbyn

Let’s get this straight: I’ve got nothing against Liz. I’ve never met her, I’m never likely to meet her, and I’m really in no position to make personal judgements. Moreover she’s old and wrinkled and has fluffy white hair. And everyone knows that when a person gets to a certain age you’re not really allowed to be nasty to them.

That’s not to say that there are certain things about her that I am not at liberty to comment upon. I don’t like the blue coats, for example – too much like Maggie; and I don’t like the way she waves – although I can understand that it must be quite tiring doing it all day. And I don’t like the voice – although you can’t really blame her for that. And that’s just about it really. Not much of a hate list.

But I do hate everything she stands for. Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate it. Hate to the power of twenty.

I’ve never met her husband and once again I never will. But I’m actually pretty close to hating him. He’s a racist: he makes racist comments. He makes them publicly all over the world. And he seems to be under the impression that we still have an Empire while being totally unaware of the enormous privilege that life has gifted him. He probably smells, too. I don’t like him.

And I don’t much like her sons: The eldest is obviously not the sharpest spoon in the drawer; if you’re to believe the press (yes, alright…) he apparently talks to plants, dreams of eating Tampons and seems to see himself as a self-appointed arbiter of good taste. All harmless good fun. I still don’t like him though. Although not as much as I don’t like his horrible father.

The middle son seems alright as far as he can be. He seems to keep his head down flying women and chatting up helicopters or whatever he does. He survived the recent underage sex accusation, as any celebs must do these days, and he’s not such a baldie as the rest of his brethren. We’ll never be friends but I can’t really slag him off with any great sincerity. In life you’ve got to at least try to be reasonable about things.

Can’t say the same for the youngest son, however. I actually did meet him once and he really did come across as a prime pillock. A prime little pillock flanked by embarrassed looking bodyguards. He’s tried this. And he tried that. And he’s failed at this. And he’s failed at. But then haven’t we all? Still, in fairness it can’t be easy being under the spotlight trying to make your way in the world.

The daughter: well again she’s another who seems to mostly keep her head down these days. She was bigger news in the 1970s, of course, when she won a gold medal for sitting on a horse while telling reporters to ‘naff off’. You’ve got to feel a little sorry for her: she looks even more like Queen Victoria than Queen Victoria did.

That’s the immediate family dealt with. The ones in line so to speak. The rest I steer clear of. If I see an article about them in a newspaper or magazine I generally turn the page over. If they’re on the telly I tend to look away and do something else. I have difficulty naming most of them. I know that there’s a Will and a Harry, although I couldn’t tell you who’s who. I sort of like the ginger one because he seems like someone it would be good to have a beer with. And one of them’s married to someone called Kate, who’s just dropped yet another royal sprog, a future royal baldie with genetic pattern baldness.

But why should I know who they are? Why should anyone know who they are? And why are they still here?

I can’t answer any of those questions because the very existence of a Royal Family in this day and age bemuses me.

That’s not to say that I don’t know how they got here. That’s easy. They got here by killing anybody who happened to disagree with them or had something that they wanted over a period of thousands of years. And they consolidated their power by amassing a ginormous army of bullies and simply marching into other countries and helping themselves to whatever they wanted in order to aggrandise their ‘dynasty’. And when their army of bullies got too big to afford to pay their wages they taxed their ‘subjects’ to death and duly dismantled the catholic church (not a bad thing as it happens) and appropriated all the treasures that the catholic church itself had stolen from thousands of unfortunates.

So I think we’re agreed that the Royal Family got to be the Royal Family because they were better at raping, pillaging and stealing than anybody else. They were the biggest bullies in the playground. That’s not me saying this. It’s a historical fact.

Let’s also agree that whatever power they had has gone. They’re not allowed to kill people anymore and would probably get a very firm rap on the knuckles should any of the dysfunctional bunch ever do so.

And that’s why I don’t want to be rewarded by these people. I don’t want an OBE or a CBE or an MP3 or whatever they call these phoney baloney awards. I don’t want a knighthood, a dayhood or any kind of hood. Moreover, I’ve never done anything of enough note to warrant one. I’ve never kiddy fiddled or made millions singing songs or worked in banks ripping people off and drawing massive bonuses; I’ve never told jokes (I’ve tried, believe me, I’ve tried), I’ve never pretended to be somebody else on stage, I’ve never killed anyone, I’ve never kicked or hit or swallowed a ball for money. I’ve never done anything and more than likely never will. I will never do enough to catch the attention of this murderous family so that they might pin a little bit of shiny metal to my lapel. I don’t have a lapel.

And that’s why I don’t sing their tune. Don’t get me wrong: I’m as patriotic as the next man. On those rare occasions that England score a goal in the World Cup finals I’ve been known to frighten my daughter to death with my drunken shouting. I get all tense when Andy Murray loses. I even paid a fortune to go and cheer some anonymous canoeist go for a dip in a lake during the Olympic Games. But I won’t sing their song.

I don’t believe in God and I most definitely don’t want him/her/it to save our Queen. Because she has no more right to continue breathing indefinitely than anybody else does. So if you want me to sing for my country you’d better change the song (I always thought Bohemian Rhapsody would be a good choice) because I’m not raising my voice in deference to this murderous clan. And nor should anybody else.

Yes, the queen is now old enough to have achieved the ‘bless her’ suffix but that’s as much as she’ll get from me. And from anyone with half a brain. And if she really wants her own personal tribute concert she should go and do what everybody else does to earn one: i.e. get locked away in prison for 27 years or get hungry. Very, very hungry.

And this is why I tip my non-existent hat to Jeremy Corbyn. I don’t want a political leader who wants God to save the queen. The idea is frankly preposterous. I want a political leader with the good sense not to waste time singing pointless inane songs about pointless inane tyrant offspring. So God save Jeremy Corbyn.