I caught some footage – just in the passing, you unnerstand – of the handover of power in the UK from Blair to Brown.
I now have a few months at least of deriving sniggers from phrazes like “Brown measures” (maybe a Scottish thing?)
However, what sticks in my throat is the emotion, the shaking voices, the sensitive new man humanity of the outgoing Blair and the incoming Brown, the barely concealed tears. Such conceited filth. These are career politicians. They are not driven by belief. Their tears are down to the emotional surge of acquisition. This is business management on a grand scale. Only it is business management with a shitload of blood and disgrace to carry around. Careerist, driven fucks who are moody with their families and cruel to admin staff – just because they can be – are the breed of men who weep in public when they “get somewhere”. A true politician would be sneering with certainty that great things were about to happen.
I used to live in a flat that accorded me a view of Alistair Darling shagging his mistress in the back garden of a nearby house. I recall looking at the shabby spectacle with someone who attended University with him and hearing how he undertook a full degree in politics, fully intending to enter politics, but at the point of graduation had not decided what party he would sign up with. I recall being shocked at the time, but that sort of career fair self-advancement approach is so much the norm these days that it now hits as numb as a dentist’s needle. That is to say, that the initial prick of pain leaves you with this woolly feeling in which you happily chew out the inside of your own mouth.
I never want to see another snivelingly grateful British politician so long as I live. I certainly don’t want to see another standing ovation.
