Dear Blog Readers
Yesterday was a very sticky olidee day so we tried to spend a lot of time indoors. We went to see the Georgia O’Keeffe exhibition at Tate Modern and ended up in the choir stalls of St. Pauls for evensong, where it was very cool, and I am ashamed to say I fell slightly asleep. I woke up in that jerking, embarrassed way, being watched by a beady eyed disapproving lady who knew all the words to the psalms. In my defence, I did not snore.
Love from Mrs. Boo
And now to politics, of a kind. Although I vote that we rename politics, squabbling for cash.
I have cast a brief and withering eye over the shenanigans in the Labour party (also, is it just me, or does the word party seem increasingly wrong here?) in the last day or two.
My children are mostly old enough to get themselves ready for a family day out now. Apart from me having to repeat myself nine hundred times before we leave the house, and inevitably refrain from killing one of them when they have equally as inevitably discovered that they have forgotten something just at the point it is massively inconvenient to go back. Having said that, they are also old enough to accept that we won’t go back, and if they moan about whatever it is they have forgotten, it is entirely within my rights to tie them to a sapling and abandon them.
When they were small though, there was that awful period when every journey was an absolute chore because of all the stuff and things, and constantly having to round up escapees, and them unpacking bags as you’re packing bags, and them piddling themselves on the door step just as you are congratulating yourself that you are all sorted. One of them would casually get undressed, or throw a shoe into the washing machine. One of them would start crying (me, usually), and one of them would pronounce they had an itchy head and you wouldn’t have time to check for nits, but you would be worrying about it all day.
By the time you were ready to leave, you would be four hours late, whatever you were planning to go for would be forgotten or over, and yet you would go out anyway, because otherwise you would just sit on the bottom step of the stairs tearing your hair out while small children stare at you in wide eyed fascination because ‘mummy is poorly.’
It passes. You never think it will, but it does.
Apparently, despite the Labour party being older than the hills, for them it doesn’t.
When the Conservative party imploded, they sorted their house out in fairly sharpish order, fully aware that a united party would come out of things looking way better than one still arsing about in the hall with one shoe on, shoving its sister into the shoe cupboard roaring: ‘NO! You find it!’ Even if they didn’t have a bloody clue what they were actually doing.
You would think that Labour would, at this point, have had a good look at what the Tories were doing and thought: ‘Shit. They have a point.’
They are currently being taken to the small claims court, thanks to the Trade Descriptions act, by disgruntled members who were promised the chance to vote and then denied it. They are taking each other to court as soon as anyone opens their mouth to say anything that anyone else disagrees with. They are still failing to come out with anything coherent to say to soothe the ruffled nerves of millions of people who are desperate to see a strong opposition to both Brexit and the Tories, and their leadership race still has two months to run. A leadership race that should not have been necessary in the first place.
Angela Eagle has stepped down from the race today. I wonder if she will be using her Angela banners to launch that Slimming World campaign I was talking about? It seems a waste otherwise. Maybe she’ll hang them in the downstairs toilet in her house. It seems to me that Angela has done a bit of a Leadsom on everyone. ‘Oooh, I will stand. I have the courage of my convictions and am sure I am the right person for the job.’ Spool forward a week: ‘Oooh. I won’t stand now if you don’t mind. I’ve got a bit of a bad leg, and it’s hot, you know? I’m sure Owen Smith is the right person for the job.’ What was the bloody point of all that effort and aggravation? Angela is the child who keeps unpacking the bag as you’re packing it. What a monumental waste of time. Although at least Theresa May can now step down the spies she’d posted to inform her every time Angela was about to make a speech.
That should save us a few bob.
So now we have Owen Smith running for leader against Corbyn. Owen used to work for Pfizer, on a board that worked to try and persuade the government that patients needed more choice under the NHS, i.e. the choice to buy outrageously expensive pharmaceuticals from Pfizer and privatise chunks of the NHS.
Owen says that this is not actually true. He is, he says, devoted to the NHS being free at the point of use. He has a poster of Nye Bevan over his bed to prove it. He’ll show you it if you buy this slightly used paracetamol from him. An absolute bargain at £14 a packet.
Owen also says that the reason we should vote for him is that he is a ‘normal’ man.
He is normal, apparently, because he has a wife and three children. He is normal because he drinks beer and listens to Bruce Springsteen. He is normal because his wife has the normal job of being a primary school teacher.
This statement has caused a fair amount of outrage in recent days. Owen has responded by saying that this is not actually true. Apparently it has been taken out of context. Much like reports of his work at Pfizer.
‘This has been taken out of context,’ will no doubt be the tag line on Owen’s campaign banners. These will be made by horny handed men of the soil, toiling at the coal face of normality, woven from the hopes and aspirations of the normal, working man. Like Owen. A vote for Owen is a vote for normality.
Owen wants us to believe that he is the child standing quietly at the door, shoes on, coat buttoned up, hanky in his pocket, clean face, waiting patiently for mummy to finish dealing with the other naughty children so that we can go out and win.
That’s not normal, Owen. Trust me on this.