The best little whorehouse in Britain
Let’s take a break from busting the government-sponsored myths about swine flu, and watch Parliament head out for its covetable 82-day summer holiday. Shall we wave a fond farewell to them as they duck into their Jags, gun the engines and roar off to (one of) their homes?
It’s almost impossible to write a post that conveys their cowardice and corruption, and my own contempt for the self-protective reform legislation they came up with just before running away – running, as all cowards do.
But then, I’m hardly surprised. We are asking them to reform themselves. And that never works.
I mean, think about it. What if you had a really good deal – I mean a really sweet deal – at work. Let’s say you made around 70K and up, your work week was about three days, your expenses added 25K to your pay free and clear, and those expenses needed to be approved only by you, your annual holiday allotment was in excess of three months, you were massaged by a subservient and docile staff paid for by somebody else, you were protected from your bosses completely, except for one day every five years or so.
And then some do-gooder shows up and says, ’This is wrong. And you have to change it. Nobody can make you change it, but it is immoral and irresponsible of you not to change it so you must change it and give yourself less – less freedom and less money.’
Would you? Honestly?
Well, neither will they.
Britain has a whorehouse in it
So here we are at a spectacular impasse, in which our elected government has so abused this country’s ancient and veneered political system that the vast majority of people in the country look at them as no better – and possibly worse – than criminals. Their approval ratings are uniformly low, regardless of which party they’re in.
There would have been a revolution in France already over this, had it happened there. If this had happened in America, MPs would need armed guards to protect them from their constituents. In the Ukraine the nation’s entire population would be out in the streets every night, holding candles, singing songs, bringing the economy to a halt.
But here? Well, it’s been a very British revolution so far. Isolated shouts during BBC’s Question Time have been the only evidence of the simmering outrage. That, and so many MPs losing their seats in by-elections.
Lord have mercy on our souls
I believe the country is furious over this huge con job in which we were all the victims and our own governmental representatives were the thieves. But it’s a quiet kind of fury that often expresses itself in increasing political apathy, a belief that each politician is as bad as the other, and comments like ‘I couldn’t vote for any of them, so I think I’ll stop voting.’
There is nothing worse for a democracy than a population losing its faith. Personally, I’d rather see people setting themselves on fire in the streets of Westminster than see them shrug and walk away.
So, before you all give up on the democratic system, remember: you are not alone. Politicians – whether they are elected fairly and honestly or seize the role as dictators – are prone to believing themselves invincible, and taking more than their share. This might have been the biggest scandal I’ve ever seen in politics, but it is not an unusual kind of scandal, when you think about it. A bit of petty stealing. Padding the old nest. It’s a time-honoured tradition.
Politicians will always treat you with contempt. But they do it at their peril. Remember: you have all the power. You cannot fire them now, but, working together, we can eventually fire them all. And soon.
Even better: you can remember who they are.
Remember the MPs with two, or even three houses paid for by you, while you struggle to make your mortgage.
Remember the MPs who bought porn and charged it to you.
Remember the MPs who had you pay to clear their yards, or their moats, even while you broke your back to clear your own.
Remember who they are. And treat them with the contempt they deserve.
Those duplicitous, thieving MPs may have slipped away for now, but they have to come back sometime, and when they do, as they say in Texas, you need to open up a can of whup-ass on them that they’re unlikely to ever forget. In the voting booth.
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