In the wreckage, it’s tempting to say it’s too soon to point fingers. No, now is exactly the right time. Blame someone. Blame them now. Blame everyone. Blame the people who voted, or didn’t vote, or told people to not vote then vote; blame the people who voted the way you didn’t like. Blame everyone. Blame someone. Blame yourselves.
Fuck. The fuck. What happened? What happened? What happened?
Don’t imagine I live inside some cheerful leftie social media echo chamber, because although I’d like to, I don’t. I know there are many reasons people vote Conservative. (Sometimes things happen to them in childhood that just aren’t right, or sometimes you can blame genetics. Other times, you have to consider the possibility of pure evil. And some people just choose to be selfish, low, compassion-free fuckknuckles who want to have everything for themselves.) And that’s fine, by the way. We can’t all be the same. Eight and a bit million people, at least, are always going to vote Conservative, even if you put a blue rosette on a turd and smear it in their faces. That’s just that. It says something for the meek, unquestioning forelock-tugging of the average British voter that they’re happy to see a mediocre shower of minimal intellect like Cameron, Pickles, Gove, May, Grayling and pals take charge. People like us. You know, morons.
I know there’s that. But it’s too easy to blame Tories for being hateful, loathsome scumbags with a cruel streak for minorities which is nowadays carefully hidden behind closed doors or shunted off to Ukip. They are, and that’s that. But it’s those other people you need to look at – the people who aren’t naturally or decisively vile, predatory individuals who would rather piss on a tramp than give him a fiver for a hot meal. Those are the people. What happened to them?
I suppose it started with Tony Blair, the smirking Shoko Asahara of the New Labour project, for people of my generation. Do you remember the hope of 1997? Robin Cook bouncing up and down to D:Ream. Awkward handshakes. Cherie in her nightie. Bernie Ecclestone, oopsy. Yay, bombs! Kaboom! Pew pew pew pew! Depleted uranium BUT minimum wage. Kids being blown up BUT there was a New Deal.
The trouble with lefties, and I say this out of love, is that we give a shit about integrity. Do you think the Right care about lies? They couldn’t give a shit if their leaders kicked you in the face and set fire to the rabbit hutch; they’re born to rule and that’s their place. Know your place, peasant. Nice one centurion. They lead and we vote for them, and that’s the way it will always be. If their leaders somehow forget to deliver something they promise or – it happens – completely lie about something, they just keep on plodding on. So what? They’re born to rule.
Lefties, though. We have to actually care about fairness. If someone goes around blowing up kids in the name of humanitarian intervention, we get all squicked out by it. If someone says they won’t raise tuition fees, then raises tuition fees, we tend to remember. If someone positions his party to the left of Labour, then jumps into bed with a vicious assault on the welfare state that would make Thatcher blush crimson, we get all silly in our heads and think, hey, that’s not quite cricket, is it?
Which brings us to Nick Clegg, the Orange Book Bastard who destroyed the Liberal Democrats. All those decades of carefully building up a community presence; all that time spent on the ground winning friends and influencing people – and then he goes and wrecks it all. But look on the bright side. He got a very nice chauffeur driven car. He got to be Deputy Prime Minister. He got to say he was in Government. And he’ll do very nicely off in the House of Lords, or better, in the Conservative Party he so richly enabled into hitherto undreamt-of levels of spite.
Clegg managed to deliver one sliver of hope, to be fair to him – the chance to reform the voting system. And we fucked it. As ever, we fucked it up. We went with fear when we could have gone with hope. Now, 40 per cent of the voters have wield unchallengeable power for the next five years. A quick bit of tinkering with some creative boundaries, and there you are. Labour locked out for a generation. Enjoy your Pearson schools and Virgin GPs. You didn’t need human rights, did you? Bye bye BBC. Goodbye to it all.
That’s where I think the blame lies, in part or in whole, or in bits, which is what I feel like this afternoon. No point in blaming the SNP. No point in blaming Ukip. I can’t be bothered to blame the press. Who cares about those irrelevant, tedious cunts anymore? Rupert Murdoch is dying. Soon he will be dead, and we can permit ourselves five minutes of feeble joy before remembering he won. Just as with his beloved Thatcher, he won. We lost, because we had to go and get ourselves in a tizzy when people decided to lie and start wars and stuff. Silly us. Silly us.
So, here we go. Labour navel-gazing. A jump to the right. A new twat in a suit. A new mission to persuade a few swing voters that they won’t ever dare to try and tax wealthy people more. And everything is going to be OK, because the Tories are bound to fuck up at some point. Aren’t they?
I think there’s only one thing to do, and that’s to lose our problematic squeamishness about fighting dirty. They don’t think twice about using every single despicable trick to win. They just want to win. Winning is everything. We – if there is still a we – have to use every disgusting, nasty, unpleasant and underhand tactic we’ve got. Stoop to their level. Beat them at it. Fuck integrity. Fuck doing the right thing. These bastards are going to wreck the country and sleep soundly in their beds in their gated communities. The only way to stop them is to get them out. Anything is better. Anything.