Notes on the perils of a clandestine Tory

Another year, another oddity to contend with.  Having very much hoped my difficult, strange and bonkers encounters with men were a thing confined to the past; I’ve found myself in another fine mess.


In the space of 4 weeks a grand total of three people have had an unwarranted (though I say so myself) pop at me.


The first incident involved an unknown, drunken, quantity who attempted conversation with the sparkling opening line; ‘you’re a nob’.


The second involved an overly opinionated ‘actress’ declaring I should not praise the skills of  performers; as I had not trodden the (semi-professional) boards of regional theatre.


And the third involved the antagonist of today’s holy shit show.


Despite being fully aware of the terrors of conversation, having written extensively on the subject, the signal which travels to my brain with a message of ‘speak’ would not be muted.


I declared myself anti Toby Young.


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Toby doing his best for the Women’s Lib movement



It is old news that Young has been appointed as a board member to the government’s new education regulator.


And like any no–nonsense, good- old- fashioned, plain-speaking, Tory, Toby also comes with a large side of misogyny and homophobia.  So far, so Tory.


And so, I endeavoured to explain my objections to Young’s new post.


Our antagonist- who I shall hereby refer to as ‘Kevin’- in return spewed a rebuttal which sounded a lot like ‘the education regulator is in need of some different perspectives.’

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Vintage Toby

After stifling an inward laugh, my sassy mouth and I suggested there was nothing remotely diverse about a man from a wealthy, Oxbridge educated, political family.


In an act of heroic defence which even Superman would struggle to rival, Kevin replied ‘just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.’


I should have realised dear Kevin may well have been a house short of a brick or two (or three), but still I clung to the vain idea of logic.


I told Kev though wealth did not make you a bad person, it was difficult for me to believe Toby and indeed Tories in general did not subscribe to the party’s core ideologies.


His response this time reader was truly painful. Incensed  I had made a monolith of Tories everywhere he asserted the NHS ruining, poverty demonising, benefit- cutting Conservatives ‘were not all the same.’

According to Kevin their diversity was confirmed by the two tier system of ‘backbenchers and frontbenchers.’


Which I guess is true, I mean all Conservatives aren’t the same. I’m sure they can’t all cheat on their wives.

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Reader it will not surprise you to know, I now suspected I was in the presence of a real-life Tory.


And I asked Kevin to declare his political inclinations at once.  Taken aback Kev retorted ‘are you asking me if I’m a Tory because I know something?’


And in a moment of utter loopiness he decided to add the following: ‘and by the way if I were Tory that would be okay.’


I could have said a thousand things, but I must admit I was paralysed by the strangeness of it all.


In what I can only assume Kevin believed was a parting shot, he issued the following words: ‘and by the way Tories and Conservatives are not the same thing.  Conservatives are members of the party, Tories are Members of Parliament.’


I’m not entirely sure I was conversing with a rational man. Perhaps I missed the memo in which it was declared political debate is now obsolete and should be substituted with a personal roast.


Either way this is a personal best for me.  Not even a full seven days into the year and I’ve already had my first psychotic encounter with a self-hating Tory.


New balls please…

Oh What a Time to be Alive! As I live and breath I never thought I’d bare witness, to the grinding wheels of the Tory machine, falling away quicker than a five year old’s milk teeth.

Our sovereign leader, it appears,  has learned in the most public and  mortifying fashion that calling an eleventh hour election is about as good an idea, as asking the peanut brained people of the United Kingdom if they’d like to play hokey cokey (the EU edition).
Mrs M, in a vote that was meant to be sewn up tighter than a bleeding head wound, some how managed to convert David Cameron’s hard won majority into, well, a hung parliament.
Voters, not content with May’s self congratulatory response to all lines of questioning: ”Brexit means Brexit‘, decided to gift the PM an election night more turbulent and tumultuous than a dinghy ride on the North Sea.
Lefties will be happy to know that the fun and games of June 8 were not the sole reserve of those at the very top.


Zac Goldsmith clung to his parliamentary seat in Richmond (like a dress two sizes small) by a margin of only 45. A figure not generally large enough to sway a council vote on street lights.
With the loss of Kensington and Chelsea too, the summer of ’17 will be a marked as a notoriously sad time in the Tory annals.
It will be remembered as the breath taking moment when even the over privileged residents of a royal borough saw voting Conservative as less than a viable option.
Now TM must face the discordant music coming from the screams of the Tory chorus.
As you can imagine they are not best pleased at the prospect of forming a minority government.
A minority government, which can only be made possible by a display of distasteful cozying up to the DUP.
A party, whose members are known to call on the exacting science of Creationism, when faced with calls to stem climate change.
A party who are anti same sex marriage and abortion.
Sadly they are not anti Tory, though negotiations between the two factions seem to have been going on longer than a Russian novel.
So, Great Britain is faced with another round of political Jenga.  Once again it is ”all change please” on the Parliamentary Express and reinforcements have been called in to
steady the ship; namely Michael Gove.
I believe the Conservatives are now locked in talks with Shergar and Kermit the Frog, in a desperate bid to find a new leader.
George Osbourne, a pear poached in the sweet syrup of Schadenfreude, on this rare occasion is completely and utterly correct; the Prime Minister is indeed a ‘dead woman walking’.
I for one, would not be abashed in admitting there is a joy in observing Theresa May and her cabinet desperately scrabbling about in the dirt and dark. Though I do feel a reticence at the smirk it surely has brought back to Osbourne’s face.

Darling I’m holding a general election in a couple of weeks…

So, I was sitting in front of my fancy Apple computer, when the volume on the office TV was suddenly whacked up to its maximum capacity.  In an announcement that almost made me spit out my courgetti; the artist formerly known as ‘Big T’ proclaimed that the game of political musical chairs (in which the nation has played the role of long suffering fiddler) was not in fact over. We Britons, who have been dreaming of the illusive and distant hope of a ‘quiet life’, have once again had our hopes dashed, most cruelly.

Theresa May standing at the ‘plinth of shame’, (and looking every bit the demon headmistress) casually informed the nation of her intention to hold a last minute general election.  Pretty much in the same way that you send out a group text to an impromptu barbeque being held in your back yard. Apparently May, wants to take Corbz outside for an after-school scrap; in which the victor wins the prize of steering home the Good Ship Brexit.


For want of more articulate and nuanced phrasing; this is all getting rather silly.  I really am beginning to feel the withering effects of having to choose between catastrophe ‘A’ or ‘B’.  Although choosing between wanker ‘A’ or ‘B’ is no fairer a prospect.  And of course let us not forget the other course on today’s political menu; ‘Would you like your Brexit hard? Or soft Madame?’

Brexit has been the bomb, that just keeps on exploding.  This little island has seen an endless procession of reshuffles, rearrangements and resignations.  But, now faces the real (and gloomy) prospect of committing for the next five years to a conservative government hell bent on financially throttling Britain’s poorest; while simultaneously dismantling the NHS as though it were an ill constructed set of Ikea draws.  In fact, I believe Theresa and Co have planned to sell off hospital fittings and fixtures in an hour long special of ‘Cash in the Attic’.

But never fear Corbz is here.  We’ve only got to wait until the ‘end of May’ to get our hands on Labour’s manifesto.  Perhaps the delay is in part owing to the possibility of Earth being little more than a stricken wasteland by late Spring, courtesy of DT.  Things are looking up.

Lefties will be glad to know that the Labour leader has his shoulder pressed firmly to the wheel and is tackling this election’s big issues head on; declaring his unwavering commitment to the introduction of four extra bank holidays.  You couldn’t make this stuff up – no really – you couldn’t.

Either way, I think it’s safe to say we’re totally screwed.  It’s kind of a relief in a way, sort of like that feeling you get when you’ve made a total cock up at your dream job interview.  You know there’s nothing you can do but endure the ride, holding on for dear life, however rocky the course.

For what it’s worth, I’d rather throw the country (and myself) into the power of a Corbin lead Cabinet.  Corbz may have the disposition and delivery of a geography teacher who lets you call him by his first name; but I believe he operates from a position of fundamental concern for Britain and the people living in it.  The Conservatives irrespective of their leader have clung to their age old mantra of standing for those ‘who want to work hard and get on’, never once acknowledging that their continual swift and silent pulling of the rug from beneath the feet of the vulnerable, makes this nigh on impossible.

I like my racists where I can see ‘em…

So apparently the general populous of the United States is now becoming wise to the possible draw backs of voting in a Pussy Grabbing President.  I have to say it wasn’t America’s brightest idea, but then again I don’t believe the invasions of Vietnam and Iraq were exactly shinning moments of brilliance either.  I suppose it maybe a little unfair to blame US citizens for their country’s involvement in illegal wars.  After all, when Americans turn up to the polls, there is no box to check ‘in the event you would/wouldn’t like War as an optional extra.’ However, voters were warned well in advance that this year’s Republican candidate wore Misogyny and Racism like a politically incorrect Halloween costume.


My opinions and I have, for the most part decided to sit this one out.  Much like the close girlfriend who whines about the apparent flaws of her mate, chooses to marry him anyway; only to learn of his infidelity.  America is now having an almighty; what were you thinking moment, and I’m afraid that I’m going to have to treat her, just as I would my annoying friend.


Trump’s 1970s inspired approach to the fairer sex seems to have gotten droves of Western women all riled up.  With a recent spate of Women’s Marches popping up state-wide.  The largest of which took place last month in Washington DC.  Ever afraid of missing a photo opportunity the luvvies were out in full force.  It was truly heart-warming to see the A-list challenging the rich and the privileged, before being escorted back to their heated Winnebago’s.  Forgive me Reader for my cynicism, I should know better, I am a woman after all.  But, would it be in anyway inaccurate to see this new anti- Trump coalition as an act of collective amnesia?


According to a CNN exit poll, 53% of white women who did vote, voted for a clearly beloved Trump.  A similarly strange case is that of the Assalis; a family of Syrian origin, who had long been settled in the US.  The family then found themselves facing deportation as a result of dear Donald’s travel ban. As it becomes clear that Americans who stood to lose the most at the hands of a Trump presidency willingly chose to vote against their own interests.  The picture of Trump as North America’s perennial bad guy appears to be a canvas made up entirely of grey.  Now, let’s get this clear, the creosote coloured Commander in Chief, is off the charts on the sexism and xenophobia scale.  But sadly many Trump voters seemingly forgot, the piercing bite that always follows the raising of a snake.


Reader you married him.  Choosing to walk down the aisle of international relations to a funeral dirge.  Luckily for me, I am located on the other Brexit polluted side of the pond. Now, not only will I get to see my own country slip into chaos, confusion and joy oh joy recession; but I will bear witness to Trump’s slow and painful undoing of the American Dream.  Popcorn and tissues at the ready; I think this is going to be a weepie.

We’ll always have Paris…

Oh Britain I’m not angry with you; I’m just disappointed.  Yes, we might well draw on the age-old idea that nothing can shake the plucky countenance from the people of this small island; but tea and a swipe of lippy are not going to get us out of this one.  Let me put it plainly:  We are fucked.  We are being thrust along the proverbial Shit’s Creek, not only without a paddle, but without a bloody boat!  It is as if we have left the relative comfort and protection of our nice European boyfriend complete with a steady job and proper hairstyle; and thrown ourselves into the power of a man who rides a Harley, busks for a living and wants to die in order to leave a good-looking corpse.


The result of the Brexit referendum made it abundantly clear why ordinary people are generally barred from the conversations and debates which take place within the walls of Westminster deciding our country’s fate.  The reason being that a large percentage of the population possess intelligence that is equivocal to that of a doorstop.  Perhaps in future the government might carry out some sort of test, in which potential voters have to prove that they have an intellectual capacity which exceeds that of a 12 year- old child.


This is not a slight on the good people of Barnsley, but there did seem to be some very strange ideas floating about the air.  On being asked why she voted to leave the safety of the EU one woman said it was because: ‘her grandfather had fought for this country’.  A curious, and yet baffling sentiment.  I can only assume that she believed that upon leaving Europe, should she chance upon any field in her England she would now find cricket being played to the distant hymn of Jerusalem, the scene would of course be framed in jubilant bunting, with Dickie Bird playing the role of umpire.  Another resident stated that leaving Europe was the only way to stop (groan) immigration.  Although bizarrely he later said that he didn’t mind other Europeans (aka White people) settling on these shores, it was just people from ‘Africa, Iran and Syria’.  So on the whole I think it’s fair to say the the Leave campaigners did a stellar job informing voters on exactly what it means to be part of the EU.


Damn you Boris, you deliberately misguided those who were in greatest need of the EUs protection.  Without realising it communities who already suffer at the hands of the wolves named Poverty and deprivation will now have to grapple with a government that no longer has to adhere to checks and balances sent from Brussels.  A new government for whom the EU Charter of Fundamental Rights is now nothing more than a footnote in this island’s history.  Corbyn you’re no better.  Throughout Labour’s half arsed EU Remain campaign, our Jez looked an awful lot like the friend who’d been coerced into partaking of a night out.  And even then they’d only said ‘yes’ because there was nothing on Netflix.  This at a time when he should have galvanized the Working Class, the disenfranchised and the indifferent.  The faults of this referendum have been many, far-reaching and too catastrophic to keep calm and carry on.


One thing is for certain, it is clear we have our best man on the job.  Setting out his plan for solving the biggest political and economical shit storm since the Financial Crash of 1987, BoJo imparted these words of reassurance ‘…Britain is a part of Europe-and always will be.’  Well I for one know that I will sleep easier tonight. Johnson has his shoulder firmly pressed to the wheel.  Gove grinds the organ, while the monkey dances.  Get ready folks, if Johnson does become the boss man, the NHS will become more stretched than a pregnancy belly.  Gove is probably cooking up a manual with instructions on how to perform your own angioplasty payed for with Tesco Club Card points.


Now there is nothing left for us to do but pack our things, unscrew the light bulbs and await anxiously the decision on who gets the kids.  This is it, according to Michael Jackson.  Nothing but the greatest Moonwalk of all time can stem this painful political divorce. David Cameron will now go down in history as the man who sold the world; kind of like an elderly relative who sells the family paintings for a pound at a car boot sale, not realising they are in fact Picasso’s.


We have no choice but to look to the future, and it may yet be less bleak than we imagine.  There we will be listening to EBC radio, (English Broadcasting Corporation) miniature St George flags in hand, a sodden Victoria Sponge taking centre stage, our voices straining to the last notes of ‘There’ll always be an England’, all of course in the rain.




Disclaimer: No startling observations were made in this piece.