They are a funny bunch the Tories, and no’ particularly in a good way.
All the way across the board. There are stories of Cooncillors unfamiliar with the area they’ve stood for, and been voted into, almost needing an RAC roadmap to find their ward, not turning up at events they should be at, or some not bothering to hold regular surgeries that would perhaps involve the onerous task of shaking the hands of their constituents (whilst fighting the urge to wash their own afterwards) and having to hear about real life struggles, and the sometimes heartbreaking consequences of the policies the political party they represent have inflicted on the disenfranchised in society.
There’s the fledgling Scottish MP standing up in Westminster’s parliament to do one of the only two things that him , and his colleagues are specifically there to do, cheerlead and toady in adoration the front bench of corporately attached millionaires, in the hope that one day too they could be like them, and harangue the SNP.
Yet even with only these two simple tasks to perform this fine specimen of the tartan right-wing still managed to get it wrong and made a numpty of himself by showing a lack of understanding that the reason there were no SNP members present in the chamber to be routed by his quip about them was that the Bill under debate involved England and Wales only.
Then we have the more sinister kind. The seasoned old school southern Tory. The ones who come from privilege, and make sure that you’ll always know about it, the ones who think they can get away with spewing out entirely inappropriate and neanderthal phrases,(which I won’t repeat here). If it’s good enough for Agatha Christie, it is good enough for me is their motto, bile that come from a different time, a time where it should stay, a time of empire, of subjugation, of superiority, of cruelty, a time that Daily Mail editors have slightly damp dreams about, a time of racism and exploitation. You wonder what these people say to each other in private if this is the bilge that they think is reasonable to say publicly. Disgraceful.
What about the coming stars, the shining lights, the unordained, awaiting their destiny, the show ponies?
At the Palace of Westminster, there is the Colonel Blimp figure of Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, maintaining his bumbling persona to mask his true self, having helped to engineer what potentially will be the largest economic slump since 1930 because he doesn’t trust immigrants who aren’t from Turkey.
Further north we have the sulking temporary sunbed dweller, using all of her martial communication skills, as an honorary officer in the Signals Regiment, whilst suffering from sunburn and one too many bezique and dry ginger’s, to multi-tweet a tirade of “It’s not fair” that people should criticise her for accepting a military title which puts her directly into a position of conflicting interests, Colonel Ruthie, Queen of Scots.
Both of these shady characters, with others, are circling the weakened robotic figure, (like ninja jackals) their now nominal leader, a figure hopelessly punch drunk from the relentless unsuccessful attempts by Channel 4 to seek from her a demonstration of actual human feelings. The words and phrases “I am strong”, ‘I am stable”, “I will ensure…”, “ Brexit means Brexit”, “Now is not the time”, ““We must achieve the best deal for all partners in our precious Union”, escaping from her twisting mouth in short repetitive bursts, her premiership existing only because it is bolstered by the bribery, with public money, of a wooden pallet burning narrow-minded fringe political party with a three hundred odd year religious chip on their shoulder.
Yup, they are a funny bunch the Tories, and not in a good way. Why would you ever vote for them?