Let’s talk about Wolverhampton. And Labour.

[wemyss]

After the current writing frenzy is over, I shall, I promise, respond to all the kind comments awaiting such response.

I am all too aware that to a few of my readers, Wolvo is, simply, where Fr Paddick is from, in the Village Tales novels; and, to far too many LJers in A Certain Fandom, merely where a member of A Popular Beat Combo, M’Lud is from.

Comments

[pathology_doc]

The Labour Party as the party of the Milibands and Harriet Harperson, rent-a-demo and Islington-and-Notting-Hill-champagne Socialists, Len McCluskey and Russell Brand, Gordon Brown and Ed Balls and Andy Burnham gazing plangently through his mascara, is dead as mutton, and a good thing, too. The party of envy, metropolitan faddishness, Rochdale, and Cool Britannia deserves to die out... Labour as the party of the working man and woman, even in an economy far different to that which birthed it, in which the worker was down t’ pit hacking away at coalface, must however not die - although it must not become further, or remain so far as it is, the wholly-owned subsidiary of the troughing, rent-seeking, antidemocratic public employees’ unions.

This, a thousand times this, and a thousand times again... and likewise (with names and places changed as appropriate) for its Australian counterpart with the curiously divergent spelling. An old Labor (sic) stalwart had attributed to him a saying that a party which once comprised the cream of the working class had become the scum of the middle class. I believe that the former lies well above the latter in the various strata of politics.