There's little respite for McFool today as the Telegraph reveals his popularity has fallen to a new low. Public anger is palpably simmering in the summer heat; any public group seems ready to erupt into rage. The cashpoint queue, the supermarket aisle and the station platform have an edgy feel to them in a way that would provoke a bouncer to comment that 'it could all kick off at any moment'. There's an impatience and a new intolerance in the air.
Labour have failed at everything they've defiled with their poisoned touch. A huge social gulf has opened, social mobility is dead and the divisions are coming into sharper relief. Short-term contract workers are realising the weakness of their position for the first time in a decade and are looking resentfully at permanent staff; permanent staff are regarding the boss who earned three times their salary in 1997 but who now takes six times their pay with a silent bitterness, but both groups still with salaries are being viewed with open hostility by the failed Welfare slaves of Labour's client state. I wouldn't risk queuing at the checkout of my local Tesco with a case of Champagne in the trolley today. I really wouldn't.
Here in Zone 2 things have always been a bit grainy and on the edge and indeed that's long been part of the attraction, but things are changing very rapidly and there's a feeling of sauve qui peut in the air. Neighbours are trying to remember how to set the burglar alarm. There's no longer a feeling that we're all in it together. And it's all the result of Labour's inept attempts at social engineering on the back of the spendthrift plunder of the nation's wealth; the country's most incompetent Chancellor has become its most loathed Prime Minister. The Poles are going home, leaving the 20,000 Africans who have arrived here in the last decade arguing in knots on the street, and the arguments are always about money. The store credit has suddenly dried up and the insanity of credit card companies who'd give a card and an instant £1,500 limit to every Nigerian in London has come to an abrupt halt.
McFool is insulated from all this behind the two inch ballistic glass of his government Jag and the narcissistic self-delusion of a third-rate intellect. For the rest of us, Labour's failure is coming into sharp focus. It's not going to be easy and it's not going to be pleasant. And we want Labour blood.