The Labour leadership election is the gift that continues to give; the weekend saw the Corbyn alternatives calling on each-other to quit for the sake of the party, demonstrating once again that true socialism means sacrificing anyone for the sake of the party except oneself. The masks have slipped, revealing Burnham to be a dull and unimaginative placeman, Cooper a bitch with a face like a sack of rivets and Kendall a calculating opportunist. Only Saint Jeremy rises above the petty squabbling with an air of serene innocence.
The old Mentalist emerged to plead with the party to preserve his legacy of economic incompetence, political inadequacy and bigotry by voting for the incompetent, the spiteful and the inadequate; the dour old son of the manse urged the party to eschew populism in favour of dull, uninspired pseudo-worthiness as exciting as a Sunday in Llandrindod-Wells in 1933. Having bottled the only election he even stood a faint chance of winning, no doubt the party gave the old Mentalist's counsel due regard.
And on the radio today the historic Welsh windbag demonstrated that age and senility had not robbed him of the ability to talk for eight minutes and say precisely nothing. It is actually almost impossible to recall a single word he said, let alone ascribe some meaning to it all. If the bloke was ever hauled in front of an expenses-nabbing tribunal he'd walk free; the most rigorous cross examination could not elicit a scruple of meaning from his blather.
And we've still got three weeks to go ...
(Apols for the lateness of this post - the interweb died overnight and a rather useful little chap in India had to rouse a BT engineer from his pit at 5.15 this morning to attend to our local junction box)