Prince of Darkness

The Prince of Darkness

When commuting, I would churn out one of these a week. No real reason, it just cheered me up on the slow, long, crowded homeward train ride.

I don't like politicians and politics. Politicians must hate hermits. It may be autism, but I've never had a moment for gossip (office or otherwise). Worse than doing nothing for me, it bores me so rigid I want to run screaming for my headphones. Politics is just gossip with added pompousness. With some manoeuvering and Machialvellian trickery sprinkled on top. Thousands of years have passed and the big changes have come in science, medicine, art, technology. Take away Westminster and £5,000 suits, replace the senate and togas, and little has changed. The best way to fight a breed designed for self-interest, pretending to have a mind of their own while they remorselessly follow the party line, is to be a fiercely independent and self-contained individual. Have good, energetic, positive family and friends, but don't have any needs. That frustrates the living daylights out of them.

Take Frank Zappa's advice: Don't vote, it only encourages 'em.

Remember they're all the same. There'll be one on record somewhere criticising sportsmen for representing a nation of convenience who him or herself has stridently banged on under the banner of one party before defecting to bang on under another banner. There's no ideals, no morals, no backbone. Try it. X-ray them. Spineless. Urine for blood. If you bother wasting your time (and there's so many better things to do: wash your hair, hoover the car, clean the oven, walk the dog) voting, remember you're giving up your time for zero return. Now more than ever, there's a political class in the Westminster village. Career politicians. I've no time for them.

A first-hand example. At a fire station. New fire engine recently arrived, one of new breed, new stowage, some design tweaks. The great and the good (that is the shiny-arse civilians making the top level decisions about how the London Fire was run, funded, staffed, equipped) descended because that's what they do. One of them started in on me about a fire at a friend's house. Long time to arrive. Blah. Moan. Blah. Eventually he said “and the water tender took and absolute age to arrive and supply the fire engines”.

“We don't have water tenders. You sure he's covered by London.”

“Don't we?”

“No.”

“Whyever not?”

(Thinks: you totally out of your depth ignorant git) “because, there's a hydrant on every corner. Like we don't have cliff rescue gear on account of not having any cliffs.”

Anyway, I just know that people like Peter Mendelson and me will never get along. I don't like guys who couldn't punch their way out of a paper bag (I include myself in that bracket, by the way) as 'fighters'. Yes you've had setbacks (we all have) and you're still here. That does not make you a fighter. Nigel Benn. Army. Boxing. Professional boxing. Middleweight. Where the best pound for pound fighters in the world congregate. That's a fighter. Don't claim to be worthy of breathing the same air as warriors like that.

So, a bit of gentle mickey taking out of the Price of Darkness cheered me up. There's previous episodes stored somewhere. I'll find them. Later. New one tomorrow.