Wasting wisdom

Just when you think Labour couldn’t be any more two-dimensional in its imagination, centrist dads “are middle-aged men who cannot come to terms with the world and politics changing”. “He’s white, middle-class, wears a leather jacket and probably watches Top Gear on Amazon Prime.”

1) Well, derr, of course they can’t when they can see how risky it is. It is not the changing but the manner of the changing. And 2) Is he, though? Does he, really?

What looks quite funny and almost clever, at first glance, is actually a bit sinister. Corbyn disciples seem to think that any opposition to their ideas for change is opposition to all change. That to advise caution, whether based on experience or evidence is merely to defend the status quo.

Maybe those currently being so casually labelled as centrist dads just do not approve of rebellion that blindly throws out the babies with the bath water. They need to be convinced. This is a reason why they did not all vote for Brexit. This is a reason why variants of “national” and “socialism” raise alarm bells when they keep appearing together. This is why they respond with ‘why?’ and ‘how?’ to the utopian manifestos of populists riding in on fake unicorns.

And by any chance, are those slagging off centrists and conflating them with dinosaurs in a fresh sweep of generalisation the very same people who hated the mainstream until Corbyn declared that his Labour had taken the centre ground and gone mainstream? ‬Isn’t Jeremy a centrist dad, now? Or does having no rhythm, taking pride in his allotment and a love of drain-spotting in an anorak not count? And are these people the very same who rail against the expedient stereotyping and demonising of whole demographics? Why, yes they are.‬

Not only have they inappropriately neologised an already subjective and relative term but, in so doing, increase divisiveness by a) undermining the tangible cause they have against real ageist/sexist patriarchal condescension in return for indiscriminately insulting reasonable men over some arbitrary age, who cannot object, lest it prove their point in a when did you stop beating your wife sort of way. And b) distorting the substance of party-political arguments through an ever-convoluted defensiveness against people who cannot help but challenge current Labour thinking and do not much rate Jeremy Corbyn – of which, ironically there are many women. Go moderate mums, you still invisible angels…

Perhaps it is easier to imagine that you are on “the right side of history” when you’re hell-bent on reintroducing the past and literally rewriting its meaning.

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witlessly led

Britain is swinging the lead;
Being witlessly led
By its well-fed ringmasters,
Right into disaster, for crumbs
From the Top Table’s bread

High on their vacuous vistas,
They’ve built with an imbecile’s pride
They keep pushing their luck
Just to cover the fuck-ups
They made with their swivel-eyed lies

They yearn for a future that’s passed
So their best before date they deny
With rhetoric mnemonics
For faux histrionics, they polish the shine
Where their judgement has died

As the blighties of Brexit
That thought themselves smart
Grow increasingly thicker and
Desperate fast, they quicken the proof in
The elbow and arse because,

Even if Brexit where not a dumb farce,
Not one of those bozos is up to the task.

Oh, snowflake

Oh, snowflake, how unique your delicate heart
That glistens in communal blizzards
Of parched intellect

Whose crystalline shards
And feathered spaces
Shape imperfect synecdoches

And bring your frozen deserts
Into sharp relief against the dust
Of desiccated humours

And confusion of
Unfathomable hatred, until
All is powder; like and like

Steal nuance and lay waste
To inconvenient subtleties
On platforms, uniform, attend,

As granular as common sand
And no one is that special
In the end.

 

The way Farage laughs

The way Farage laughs
As though what he is saying
Has embarrassed even him
Or when Corbyn sniffs as if
What he is saying
So impresses him
And how Trump gesticulates
That intimates what he is saying
Second-guesses him

All ways the first tell
Is like the last knell
Before the din

Turns out

If seeing is believing and believing a feeling is virtually all, does it matter that the emperor has no clothes? Is he even really naked, since he has been gifted with a thousand and one projections of bespoke attire?

Gaslighters are telling themselves that they are the victims of gaslighting. Well, yes, they are: turns out you can fool the absolute heck out of some of the people.

“For those who believe, no proof is necessary. For those who don’t believe, no proof is possible.” ~ Stuart Chase