Boris Johnson is determined to “forge a new Britain”, once we Get Brexit Done, a phrase so stupid it defies satire. Brexit will not ‘get done’, because Brexit is an abstract noun, invented to disguise something hideously complicated as being simplicity itself. It is a patronising, explanation, one you might to give to an inquisitive child, a tacit admission by Tory tactician and wannabe Bond villain Dominic Cummings, that he is fully aware that you can fool most of the people all of the time, and will.  All would-be Tory MPs by the way, have been made to sign a declaration that they will fully support any Brexit terms negotiated by the government. The signing of this binding document was an absolute requirement for them to to be allowed to qualify as candidates in the election.


Poor Moggy, meantime, has put the nose of the PM’s enforcer Dom Cummings out of joint by going public with his over privileged stream-of-consciousness drivel. Overwhelming hubris has forced the top-hatted guru of gaffe to rescind the title of most revolting snob loved by the working classes, and to have his name added to Cummings’ ever-growing detention list. Number Ten, it is rumoured, is having a secure luxury attic installed in which to detain The Mogster, so that society might be protected from his caustic views. Another pupil out of favour appears to be Nigel the F, leader of the No Point Anymore Party, frequently spotted muttering to himself and puffing on a fag behind the bike sheds. And where’s that little rascal Gove? And that cheese woman? It’ll all end in tears.


There is nothing worse than an exaggerated sense of moral certainty for getting oneself into hot water, particularly when associating with people who quite obviously conduct themselves “in a manner unbecoming,” as it were. People like Jeffrey Epstein and his assistant Ghislaine Maxwell for example. Prince Andrew, the Grand Old Dook o’ Yawk and his persistent principles should be an example to us all. I mentally tug my forelock as I picture myself, perhaps after being invited to one of those straightforward shooting weekends, kneeling in deference before His far-too-honourable-for-his-own-good Highness, bathing in his ethical radiance and absorbing some of that excess righteousness. When we learned that Yorkie had had his sweat glands blown off by a sniper in the Falklands, and that round about the time it was alleged he had danced at an exclusive club in the West End, he was, albeit temporarily, unable, as described by his alleged companion Virginia Roberts Giuffre, to perspire; I was reminded of the great Gerald Campion’s 1950s TV portrayal of Frank Richards’ Billy Bunter ‘the fat owl of Greyfriars’, whose protestations of innocence followed a similar template: “I wasn’t in Croker’s study when he found me there, the suspicious beast! I wasn’t after his cake! There wasn’t any cake, and I never touched it, and I’d hardly had a mouthful when Croker came in!” As it were.


Remember every vote counts. Come to the Hastings Independent Hustings on December 5th at 6.00pm, East Sussex College. Hear what the candidates have to say and have your say too. But most of all, vote!

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