Category: A Single Sphere

Labour cannot hope to progress under its current management. But if the Labour Party were ever to think seriously about becoming a political force in the UK, they must adapt with the times. The days of worthy but dull lawyers with forensic questioning skills are over. The Labour Party needs a buffoon as its leader. Send in the clowns!

Look at how well this approach has worked for the Conservative Party. Nowadays, of course, “conservative” is a dirty word in Conservative circles. The Tories have proved the most progressive party in recent years. The grey men have become showmen, and the greatest showman is of course Boris Johnson. Politically, the man is nowhere, but in the modern arena this is unimportant. Style has triumphed over substance, and until Labour learns this lesson it is doomed to failure.

It is not certain where this lefty buffoon may come from. Starmer is merely a throwback to the long-departed dreary competence of a Major or a Brown. Corbyn was worse: a throwback of a throwback, who never developed from being a shouty rebel at a Ban The Bomb rally. To stand a chance of even competing, Labour must drop worthy policy in favour of three word slogans. It must stop trying to sound reasonable, nobody wants that. It needs a vacuous fool to shout the first thing that comes into his head while waving a fish in the air. That is what the people want.

And note, it must be he, not she. Think of prominent left wing women, like Kate Hoey, Julia Hartley-Brewer, Arlene Foster. Not a trace of a sense of humour in any of them. No, you need a man, preferably a seedy aging Lothario who pleasures much younger women in a vain attempt to recapture his youth. A man, whose mere appearance and demeanour are comical.

Labour needs to be funny. Crack a joke, Keir! Tell us a rambling anecdote and lose your thread! Turn up to work drunk!

And then the Tories will really tear into you.

Almost every day we hear of atrocities committed by The Left in the name of Woke. There is, it seems, a never-ending stream of new genders and pronouns, which we must instantly absorb and respect. There is a bottomless well of hand-wringing over everyday words, in case somebody could possibly take offence. There is a plethora of limitations on what we may say or believe. It is the duty of every right-thinking Englishman to push back against such poisonous flim-flam.

How seriously should we take this Wokery? Many would contend that it is so laughably pathetic that it should just be ignored. But this country has standards, and the world looks to England to take the lead in such matters. 

In England, we do not pander to the weak-minded. We lay down the law. That is called strong rule, and if you don’t like it, you are free to leave. There is a rhythm to life in England, and rules must be delivered from the top down. Getting above one’s station merely upsets the apple cart, and this is the aim of the Woke Brigade. They want to put the cat among the pigeons just to watch their betters have their feathers ruffled.

We must not allow the Little Man to become too big for his boots. Wokery aims to disrupt the English way of life, forgetting that it is precisely because of the English way of life that Britain became Great. We did not gain an Empire and win two World Wars by considering the correct form of address for a man who thinks he is a woman. In the old days we had a word for this sort of person: a nancy boy.

We can never win the War On Woke, but we must keep on fighting the good fight. Otherwise in no time we will all be forced to be non-binary non-gendered rainbow-coloured nobodies.

The Churchill comparison is oft made. But a more apt parallel is the famous – indeed, infamous – Henry VIII. A giant among Kings, and an iconic figure even today, over 400 years since his glorious reign, Henry could teach Boris Johnson a few good lessons in statecraft.

Every schoolboy knows that Henry had six wives. Johnson, to date, has only had two, but it is the ruthless manner of those terminations that holds the lesson. The first marriage ended in divorce, but not before Henry moved Heaven and Earth – quite literally – to make it happen. Breaking from Rome presaged the modern breaking from Europe, but second time around Henry acted far more swiftly. Imagine how much smoother Johnson’s path would have been had he been permitted to execute Jennifer Arcuri.

It was not just inconvenient wives that Henry executed. Political opponents were also disposed of in this swift and effective manner. One is left to speculate whether, in more enlightened times, Johnson could have disposed of Keir Starmer, in the same manner as the turbulent priest, Cardinal Wolsey. Perhaps this would have managed to quell the endless mutterings about alleged incompetence and corruption.

On which, Johnson could learn a thing or two about financial management from Henry. Henry managed to bankrupt the country at least twice. Johnson, although obviously doing his best, has neither drained the treasury nor provoked war with France. These must remain as key objectives for his second term in office.

Scotland is another key area for Johnson. Henry endured mutinous rumblings from north of the border, but established control through battle. Nobody would suggest that a war with the treacherous Scottish Independence mob and their de facto leader, Nicola Sturgeon, is desirable. But the Jocks must not be allowed to dictate matters. Ultimately, leadership is all about taking decisive action. Sturgeon must be dealt with harshly, as one would with a filly who has taken ideas above her station. A period of rough wooing may be necessary.

And yet, Henry had achieved all this at a younger age than Johnson. Hurry up, Boris!

Lockdown is easing at long last, and, with the sun out, one’s thoughts naturally turn to one’s second home in France. Normally one will sojourn in sunnier climes for a season at this time of year. As regular readers of UnoTesticular know, this is to avoid contact with the hordes of city dwellers, who decide to use the ancient rights of way across one’s estate at the first sight of sunshine.

Last summer, unfortunately, many of our kind were imprisoned in our paltry mansions due to the coronavirus panic. This led to a backlash, as many were obliged to resort to setting the hounds on negligent day trippers straying from the footpath or attempting to picnic in the grounds. We all know that this sort of behaviour is unacceptable. Many stiff letters were sent to the editor of the Daily Telegraph, deploring that organ’s championing of the rights of the Great Unwashed.

Rights of way cannot, alas, be easily or cheaply removed in the modern era. So slumming it in the South of France has become the preferred option of many a landowner.

This has preserved the sanity and self respect of many moderately well off people, while permitting the lower orders to admire the benefience of their betters.

Imagine, then, the dismay felt by many at the 90 day rule. I’m no politician, but this is an absurd situation. 90 days is hardly enough time to settle into the French lifestyle following a bitter English winter. Here at UT we understand that Sir Montague Hyphen-Hyphen-Hyphen is coordinating a powerful response, and will ensure that the Foreign Secretary reverses this decision forthwith.

Then once this storm in a teacup has passed, life can return to its natural rhythm.