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David Cameron – Child Abuser

Yes, the title is a bit “sensationalist” but I think it’s merited today since the shiny-faced buffoon took time away from his 5 year plan of stuffing his face to use my children (and everyone else’s) as a an attempted tug on the heartstrings.

Let’s just recap.

This is a man who will stop at nothing for a photo shoot, be it a shot of his best side beside a war grave or a staged “family man” shot of him with his own disabled son.

This is a man who, when going to the pub for an afternoon, rather than leave something of transient value like an umbrella behind, he left his irreplaceable daughter.

He has used one child (sadly no longer with us) in an opportunistic photo shoot while completely forgetting another, which, were he Mick (not Michael) Philpott, would see him strung up. However, the forgiving of the wealthy for matters that would see others hock-deep in social workers is not the drift of this article.

That the man has form for using and abusing his children is. And today, he told you that

“”How can it possibly be right for our children’s education to be disrupted by trade unions acting in that way? It is time to legislate and it will be in the Conservative manifesto.”

Excuse me, Eton?  “Our children”?  Given the frankly terrifying and stultifying failure of a human being you have as Education Minister, do not ever lump my children in with yours.  Unlike you, I underwent the best state education that money does not need to buy; sadly, my children will not get the same privilege as I was educated when the class gap in society was at its narrowest.  I was educated to degree level on the state’s penny and would not have had that education had I had to pay for it as you do now.  The problem there is too many uppity paupers were becoming literate, and that just wouldn’t do.  We had grammar school Prime Ministers.  No, really, we did.

My children’s education will not suffer because of the industrial action of dedicated citizens who perform the sterling role of nurturing them throughout their formative years.  It will suffer, however, from the tinkering of no end of self-serving political ideologues trying to drive the profession, nay the vocation, into the ground.

It will suffer if they grow up in a society where, when the mistreated come up against injustice and respond democratically, peaceably and as a group of people with similar interests in their vocation – a union, if you will – they are prevented from using the protest most apposite because of increasing obstacles put in place by undemocratically elected mandarins.

Cameron is a thug.  Unhappy with ballot results, he now intends to impose riders on ballots which are not his concern because they make him look bad, because they are the will of the nation’s citizens and let’s face it, he does not give two figs for the will of the nation’s citizens unless they vote for him.

Essentially, he intends to disavow my vote.  He’ll maintain his own position despite his government being propped up by only one in five of the electorate.  It’s worse again for the city mayors and the police and crime commissioners.  However, as a poor man being made poorer, if I wish to register a protest, he will ignore the basis of the first-past-the-post system that is used across the board in UK elections to the point that two-thirds of the parliament you get to choose once every five years will not change because those seats are termed “safe”.

Seems Ol’ Shiny-Face doesn’t like an electoral machine he doesn’t control; so now he wants to control it.  This is despite the electoral impossibility that a union ballot already is.   I had no personal opinion towards the man other than I would not trust him with my kids before but I actively despise him now – that he derides my right to protest and removes my access to the one democratic process I have earmarks him as the vermin Nye Bevan referred to over 60 years ago.

If he wants a turnout in a union ballot, then I challenge you, you dish-faced thug, to reinstitute workplace ballots.  I’ll get you a 90% turnout, no bother.  You won’t do that, though, because that gives people direct access to democracy.

The fact is, Eton, you want to remove the right to strike by putting so many blocks in the way that it is impossible to strike.  That’s mirrored in this quote

“The best way to take control over a people and control them utterly is to take a little of their freedom at a time, to erode rights by a thousand tiny and almost imperceptible reductions. In this way, the people will not see those rights and freedoms being removed until past the point at which these changes cannot be reversed.”

You know who said that?  Hitler.  He wasn’t exactly pro-strike either.

My children’s education will only ever be disrupted by the likes of you removing their future right to peaceful protest, removing their voice, removing their liberty to the point that they are enslaved by your privileged cant and are not given the opportunity to think and express freely.

If you wanted to obviate a strike of one, two, three million workers, there’s a way you could do it.  But as you want force primary legislation like some sort of societal rapist, I don’t think negotiating with the very people on whom you wish to impose your will isn’t going to cut it, is it, Eton?

My children’s education isn’t threatened by the teachers who are doing a sterling job in spite of you.  It’s threatened by you as you continue to ask for more for less and wonder why it’s all going wrong when no-one is motivated to do it any more.

I will ensure that their education doesn’t falter in that respect – you are the enemy of the state, of the children, of the education for which you claim to speak.

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Forty-Six Years On – Part Two

“Here is the clock.The Trumpton clock.  Telling the time, steadily, sensibly, never too quickly, never too slowly.  Telling the time for Trumpton”

So Camberwick Green appears to have been laid waste by the advance of modern society, crushed by the homogenising of standards that took place when artisanry was removed from the picture under a welter burden of mass-produced, functionally satisfactory items.  Standards slipped, we accepted this as a society for reduced cost.  We truly became the peanut payer and we got out monkeys by return.   Has the county town of Trumptonshire suffered the same fate?  Well, let’s have a look… 

  • The Mayor, Philby and Mr Troop – The combined “staff ” at the town hall, the mayor was forever in ceremonial garb and this was a state of affairs that couldn’t last.  Successive councils ultimately abolished the role – there was talk of an elected mayor but they took one look at the buffoon in London and the county voted all but unanimously “no” to that.  The role is now filled at ceremonies by the head of the council – the chain is now a museum piece.  Philby drove the mayor’s car.  Redundant, he ultimately took to cabbing after various driving jobs.  Mr Troop the town clerk is still at the Town Hall.  He is now respectfully called “Mr Troop” rather than the peremptory “Troop” the mayor used so frequently.  The mayor, redundant, left the area.  He is believed to have retired on a ridiculous pension after seeing a couple of years out at the Cabinet Office in a sinecure arranged by an old school chum.
  • Chippy Minton – His name gave away the fact that he was the town carpenter.  His son, Nibbs, was apprentice to him.  As one of the few artisan roles that couldn’t really be undercut, Chippy has made a living over the years, both in intricate woodworking and sitework as his bread and butter.  Nibbs has taken to the family trade well and the Mintons are if not wealthy, at least confident of a stream of work that keeps the wolf a fair way away from the door. 
  • Mrs Cobbit – The flower seller who hadn’t missed a day in forty years (Sunday excepted) is a mere wrinkle in the history of the town now.  The demand for fresh-cut flowers, barring fabricated holidays, funerals and weddings, disappeared completely.  Even linking with the flower cartels that cover the entire country was not enough and shortly after achieving 50 years of not missing a day, succumbed to market forces and retired.
  • Miss Lovelace – Millinery died in the same way flower selling did only quicker again.  Miss Lovelace changed her business over to a genteel tea room and made a living out of that until the coffee revolution came along and, in a cutthroat market, removed her completely from the fray.  She still keeps Pekingese dogs, her window to the outside world.  She doesn’t see as many people as before on her travels but at least she has some contact.
  • Mr Munnings – One of the great artisan trades for five hundred years that had its Armageddon in the 1980s, Mr Munnings was also a victim of the government assault on the print industry.  The advent of desktop publishing saw the demise of typesetting, photogravure and other aspects of the hot metal and plate-based shop.  Mr Munnings sold up, left the area and his present whereabouts are unknown.  His shop is now a tanning salon.
  • Mr Platt – Again, a man whose trade suffered for the advent of the digital age, Mr Platt did, however, manage to survive some lean times where others did not.  A clockmaker by trade, his work diminished in the face of digital timepieces but he maintained a living out of batteries, analogue repairs and the occasional curiosity piece.  A revival in the fortunes of the quality timepiece along with some horse trading in antiques kept Mr Platt afloat.  But then his work was also his hobby
  • Mr Clamp – Mr Clamp, the greengrocer, went the way of the grocer.  The latter is now known only by approximation in the entity that is known as the general store/corner shop and even then that image doesn’t quite sit right.  The greengrocer, despite his local, fresh, high quality produce, lasted longer but also went to the wall in the face of cheap, vacuum-sealed, all-year-round global produce that because of preserving measures outlasted local produce and became cheaper.   Mr Clamp runs a stall twice a week at a local market but is for all intents and purposes out of the trade. His shop became a betting shop and after that traded up to bigger premises, a letting agent.
  • Mr Craddock – The park keeper, he has spent a career dodging removal from his job.  Council services were deregulated but he survived the cull.  Some of the land was sold off, he hung on again.  Redundancy and further reductions in service mean that he is one of the lucky ones – he is in a small, overworked team whose budget will be cut again next year and his job, finally, looks as if it will be going.  He’ll now retire on a pension that is far too small for the years he put in and yet people will abuse him for his loyalty and efforts over time.
  • Fire Brigade – Cuthbert has gone, BarneyMcGrew took a package during the last round of voluntary redundancy and the twins are entirely disillusioned with the job.  Dibble is off long-term sick after a serious injury that has been clearly attributed to understaffing and undermanning and Grubb is holding on because the service is his life.   The station is continuing in the face of a closures campaign even though it puts Trumpton’s safety under dire threat.  Captain Flack remains, but he has never seen morale so low.
  • Mr Wantage and his assistant Fred – Telephone engineer and engineer’s mate, they have gone from the GPO to BT, from BT to O2, never leaving the job but being subject to the misery of increased privatisation that would be so much worse but for their stalwart defence of position by the efforts of the CWU.  The days of the local exchanges might be gone and the personal touch as well as they work for an international behemoth, but they will at least get to retire in comfort.  Small comfort.
  • Nick Fisher, Mr Robinson, Walter Harkin – A bill poster, a window cleaner and a painter and decorator respectively, all three were tangential characters and managed to tick over through the years by the very nature of their specialist skills.  Sole traders all, they would probably be looked upon as somewhere between self-employed and franchisees. Work ebbed and flowed but never dried up; Nick indeed has never been so busy as advertising became one of the genuine growth industries over the interceding years.  And everyone has windows and walls..
  • Antonio – Ice cream man.  Survived various turf wars and thrived as increased population meant that his round expanded without becoming geographically larger.  Sales of crisps, drinks and sweets effectively door-to-door helped too.  Frequently racially abused despite his English roots and accent because his name isn’t “effnickly” British.
  • Raggy Dan – Disappeared years back when the local council arranged individual homeowners to recycle their rubbish for free.  When the council finally latched on to the adage “where there’s muck, there’s brass”, the totter’s number was up.  Current whereabouts unknown.
  • Constable Potter – Redundant.  Job ceased to exist through cuts and the amalgamation of the two stations in Trumpton and Camberwick Green.  PC McGarry already retained a role at the reduced station at Camberwick Green.  Potter ended up in private security on a fraction of the wage at yet another out-of-town supermarket.  Former station is now a wine bar

So that’s Trumpton.  Once again the concertinaing of services and the acceptance of  “good enough” over “excellent” shows an overall decline in fortunes but as a small glimmer of hope, at least some of the individual semi-skilled/skilled workers made good for themselves, even if the community appears to have suffered a structural collapse not unlike Camberwick Green.  Let’s not forget that in the interceding period, Trumpton suffered the most awful riots, documented here.  Even in the most idyllic setting, social deprivation can lead to discontent and unrest.

Next – Chigley

Cameron’s Leveson Floor Show plan – not for circulation

10.30 Couple of one-liners, make a pun or two at the expense of aspiring backbench (backMensch? LotsOfLove) toadies. Warm up, ask the crowd where they’re from, hope it wasn’t somewhere where I destroyed SureStart or Remploy

11.00 Sing “I Will Survive”. Solo, A capella, ensure Mrs Cameron (my stage name for Sammy) is nearby in case change mind and want to do it accompanied by karaoke track loaded on to MP3 and docking unit.  I’m hip, me

11.15 Answer a question or two, respond to one or two with comedy Jamaican accent, mon.  Bound to get a laugh, especially if there are a few colonials in the crowd.

11.30  Check I haven’t gone bright purple as I do when rattled or lying or rattled, lying.  Try and deflect if I do – pretend I am a Geordie holidaymaker or something – why aye’ll have a bagga chips.  Mon.  That’s right, isn’t it?

11.45  Pretend chair is a wheelchair and have everyone laughing at my comic interpretations about how all those in wheelchairs can walk perfectly well, they’re just putting it on.  My Lazarus act, I call it.  I plan to put it to a wider audience at the opening of the Paralympics.  Successfully deflect from asking how many times I’ve seen Sideshow Bob nude

12.00  Chas and Bex to come in and sing “I Got You Babe” to each other, professing their love and making people think we don’t go in for fourway bondage.  Remember to sing it under my breath only and not put on those authentic slacks previously owned by Sonny Bono that I bought off eBay.  Must remember to tell B to not bring the Cher wig.  We are in this together.

After lunch

I’ll have had a grog or two so I’ll just do a few accents, lighten the atmosphere.  Likelies – Australian, Spanish (qué?), French shoulder shrugging, Eastern European, grubby northern accents from that high up county, what is it, Scott Land?  Save the German accent for when I meet Angela next – I haven’t borrowed the uniform from Aiden Burley yet.

Song list for the afternoon

Would I Lie To You? – Charles and Eddie

Smooth Criminal – Michael Jackson

Don’t Stop Me Now – Queen

The Last Waltz – Engelbert Humperdinck

Hang on, who put the last one in?  Doesn’t matter, they all love me and if they don’t, I’ll just make fun of their accents and their paper clothes and their health problems and that they’re poor… and

Goodnight Britain, there’s no more time!  I’ve got a supper appointment!

Another post from DarkestAngel32. If you read this, pass it on – this is the reality you aren’t supposed to see.

darkestangel32

As the deadline for the Government to haul the Welfare Reform Bill through parliament draws dangerously close and its implementation looms large I want to make sure that YOU know how it might affect your life.

It is a government and media peddled myth that this bill is about the unemployed. It’s not. This bill will affect millions of employed people as well as millions of disabled adults and children. This bill is not designed to solve the problems of worklessness and benefit dependency as I will explain. this is about money, money for the treasury that none of YOU will see a penny of.

The Welfare Reform Bill will pave the way for Universal Credit which will replace the following benefits (of which some of YOU will be in receipt of)

Income Based JobSeekers Allowance

Income Support

Income Based Employment and Support Allowance (ESA)

Housing Benefit

Child Tax Credit

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