Another day, another care home for mother-in law. At least this one is quite plush, more like a golf hotel, only without the golf twats. They still can’t get rid of that smell though. What smell? Oh, you know, that smell. Everyone must have been to a care home by now, fuck knows there are plenty enough people to visit in them these days. We are swept back in time watching Bruce ‘Mr No Discernible Talent’ Forsyth jolly some feckless podges through an early 80’s, scarily misogynistic edition of The Price Is Right. It’s pretty painful but then on a scale, in this room, pain is all relative.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to spend all these words talking about the pitiful state of Britain’s mushrooming elderly population. If you think everyone should get to live forever then you’re an idiot. Help yourself to a full and a stop. I’ll tell you who I would like to see in a care home though – Jeremy Corbyn. I don’t mean that in a nasty way, I just think a care home would suit him. It is widely acknowledged that he is a profoundly, perhaps absolutely, uncultured man who seems to have no interest in anything whatsoever other than, well, I don’t really know. The quiet, the lack of worthwhile stimulus, the magnolia, the smell, would do Jeremy just fine.
The reason I’m writing about him is because wifey was asked by a friend last night what I thought about Jeremy Corbyn and she replied, no doubt with moistening eyes, that her husband didn’t talk to her much about things like that. And it’s true, we don’t often talk about Jeremy Corbyn round at our house because what is there really to say other than he is the cottage cheese in our modern political fridge and like most cottage cheese the majority of people would much rather he was left to go mouldy and then thrown in the bin. Conversely anyone who does like cottage cheese has extremely poor taste and a very bland palate.
Nevertheless, I suppose wifey does have the right to know my thoughts on Jeremy Corbyn and so, given all the shit and stress she’s having to deal with at the moment, it feels far better to put it down here (it also means that my other 3 readers can benefit from my generous wisdom). Well, I’m not a fan, as you can doubtless tell. Is that coming through? No? OK, I’d rather wake up with a sticky, flaccid penis in my mouth than share a lift with Jeremy Corbyn. Any clearer. And that’s not just because he’s the Labour leader; I think he’s dangerous, truly, terrifyingly dangerous and this danger is only enhanced by the blunt reality that he doesn’t even realise how dangerous he is or that being dangerous isn’t necessarily sexy.
Let’s remember that he was voted in as one of those kind of ‘well every other option is shit so let’s give this guy a go’ deals, and that will always be an empty victory (see Brexit, Trump, Johnson, Hitler etc). As an empty victory it turned out like doing quite well on the treadmill during a rush hour gym session only to realise that you’re not wearing any clothes; if you knew how bad it would all end up you just wouldn’t bother going in the first place.
Since then he has been incapable of forming a single definitive opinion on anything truly important. He still thinks it’s cool that he doesn’t wear a tie and he continues to value the services of Diane Abbott, a woman with all the political glint of a third hand toaster. He contributed as much to the Brexit vote failure as Nigel Farage and he seems to think that he just has to say the opposite of the last person to look slightly less than the clueless, boss-eyed scarecrow that he truly is. In his world we’d all be embracing the glory of Communism – a socio-economic theory that will only ever succeed as a theory because in practice it is the high temple of the fucking moronic. Capitalism may be slippery and fat but better that than dead from malnutrition. At least I think so.
So let’s just hoodwink Corbyn with some subtle ruse (perhaps inspired by a book he won’t have read) and get him propped up in a big chair, watching ‘Homes Under The Hammer’ at a frightening volume. He can slurp on weak gruel for breakfast and rubbery sausages for dinner and in the evening his carers can don Stalin and Chairman Mao masks as they give him a bed bath and read him passages from ‘The Little Red Book’. Perhaps they can keep him entertained by discussing which communist leader from yesteryear was the biggest cunt. Boris Johnson may be a failed politician too but I’d still rather have him than Corbyn representing us in any arena (Jesus Christ, that’s really saying something!). And if you think Brexit is a pigs breakfast then just you wait and see what happens if he gets the keys to the humble wood cutters shack. There, that’s what I think about Jeremy Corbyn, in case you were interested. It’s not my finest effort but then I’m hunched up in a care home room with ‘The Dambusters’ blaring out on the TV; what did you expect – Charles fucking Dickens?
G B Hewitt. 05.10.2019