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5.9.05
Never Mind the Ballots
By Steve Finbow
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George (Jihad) Galloway – the man who once said of Saddam Hussein, ‘Sir, I salute your courage, your strength, your indefatigability’ – is now Member of Parliament for Bethnal Green and Bow in east London. He ousted the incumbent Labour Party MP Oona King by just 823 votes. The party he belongs to is the RESPECT party, an alliance between the Muslim Association of Britain and the Socialist Workers Party. RESPECT is an acronym/backronym for respect, equality, socialism, peace, environment, community, trade unionism; strange, because in my book that would be RESPECTU, which sounds like a character from Pokemon. But I really don’t want to quibble with a man who revels in the nickname ‘Gorgeous George,’ calls himself a Stalinist but cannot live on less than £150,000 a year, is anti-abortion, and pro capital punishment. RESPECT: reactionary, extremist, Stalinist, pro-life, evil, c***, Taliban – just a little bit.
While watching the election, every time they spoke of ‘the count’ I was waiting for Michael Howard to appear in black satin cape and fangs; and now he’s resigned – he’s too old, apparently, to lead the Conservatives into the next general election. But who will be the leader? Oily Letwin? Surely not. Bore-ish Johnson? You’re having a laugh. Theresa May? Theresa may not. No one stands out. There’s no obvious candidate to counter the smooth professionalism of Labour.
The Liberal Democrats won 62 seats, up ten from the last election in 2001. I believe if they had a more charismatic leader, and their issues weren’t so beige, that they could form a serious threat to Labour. Having grown up (yes, I have) under Margaret Thatcher… Oh, oh, an aside… And this fits in neatly with the title. OK. Let’s start with punk. People still believe that punk was a reaction to Thatcher’s Britain. Well, it wasn’t. Thatcher was in power from 1979-1990. If anything was a reaction to Thatcher’s Britain, it was the New Romantic Movement – look at the similarity in hairstyles – Nick Rhodes was a more feminine Margaret Thatcher. British punk was a reaction to the economic difficulties of the Labour governments of Harold Wilson and James Callaghan. And, while I’m at it, there were only four proper British punk bands – Sex Pistols, The Clash, Subway Sect, and the Buzzcocks. Not The Damned – art school Goth; not The Stranglers – pub rock tosh; and don’t get me started on The Jam – soul-boy tossers. But it didn’t last long –1976-1977; by the end of 1977, it was moribund and Johnny Rotten nailed it with his, ‘Have you ever had the feeling you’ve been conned’ line. And, yes, we have been conned by Tony Blair and it will be a shock if he (mis)leads the country for the full term of the next Labour Government.
Tony Blair (Labour) stood against 14 different candidates: Conservative, Liberal Democrat, UK Independence Party, National Front, Veritas, Blair Must Go Party, Senior Citizens, The Pensioners Party – I reckon these old-age pensioners formed the Senior Citizens Party but then forgot they had done so and formed the Pensioners Party instead – five separate Independent candidates, including Reg Keys whose son was one of six soldiers killed by an Iraqi mob in Majar al-Kabir in June 2003, and I must mention Boney Maroney Staniforth who was candidate for the Monster Raving Loony Party.
You should’ve seen the look on Tony’s face, standing on the rostrum waiting for the receiving officer – the person who reads out the results of the voting and is an assistant to the acting receiving officer. Go figure. Tony looked less than presidential. There was no need for nerves, he had a huge majority, but you felt he didn’t want to be mixing it with these people. It was great. He was twitchy, sweaty, running a finger inside the neck of his shirt; he looked – in London parlance – like a well-dodgy geezer.
Tony looked shifty and worried but he knew he would be back in 10 Downing Street that morning. Labour didn’t really hang on by the dermis of their dentures, but they are no longer the apis’s genua in the eyes of the British public. But they will be again, once Tony stands down. When will that be? I reckon two years. Then Gordon Brown, every time just like the last, on our ship tied to the mast, will take over.
A few women I know have erotic dreams about Tony Blair. (I know one who has erotic dreams about the leader of the Veritas party, Robert Kilroy-Silk too. I dunno why but the name Kilroy-Silk reminds me of handkerchiefs.) According to these women, all sane and intelligent, Tony’s a considerate dream lover, a veritable stud of the unconscious, an immitigable incubus; these women wake breathless, panting, and panty-less, gasping for more, crying out his name. It is said that Prince Charles thought Princess Diana called out Tony’s name in the night, but it was just another fit of bulimia – ‘Blair! Blair! Blair!’ Tony, the bronzed somnirapist, steals their hearts, their diaphragms; he’s insatiable, constantly on the hunt for a bit of bush – so to speak. Apparently, Tony is ‘Torso of the Week’ in Heat magazine! I’ve always thought he was a bit of a wanker, but now he’s into a historic third term, it surely is a case of on-an-on-an-onanism. I wonder if these same women will dream about Gordon Brown texture like sun, lays me down with my mind he runs, throughout the night, no need to fight. I doubt it; not unless the reason he keeps dropping his jaw is to control that anaconda-long tongue he’s rumoured to have.
Did the election result shock me? Not really. Not as much as I was by the result of the 2004 American presidential election. Will it change my day-to-day life? No, I don’t expect so, not as much as it did when Labour defeated the Conservatives in 1997, when all of a sudden the monochrome world of the Tories turned Day-Glo under Labour. What about the war, Steve? How could you vote for Tony after all the porkies he told? I didn’t vote for Tony – I voted for Labour and a world in which… Hold on, I’ll get the election leaflet… a world in which we can get free assorted steamed dumplings and a litre-and-a-half bottle of diet Coke if we spend over £15, plus free delivery… Oh, shit...
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Steve Finbow writes out of London, England. He has worked for the poet Allen Ginsberg, the writer Victor Bockris, and the artist Richard Long. His fiction, essays, and short plays appear, or will appear, in Eyeshot, 3am Magazine, Yankee Pot Roast, uber, Locus Novus, InkPot, Dicey Brown, The Guardian Online, and Pindeldyboz. He is currently working on a novel (Yeah, right). He can be contacted here.
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