When the chickens come home to roost, and it is possible that you may have predicted it, there is a slight feeling of schadenfreude or epicaricacy as the English might prefer. I don’t believe that I am a vindictive person, yet the thought of some political figures getting their comeuppance fills me with a warm feeling. Some are currently falling, others have fallen and others are nervously on the precipice awaiting their fate.
In Scotland Nicola Sturgeon and her husband, and the rest of the crooked SNP crew have obviously being filling their pockets and have been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Anyone noticed a £100,000 + motor home on the drive? As far as Trump is concerned the clock is ticking, and his acolyte Boris Johnson is preparing for the hangman’s noose and the long drop. It was David Cameron who referred to Johnson as the “greased piglet”, and never was an epithet more appropriate.
Of course it is said to be a British trait to build someone or something up to the heights, and then rejoice in pulling them down to earth. With politicians (as far as I am concerned) the venality of it all makes me nauseous. If it was second-hand car salesmen, or estate agents, I would accept it for the simple reason that they make no pretence at anything other than self-serving greed. I used, when I was much younger, to admire journalists, and even considered becoming one after university.
Was it an illusion, hard-hitting investigative reporters speaking truth to power? I’ll never know but the sorry state of journalism was never more dire. In the morning, over coffee in bed, Ann and I read the British newspapers and newsfeeds. I subscribe to The Times, which Ann shares, and I also read The Guardian online. Skimming The Daily Mail first is an act of masochism but can bring a smile to my face. And then a mysterious occurrence - I can be reading an article (sports, current affairs, business - it doesn’t matter) and a strange sense of déjà vu can envelop me. Have I read this before? I check back. Yes. It’s the same article, literally word for word, that appeared yesterday in one of the broadsheets. Add this to the increasing control of the newspaper tone and opinion by the owners, and it’s a one way trip to hell. The kowtowing of the editors and owners to the government (and still Paul Dacre hasn’t been “honoured”) is sickening. And, as for the pathetic attempts to persuade people by brainwashing that Camilla is somehow not the Queen Consort but the Queen, which was against the wishes of Elizabeth II, sticks in my craw.
It must be the life I have led for the last seventy years but never have public figures had the feet of clay that are so apparent. I have had a lifelong interest in politics (as my long suffering wife will tell you) and I remember Harold MacMillan with affection. The night I saw Alec Douglas Home resign and the dignity of his television address to the nation moved me to tears at the age of eleven. Even Prime Ministers on the other side of the political spectrum like Harold Wilson had my respect because their mission was to identify the nation’s problems and try and put them right. Margaret Thatcher was strong and forthright (and sometimes very wrong) and I never believed that she was putting anything other than the country’s good at the heart of what she did.
The Blair and Brown years dug a financial hole that the UK has never managed to dig itself out of, and as far as Cameron and the rest … their noses were so deeply in the trough that their ears were blocked, and it will only be the enraged electorate that finally drains the swamp. Whether the next election will be a cause of long-lasting celebration or not, I do not know. Quo vadis?
For a different point of view on our life here, you might enjoy Ann’s blog “Further Musings from a Cyprus Garden” which you can find at
http://furthermusingsfromacyprusgarden.blogspot.com/
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