The dust settles in British politics after Boris Johnson’s
triumph, and the opposition parties are left to lick their wounds. In Wisbech,
however, it might as well never have happened. There was no dust kicked up, no
furious debate, no hustings, and no change. Did the election even happen? Well it did for me as I waded
through sludge and puddles to the tradesman’s entrance of the Cricket Pavilion
and put my mark against Steve Barclay’s name. As a card carrying member of his
party, I could hardly do anything else. I joined up because of my admiration
for Johnson’s scoundrel persona, his ‘f**k you’ attitude and his promise to
finally get us out of the EU.
My bemusement at Wisbech politics starts and ends with the complete indifference to opposition parties in this area. Much as Mike and Ginny Bucknor worked their hearts and souls out while they were councillors, in the teeth of quite appalling treatment from the local Politburo, it has become obvious since ill health forced them to stand down that they were dyed-in-the-wool socialists all along, and their ‘Independent’ status was rather sensible – if slightly devious – playing with words.
My bemusement at Wisbech politics starts and ends with the complete indifference to opposition parties in this area. Much as Mike and Ginny Bucknor worked their hearts and souls out while they were councillors, in the teeth of quite appalling treatment from the local Politburo, it has become obvious since ill health forced them to stand down that they were dyed-in-the-wool socialists all along, and their ‘Independent’ status was rather sensible – if slightly devious – playing with words.
Yes, Corbyn was an elderly Marxist with a dreadful record of
hatred for his country and a determination to stand alongside any
rag-tag-and-bobtail terrorist group who would grant him a photo opportunity.
Yes, his future Home Secretary was a rather sad woman promoted way, way above
her ability on the grounds of race and gender. Yes, his Chancellor was an envy
ridden, malicious and devious Communist determined to avenge himself on those
he thought to be too, rich, too successful, too clever. But still, the ghosts
of a long-gone Labour Party, who put ordinary people before rhetoric, must have
been gazing down in bemusement from The Other Place.
If Labour supporters really want to grab Wisbech people by
the throat and make them think, then I suggest a couple of tactics that might
just work.
Stop worshipping at the altar of unlimited immigration.
In Wisbech, it has worked for factory bosses, unscrupulous landlords, employment
agencies and criminal gangs. The downside, for the mythical Joe and Joanne
Bloggs, has been the curse of street drinking and its insanitary by-products,
huge pressure on public servicesand social housing blackspots.
Make a decision to stop fawning over the manufactured social outrage of a well paid coterie of London journalists, talking heads like Owen Jones, Jasmin Alibhai Brown, Paul Mason and their entourage of soy latte social justice warriors. They don’t care about Wisbech, so don’t link to them on your social media page and imagine that anyone here is going to be impressed or persuaded.
Every
single one of us should take a long hard look at local politicians and how they
operate. Ask questions. What do you do for your ward? Aside from bigging up
your CV, what small and unglamorous fixes have you provided for people who have sought your help? What do you
intend to do about our poor schools, declining public safety, shabby town
centre and broken transport links?
Will
anything change? No, of course it won’t. Only some seismic event – maybe a huge
public scandal, or a wayward meteor striking the council chamber during a
meeting – will have any effect. My Christmas thought, for what it is worth, is
that while Britain prospers under the boisterous but benevolent Boris, Wisbech
will continue to sink inexorably back into the primeval slime whence it came.
