Dr. Strangelove (Or How I Stopped Worrying And Learnt To Love Privilege)

It’s been a weird couple of weeks if you’re a politico in the UK. You kind of expect the doctor (of Doctor Who fame, though I expect the men in white coats wouldn’t be too far behind) to appear out of nowhere, tell you it’s all a dream, and to stop procrastinating and get on with the thesis writing.

Mmmm.. Children – great with peppercorn sauce

On the one hand we have Ed Milliband, a man with little gravitas, doing his best to show he is the bed buddy of Disraeli; one the other we have Eric Pickles, a man with his own gravitational pull, trying to explain how he and Trotsky are, like, so in tune with each other (If you’re trying to work that one out, it has something to do with them both not liking Stalin very much – though one can only wish Mr. Pickles will end up with an ice pick that makes his ears bleed)*. It seems like the Tories’ and Labour’s move to the centre has initiated some kind of polar shift. Either that or this is the end of days.

It’s all very reassuring though. Honest. What you should have learnt from conference season is that Labour hates privilege (but is doing its best to make sure privilege is upheld), that the Tories love privilege (and that’s a good thing because the plebs need structure and someone to look up to), and that the Lib Dems no longer exist. Well, at least something good has come out of all this then.

The problem here is that if you have any sense of principle you will probably be feeling a bit like an extra in the film Dr. Strangelove. You’re living in an irony of epic proportions, both sides as impotent as one another, and both desperate for a commie/con love-in – though they’ll never admit it. The only discernible difference as I see it is that nowadays the make-up artists are much better (Cameron looks like an android, basically).

The Tories have finally given up on the Janus-faced bollocks and have decided to go uber-Thatcherite, and Labour still flounder around, a bit like a dying fish (but slightly wetter), waiting for their moment to strike – and when I say strike, I mean flop. So what have I learnt from all this? Well, privilege is fantastic, plebs are terrible people because they have no motivation, Labour couldn’t organise a strike in the RMT, and I’m probably going to be the redneck pilot sitting on the bomb when it’s finally dropped to put us all out of our misery.

* ten points to all who got the musical reference. Points can be redeemed never.

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