We read of the travails of Emily Thornberry, pilloried for speaking exactly how she felt, for writing, or rather ‘Tweeting’, of the world as she saw it on that rather boring street in Strood. But it is a fact that, far too often, we see or hear of someone who is either jailed, or dumped upon from a great height, for doing exactly the same. Emily Thornberry is also known as Lady Nugee, the wife of High Court judge Sir Christopher Nugee, and they are an extremely wealthy couple; having specialised in both politics and the Law, and in the legal affairs pertaining to lots of money hiding behind offshore trusts, Jersey tax-laws, and the like. Now there is absolutely nothing illegal, wrong or evil in what Lady Nugee has been doing for over twenty years, but it does mean that she has become somewhat separated from reality, from the reality of life as it is lived outside of Westminster, Islington, and of course Dartmouth Park. There aren’t many ‘crack-houses’ in Islington, apart from the ones licensed by the Met to exist so that the high-flyers can get easy access to the ‘nose candy’ which quite a few both like and need. But apart from the few necessary nasties, nothing much impedes the steady progress of the rich, the wealthy and the connected who live in those leafy suburbs.
I doubt very much if Emily Thorberry has ever come within close range of a ‘White Van’, especially from the back seat of her usual conveyance, not a bicycle, but a large limousine. Strangely enough, there aren’t many homes in those leafy suburbs who would fly one St. George’s flag, never mind three, in the vain hope that the English football team could win anything except a speedy return ticket to Heathrow. To ‘fly the flag’ would be to place yourself beyond the pale; to state that you have demeaned yourself by joining the ‘great unwashed’, the very ‘plebs’ spoken of so kindly by Andrew Mitchell.
The ‘great unwashed’, by the way, are the patient millions who have been conned into the belief that these politicians, the f**king elite who place themselves above the crowd because they are so very special, actually empathise with the aspirations of those many millions who gullibly file into the polling booths and place their vote against the name of one of those ‘very special people’. Politicians, they are a world apart from us all, we who live outside the strange and convoluted village bubbles of Westminster, Islington, Notting Hill and Dartmouth Park. They look down on us, they spurn our hopes, they laugh at our dreams, but they really, really want us to vote for them, once every five bloody years!
Fire, Pillage & Plague 