Coke for the Woke and Flesh for Freshers

It's a cliche that the older you grow the more revolting politics seems. You realise that disgust has been your default since the tenth time you heard some creep in a rosette bleating "its time for change". Despite this, for many mature people, faith in politics persists, usually on the principle that 'all the bad policies are on the Left, and the Right will save us'. (Or vice versa).  Ye gods, one would have thought that after fifty years of Coke v Pepsi, people would have figured out how the two-card trick works. 

So let's talk brass tacks. An old friend of mine recently got in touch to express the enormous pride he experienced watching his twenty-two year-old daughter successfully elected as a Labour Councillor. She was was launching what is planned, I fear, to be an ambitious political career. Having met this poor girl's mother, I can't say I was surprised. In fact, I'll be surprised if little miss Castro isn't already planning to be Britain's first gender-queer, tri-sexual Prime Ministerette (pronouns: zee; zip; zump).

In the blissful paradise of imagination, where I am both emperor and dictator, nobody under 30 would even get to vote, let alone lead, but in the real world, youth, apparently, must have its day. With this prospect in mind, I thought I would pen a quick summary for madame, outlining a few of the surprises and delights awaiting her at the Palace of Westminster for which she is clearly destined.

COMMON GROUND

I'm sure any committed young female lefty would shudder at the mere thought of meeting a Tory, but nobody enters Parliament without immediately discovering that MPs of every stripe have rather a lot in common. The same people are paying your wages, for a start. And -just like you- nobody else in the building seems to have the foggiest idea what's going on except for a posse of weird old men wearing tights who are paid to lead Members around like a herd of witless goats. 

But first -and last- of the commonalities is the realisation that you are absolutely, utterly powerless. MP's may pontificate, shout, speechify and beat their (bare when feeding) breasts, but the machinery of government just grinds on regardless. Nothing an MP says or does will change anything, ever. For most newbies, it feels like getting a record contract only to find out you're forbidden to sing.

This may sound like cartoonish exaggeration, but believe me, it is the gospel truth. I have heard these sentiments muttered and spat from the lips of Right Honourable Members of both left and right, and from a few cabinet ministers and household names to boot.  After just a couple of years polishing the back benches the incomers learn to shrug and pout like old lags in the Parkhurst punishment wing, acutely aware that the game is fixed: Labour and Conservative are, after all, just opposite wings on the same albatross. 

Having said which, although crapping on the public from a great height is pretty much the purpose of government, it is those other vices common to politicians that really bring them together. Egomania is a great bonding tool, as are greed and ambition. Inevitably, newcomers discover a sizeable pool of welcoming alcoholics, junkies and sociopaths. But straight-up pedophilia, the perennial favourite of Trots and True-Blues, is never far from centre stage; and that, of course, is where the real power lies.

DRESS-ALIKE CHUMS: PETER MANDELSON AND JEFFREY EPSTEIN

Pedophilia is, alas, the mystical 'centre ground' of politics, where there is always a genuine cross-party consensus. Shagging children is just one of those things the high and mighty cannot resist. Allegedly, as we used to say in Fleet Street. 

It's a given that A-list hustlers like Mandy Mandelson (or 'Petie' as Epstein preferred to call him) are playing all sides against the middle, and are to some extent untouchable. Creatures of this species are percieved to weild a brand of actual power that goes far beyond putting your mistress on the payroll or flipping your home address. Lord Peter Mandelson was, in his heyday, the quintissential elite hub - a fixer, the go-to man for those with special interests. A transferable skill, this came in handy when he  moved into the European Parliamentary orbit, where no depravity is too much trouble. That he managed to find time to go fishing for sprats with the likes of Epstein is a tribute to his energy, if not his taste.

The House of Lords is, by long tradition, absolutely crammed with kiddy-fiddlers and their enablers, but the Commons has never been far off the pace. It's not hard to see why nonces head for Parliament like salmon to the spawn. The sheer amount of like-minded souls for a start. But more importantly, there's the noble tradition of dozens of notoriously perverted MP's miraculously avoiding prosecution despite being repeatedly outed for some of the most vile acts imagineable.  

        THE OPENING OF PARLIAMENT : WHAT EXACTLY IS GOING ON HERE?

The reasons for this are straightforward. The Mother of All Parliaments is, as you may have guessed, the Mother of All pervert knocking-shops.Wise to this certainty, nothing pleases the vampiric Party Whips more than the arrival of a newly-anointed Member. Such a fledgling has no more idea of what he/she/zee  is getting into than a five-year-old facing its first gender-studies lecture.

Put simply, the British government, and everyone in it is (sooner or later) controlled by a well-policed and thoroughly researched matrix of blackmail. Parliament swims in blackmail and spins on blackmail, and the handful of daring interlopers who think they are immune soon find that the evidence of guilt can be manufactured as easily as tweets. 

Pedophiles make ideal MPs because the heinous nature of their perversion means they can be kept like pets on a tight leash, under complete and total control, obeying every last order from above. All they ask is a license to indulge their sick desires. The list of well-known pedos from the last twenty years includes many of the most high-profile Parliamentarians imaginable, and several notorious political nonces appear regulary on television and radio as commentators and/or entertainers every single week.  

SEX AND COKE

To my great amusement, as I began writing this post, news broke of the latest Tory sex-and-drugs 'scandal' in which David Warburton MP has been thrown to the tabloids after some allegations of 'groping women' and 'sniffing lines of cocaine'. Mr Warburton has clearly been pissing on the wrong trouser-legs in the government urinals, because if groping and snorting coke was enough to get an MP prosecuted, there'd be nobody left on the back-benches by six p.m. on Monday.  [some Warburton details HERE]

Hilariously, the case has even been 'referred to MI6', which is the Chief Whip's way of saying you ain't coming back from this one sonny-boy. Naturally, the tale-tellers threw in a fantastical suggestion of "a Russian intelligence honey-trap". I guess there might be a few 100 year-old Telegraph readers left who will swallow that hogwash. I can't honestly picture Vladimir Putin taking time out from yelling at his generals and flogging gas to China to swat a political flea he's never even heard of. This was a trap alright, but one made and built right there in London, cor blimey guv'nor. Warburton, we  presume, will know exactly what's he's done wrong and what's in store. Tough shit, Dave, and don't let the door hit you on the way out.    

DOWN THE GREASY POLE

Although it's fun to sling mud from a safe, non-specific distance, it's only fair to let readers -and my old friend's ambitious daughter- chew on some genuine nitty-gritty.  I will, therefore, offer a little chunk of  recent history, a glimpse behind the curtain if you like, with a first-hand account of how Westminster devours its victims. It is a sorry tale, describing the political obliteration of one particularly naive newcomer to the Parliamentary snake-pit, who was -for a few years- a drinking and dining companion of mine.          

In 2012 I was living in Wales, working in a horse-riding stable and straining to avoid the ghastly reality of the Britain beyond. Chris Davies was a keen horse-rider and we did some mad galloping around in the hills together, drank at the same horsey pubs and shared the occasional meal among mutual friends. That year Chris got himself elected onto the County Council. A lifelong Conservative, he announced one night over supper that he was planning on standing for Parliament. 

I did everything I could to dissuade him. He was a nice bloke, but hopelessly ignorant of the murky depths of the Westminster cess-pool. I feared the worst and tried humour, dire warnings and even confided a couple of snippets of 'insider dirt' ina doomed effort to put him off. But he wouldn't listen, and in 2015 duly got himself elected by the Brecon & Radnor Tory faithful. How the Whips must have rubbed their hands together and chortled with glee to see this smiling, portly little fellow rolling in, his eyes wide in anticipation. It had been a long road from Swansea to Parliament, via dead-end jobs as an estate agent and auctioneer. 

Well, Brecon's finest hit the ground running, oblivious that he was traversing a political minfield. Back in 2016, UK politics was dominated by only one topic -the Now or Never / No Going Back  Referendum on Britain's membership of the European Union. Chris, bless him, was a full-on, screw-Brussels, balls-out Brexiteer and didn't care who knew it. That was his first mistake. His second was underestimating how incredibly vulnerable he was. 

He had, like all good Welsh MPs, taken a flat in London, and spent his weekdays learning the ropes. This process mainly consists of accepting advice from existing Members who explain in great detail the one thousand and fifty ways to boost your income by maxing out the "expenses" system. 

Chris found -like every first-year MP finds -that he was suddenly more popular than at any point in his entire life. Offers, gifts and friendly advice flowed like wine, and the wine flowed like water down the Wye valley after a tsunami. And Chris was, alas, a man who very much enjoyed being popular.

Then came the referendum result -a genuine globalist glitsch for which David Cameron paid with his testicles - turned Westminster temporarily on its head. The Member for Brecon was prone to rejoicing, and did so. It must have seemed like all his Christmases had come at once. He had climbed the greasy pole, hopped on board the gravy train and here he was in the belly of the beast, watching his most cherished political wish come true.

The last time I saw Chris was in 2018. We met -by complete accident- in the bar of a quiet pub in the village of Lyswen, near Brecon. He had gained about thirty pounds but I guess 74 grand a year plus perks will do that to a sociable sort. We had lost touch since his ascent to glory, and I congratulated him warmly. I was genuinely amazed that he had survived almost a whole three years, and told him so.

I joked to his wife Have the Whips showed you the photographs yet? - an unsubtle hint that he must surely have been compromised for blackmail after such a long spell in the Party crosshairs. (My choice of words was prophetic, as it turned out). They both laughed. "No, no, not yet!" he chuckled, and insisted I must visit him at the House on my "next trip to London". I thanked him, explaining that my next trip to London was pencilled in for the year 2077 and we parted smiling. 

In the run-up to the 2019 general election they busted him for "forging" receipts for photographs that were hung on the wall of his constituency office. There was no cash-fiddle involved -the photos were genuinely bought and paid for. But they were, by means that were never fully explained, recorded in the "wrong" expense account and a couple of iffy receipts created to balance the book. The Right Honourable Davies was, however, very publicly arrested and formally charged, with a large dose of the same tabloid frenzy David Warburton got in this weekend's Sunday Papers. 

Davies pled guilty -a fact which speaks volumes. Nobody in the history of Parliament ever got charged and convicted for a lousy £700 expenses fiddle, so it follows that a decision had been made 'upstairs' to remove him. But I don't for one minute buy the story that these forged photo-receipts were all his own work. Knowing Chris, I can certainly believe he was daft enough to write his name on a piece of paper without thinking about it or asking why. He was never the most brilliant star on the conspiratorial horizon. Poor sod believed he had landed a job for life. He probably thought the Chief Whip was his pal. 

We've never spoken about it but I rather suspect the Whips had a little bit more in the Chris Davies blackmail folder than the 'forged receipt' nonsense that emerged in court. By copping for the receipts, he probably dodged a slightly larger bullet that was all ready and loaded. They wouldn't have needed much -a random legover would have been enough to bring such a lightweight to heel. His own signature was, however, all it took to neatly remove one of the only genuine Brexiteers in the Conservative fold. 

Which was both ironic and very convenient, at a point when his party leader, Prime Minister Theresa May, was moving mountains to swap the real Brexit for a fake one. (See THIS ARTICLE). 

THINK TWICE     

I kind of doubt that any of my readers are considering standing for election to Parliament anytime soon, but I'd imagine one or two might know someone who fancies the idea. Please, if this is so, do anything in your power to keep them from the attempt -unless you wish to see them destroyed. There is simply no space within those walls for any honestly motivated person. 

Nowadays there are two distinct types of MP. A large number are necessarily youthful idiots who have been convinced of their own importance while at college or university, where nowadays a 30-watt bulb can shine like a beacon of super-intellect. (The current crop includes a tranch of obnoxious SNP representatives who are universally despised). One by one they become absorbed by the system and its corrosive nature. The relative ease and comfort of getting paid for doing hardly anything at all transfixes about half this group. The majority will quickly learn to obey orders from above, and in return, are permitted to feather their nests at will. Sooner or later, all are summoned to the Whip's office to hear -and often see- the evidence of sins they had hoped to conceal. Often these are vices and/or crimes that date from their pre-political career, as it is common practise to recruit candidates who are already compromised. It saves time. A few will be surprised, having believed themselves to be squeaky clean. As Chris Davies found out, it's a very thin line. Following the trip to Whip Hell, members either get with the programme or find themselves back on the street pronto tonto.

The second category are business professionals who are co-opted into government to steer the ship of state straight on towards the course directed from above. These are agents of global power, usually recruited from elite universities, senior law firms and major banks or businesses. Think Blair, Brown, Cameron, May, Johnson, Starmer. The current cabinet is stuffed with the likes of Javid, Sunak, Patel, Zahawi and Kwarting, all loyal servants of International Business. Awarded the luxury of 'safe' seats, these types inhabit a different universe from the back-bench minnows, who fawn upon them like groupies that somehow found themselves backstage with the 'stars'. The big fish do not concern themselves with politicking, reading short, pre-written statements when they cannot avoid it, and busy themselves with the important matters of moving money up the food chain as fast as humanly possible. The MP's salary is peanuts to them; their investment portfolios are colossal, discreet and elsewhere, never traceable and never mentioned.      

Between the already corrupt and the easily corrupted, Parliament is a perfect storm of all that is worst in human nature. We can hardly be surprised at the near-universal shift towards hyper-sexualising children that obsesses politicians of all parties in 2022. They swim in an ocean of twisted exploitation. Every day these people sit, eat, drink, play and plot in the company of soulless, selfish, amoral deviants, just by turning up at the office. By constant association the lesser evils become normalised, and the habit of turning a blind eye becomes second nature. In such an environment the lines between right and wrong are neither clear nor constant.

The atmosphere within the building itself is undeniably electric. Even the humblest ugly back-bencher is a miniature monarch, trailed by a gibbering coterie of researchers, lobbyists, hangers-on, journalists etc. Fickle  scents of power and wealth can be inhaled, along with the reek of greed and lust. Anonymous billionaires enter by hidden passageways, and leave in mirror-glassed limousines, heading for the airport with promises in their pockets. Parliament is a temple of dark longings and deep decay, a moral maze for the decadent, a rat-run for the rest. You wouldn't send your daughter into a place like that, would you? 

Ian Andrew-Patrick

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