Three Moments That Prove Our Leaders Are Puppets

It was at the turn of this century when I first noticed what happens to "leaders". Soon after Tony Blair was elected Prime Minister, his face began morphing from "fresh-faced idealist" to "gruesome agent of Satan". Nor did the change take long, and everyone saw it. A phenomenon common to PMs, it as arguably an inevitable consequence of the job. Bribery, corruption and evil form the triangular crown waiting for winners at the top of the greasy pole. So lets take a look the big "reveal" moments of Britain's last three "Premier" politicians. 

BORIS JOHNSON

 

It is Westminster folklore that when Boris Johnson first entered  Downing street as PM, he pissed in every corner of every room to mark his territory and repel intruders. I couldn't possibly comment, but nothing would surprise those of us who have had the opportunity to share a relatively confined space with him. Johnson has an aura of odious self-importance that probably secretes from his pores -I can attest that something very whiffy certainly does. 

 

Having said which, we come to bury the geezer, not to appraise him. Although his marionette status was never in doubt, Johnson was finally revealed as a puppet -in the most humliating way- in the brief pause between his successors. It's a measure of his staggering ego that after two years of reading globalist scripts to an increasingly disinterested audience, Johnson still had to be dragged kicking and screaming (and shrieking, swearing and threatening according to one source) from number 10 when he finally got told Pack Your Bags. Right Now. Or else.

 

It truly is a wonder that you can spend your entire career taking orders from the Anonymous Ones, and still tell yourself IT'S ALL ABOUT ME, even as they prise your teeth off the hearthrug. Yet that was Johnson, defiant to the last. But it's what followed that really took the biscuit.

As foretold on this blog [Read it HERE] the buffoon that was Chancellor Kwasi Kwarting would ring the death-knell for the Truss regime, and before you could say Woke Joke the PM's chair was vacant again, just 44 days after the twitching blonde slapper had taken charge. 

 

Any UK politician with the foggiest grasp of reality could see that Truss was being crushed by the heavy hand of Invisible Power that stood behind Rishi Sunak. But incredibly, Boris Johnson did not.

 

Like some infant demanding another ice-cream, Johnson -visibly bloated after a few weeks of trough-swilling in the sun- actually flew back to Blighty to "throw his hat in the ring" -as if he seriously believed they'd have him back as PM. And this after watching the Hindu billionaire-to-be smirking at him across the cabinet table every day for two years, with that very wide Sunak grin that says yes, I'm a thousand times richer than you'll ever be.  Somehow in his fevered imagination, Johnson felt he could have another turn at the wheel -before the WEF insider Rishi Sunak had even got his promised reward for services rendered to globalism.  

 

Nobody will be surprised -least of all me- if one day Johnson leads the Tory party again. But not until Sunak has finished the job he began in 2020 -the total implosion of Britain's national economy. There are tea-ladies in the Parliamentary canteens who understand this, but not Johnson, in whose mind the entire world revolves around his own endlessly revolving self-image. He thinks the Tory Party is like one of those vintage jewellery-boxes where you open the lid and up pops a rotating ballerina, ever-ready, always welcome. That's me, Boris the faithful, the beloved, the Mighty...

 

Anyway, it was in that glorious moment -the day after Johnson flew in to "compete" for the suddenly vacant premiership -that we saw the power that has no name or face reach out and swat Boris Johnson aside like a genetically inferior mosquito. And just like that, he was gone, back to the Lear Jet of Departure, his crooked tail dangling between his fat legs. Ye gods, he is one stupid tub of rancid lard. He spent his whole life dangling on the puppet-strings and still can't believe it when they yank him offstage.  

 LIZ TRUSS

For what I hope will be the last time, we can now address the greatest nonentity ever given the keys to 10 Downing Street: Mary Elizabeth Truss. There are many roads to top and Truss took all the low ones. You might say she crawled into the Cabinet on her hands and knees. [Sordid details HERE]. When, in the Spring of 2022, the Conservatives found themselves in dire need of a new PM, Liz launched herself into the "leadership contest" with typically wild enthusiasm but almost no hope of succeeding. 

However, after a competition lasting what felt like several years, the Party faithful found Truss to be the least nauseating member of the shit parade, and -holding their noses- anointed her in preference to the Hindu billionaire-poodle who is universally despised -although never to his face. Liz Truss, however, was not at all the 'intended' result (as promised in the script by the anonymous string-pullers) and stern words were exchanged behind the scenes. Sunak in particular was livid, having been assured this would be his turn in the spotlight. 

Nevertheless, La Truss had somehow floated to the surface of the Tory cess-pool and -while Rishi ground his perfect teeth- she hoisted her manic leer for the cameras and trotted off to collect the prize. 

Like many a fool before her, Mary Elizabeth had actually convinced herself that being Prime Minister makes you powerful. It's a delusion that possesses almost every backbench MP, although most who make it as far as a Ministerial post quickly realise the real decisions are made in the great elsewhere, and adjust their ambitions accordingly. 

But lucky Liz, dazzled, perhaps, by the sight of her weasel-sharp features pouting from the front pages, was determined to flex her imaginary new muscles. In short order, she rounded up the crew of third-raters known as her "supporters" and handed out plum jobs like Matron giving sweets to the ugly kids. To qualify for a top post in the Truss World Order, candidates need only be black, fat, or female. Take that, white boys!    

And so it came to pass that an economic illiterate became Chancellor, a morbidly obese chainsmoker waddled into the Health Secretary's office, and the job of Foreign Secretary went to a failed squaddie with a degree in "Hospitality Management". Everyone was very proud. Pencils and pieces of paper were handed out, and after a good few minutes of hard thinking, these geniuses (plus a roomful of even lesser creatures) produced an "economic plan" consisting of two soundbites and a betting slip. No caucasian males were involved at any stage.

Meanwhile, assembled in a very smart, very private club-room in Mayfair, the anonymous string-pullers read the details of the "Trussonomics" plan with a mixture of disbelief and glee. Then they sighed in relief and rang their friends in The City. Pull the plug. Given the green light by the Bank of England, the rabid Rotweilers of the Stock Exchange began tearing up the bond markets and the pound dutifully sank to its knees -in a manner reminiscent of Truss herself, in happier days. 

On a small table of its own in Downing Street, a telephone rang -the special phone reserved for Instructions from the High Ups- and Liz was told to pack her bags and go. Right now. Or else. And go she did. In that moment -the moment at which all the mad dreams swirling in the empty head of Mary Elizabeth Truss exploded- we saw the true nature of political power -the power that has no name and no face, but can end a Premiership with a few well-chosen words. She left with barely a whimper of goodbye, having been "made an offer you cannot refuse" as the Italians say. Truss was a puppet who never even noticed the strings until they were cut from her wrists.

RISHI SUNAK

I have no more time for this slippery goon than any other  permanently-smirking con-artist, but it was one of this year's political highlights to see his Prime Ministerial pretensions upended before he'd even got started. 

Sunak -like the wondrously forgettable Truss- made his way to the top via the bottom. In his case, the bottom in question being the rather pert one belonging to a fellow student at Stanford University, namely Akshata Murty. By a stroke of incredible luck (for Rishi) Akshata was the daughter of a multi-billionaire and before you could say 'nepotism' young Sunak was the chief of more corporations than would fit on a tiny offshore tax-haven. [For more Sunak biography CLICK HERE]

By some mysterious means, totally unconnected with his chequebook, this globetrotting chancer came to represent the good people of West Yorkshire, who elected him as their MP in 2015. Spotting his amazing wealth   skill-set, the Conservative Party fast-tracked him into the cabinet, where, in February 2020, he elbowed the equally revolting Sajid Javid out of the way and became Chancellor of the Exchequer. 

The timing of his arrival at the Exchequer was vitally important, as a mere fortnight later PM Boris Johnson would announce the first Covid lockdown. Equipped with the fake pandemic to use as a smokescreen, it was Rishi Sunak's job to hollow-out the British economy from within -the task for which he had been hustled into Parliament in the first place. 

There was nothing unique or creative about Sunak's destruction of the UK's financial infrastructure. He simply took the same approach as all the other agents the World Economic Forum had placed into governments across the western world : burn money, spend spend spend, buy buy buy. The billionaire's son-in-law was the right man in the right place at the right time. Few politicians on earth were better connected than Rishi Sunak, when it came to the complex business of vanishing vast sums of money -and fast. 

When -and it will be soon- Britain is declared completely bankrupt, remember Sunak and his imaginary money-tree summer of 2020. You may not see his like again. By 2030 Sunak will have left the smoking ruins of this country behind, never to return. You can bet your house on it -if you still have one. One wonders how the voters in West Yorkshire will commemorate what will be his time as their champion. Probably not with a statue, I'd guess.

Anyway, Rishi's reward for slumming it with the grubby millionaires in Boris Johnson's Covidian regime was always supposed to be a spell at playing Top Dog, and when the 2022 "leadership contest" arrived, he was quietly assured the job would be his. Unfortunately, Rishi was reckoning without the intrinsic Englishness of the rank-and-file card-carrying members who represent -god help them- what remains of the Conservative Party. They didn't like him, didn't want him, and didn't vote for him. As mentioned earlier, Sunak went ballistic when Truss nicked his gig, but was quickly reassured. A promise is a primose, he was told, be patient just a little longer.

"At that time Jesus was led by the Spirit into the desert to be tempted by the devil. He fasted for forty days and forty nights and afterwards was hungry."

Actually, in Rishi's case he had to wait 44 days and nights but I don't expect he was fasting that long. As we know, Sunak's chums in the City saw to it that Truss got the heave-ho and next thing you know, Rishi Rich was getting the high-five from ol' King Charles. Rumours that Charlie tried to borrow a couple of billion "just to tide me over" are probably unfounded.  

Sunak was understandably elated. This was not bad going for a 42 year-old. He was not just Prime Minister, but the first British/Asian, Hindu, cow-worshipping, teetotal, proto-billionaire ever to become head honcho in the Mother of Parliaments. Arise, Emperor Sunak! 

Anyway, he's no sooner got his mitts on the Premiership than his father-in-law's on the phone with a list of instructions re. what to buy, what to sell, where the money goes etc. Rishi's taking notes and making lists when suddenly -it's the Egyptian Ambassador on the phone, Prime Minister. He wants to know how many rooms you want in your hotel suite at the COP 27 conference. Rishi looks up from his iPad and scowls. "Fuck COP 27," he says, "I've got work to do. Fucking climate bollocks. Tell him I'm busy."

Headlines next day: SUNAK TO MISS COP 27.

I confess I looked at that and thought he's burning his effing bridges there. And then, dear reader, a telephone rang in Downing Street -the special phone reserved for...well, you know. And like the good poodle he always was -and always will be- Prime Minster Rishi Sunak was told Pack your bags. Right Now. Or else. 

Before you could say Net Zero Rishi's secretary was on the phones and from Fleet street to Broadcasting House, the word went out: "COP 27. Rishi Sunak Cometh".  And Klaus Schwab looked upon the Word and saw that it was good. Once more, the power that has no name, no face, had spoken, and the puppet looked at his strings and remembered who and what he really was. 

It's the way things work.

Ian Andrew-Patrick

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