Cull of the Tory grass roots screams the headline in the printed Telegraph. The Stuntman is in a hurry. He has become impatient with the little people who will not do as they are told and are resisting the takeover of their party by the professional politicians. He plans to put his band of PPE graduates in firm control of the party, thereby assuring the coronation of his chosen successor, Boy George, as the next leader.
The battle against the professionalising insurgence is not a single party issue. The analysis being propagated by the professional politicians is typified by that from John McTernan of tendentious history (Note the language: David Cameron needs to crush his party members – or risk Labour's fate). He is a spin doctor left over from the Blairite authoritarian regime. The claim is that the current extremist Labour leader has been put in place by an awkward squad of party members. As we pointed out at the time, he was put there by a single puppet master. The boost to the extremist faction in the Labour Party was engineered by means of the absurd “vote for the price a pint” auction promoted by the previous puppet regime (same Master).
A great concern among ordinary party members has been the self-evident low quality of their MPs, many of whom have gone straight from university into political office untainted by contact with real life. That such people should take unto themselves the monopoly of selecting candidates is a gratuitous insult to the thousands who have striven (through thick and thin, sacrificing their own spare time) to build and maintain their party of common aims. Even more irksome is the proposal to establish a “professional” bureaucracy to run the party. That is precisely what makes many of them hostile to the EU. What do they know of politics who only politics know?
Come on, Conservatives! You built it: now fight for it.
It is clear from those seemingly interminable comments sections of newspaper web sites that many find it difficult to understand the modus operandi of certain professional politicians. The point to note is that they are all bureaucrats (by inclination, education, training and experience). They may be understood by parallels found in nature, such as some species of parasitic wasp. For a simpler understanding, here are some laws, which will be added to our list:
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This is what it must have been like for my parents in my infancy, waiting for the inevitable man-made catastrophe of war.
Of course, it happened at the weekend, as had become traditional since the adoption of part-time General Practice under Gordon Brown and the BMA. We had vainly hoped we might get away with it, having negotiated the dangerous months of January and February without the anticipated collapse of the NHS accident and emergency system.
This year’s bug, however, was swift and devastating. My wife caught it first and within the hour was fighting for breath and life. The first respondents to the emergency call were the fire brigade, followed quickly by the paramedics. Then, suddenly, light in our darkness! OUR helicopter turned up. It was us, the ordinary people, who had foreseen what was needed. We had raised by charitable donations the funding that the bungling bureaucrats and procrastinating professional politicians had denied us. The medical expert on survival therefore arrived within minutes of being summoned. As it happened, the transfer to the emergency ward still had to be by motor ambulance for medical reasons, but the necessary life-preserving interventions had by then been performed.
With my wife safely in hospital and past the queues of ambulances and trolleys, my own brush with death came the following day and had its farcical elements. There was no way I was going to avoid the infection. Ever since I had been refused the prescribed replacement therapy by the NHS I had withdrawn from human contact and maintained an emergency treatment kit (antibiotics, steroids, oxygen, nebules etc.) but on this occasion I was not given time to deploy them.
I came to consciousness, I know not from whence, aware that my face was under water. I could turn my head to call for help, but I had no muscle power to lift myself. I was just coming to accept that I was going to drown, when the domestic help came to check on me. Sod’s law had decreed that she had been out of earshot at the critical moment. She was rewarded with a vision of a pair of buttocks hanging on the edge of the bath, but managed to drag me out and to the floor. The hour and three quarters I spent there seemed like half a lifetime, but the paramedics, once they arrived, were cool and efficient despite the rising pressure. Throughout all these experiences the local response teams were superb. Although our country is governed by nincompoops, there is still a large reservoir of skill, determination and dedication that is wholly admirable. How often do you see tributes to these selfless heroes of our time?
A bizarre interlude was the budget speech. What is a finance minister doing, making announcements on such as the length of the school day? Just attempting to steal the thunder of his colleagues in a naked personal manifesto for the top job. Time was when the speech was actually about the national budget and the smallest leak was a resignation matter; but this is the age of the heirs to Blair and Brown. Everything is spin, announcements and re-announcements. You may hear rumours of pain and premature death. Pay no attention. Move on. Nothing to see here!
The accident and emergency system was on the brink of collapse as the Easter holiday approached. The part-time GP service was off on its hols and the BMA was busy organising strikes against the service and its patients. Who would have thought that one day professionalism and the Hippocratic Oath would ever be sacrificed to a pettifogging squabble over Saturday pay? That is the way the far-left agitators work; dividing their flocks into competing factions and building up petty resentments leading to a game of leapfrog, but always keeping a firm hold on all the channels of communication. Next, they will slither back into their role of pretend learned society to further their mischief by such means as rewriting history (note: the definition of BMA in our vocabulary has been there for about fifteen years).
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This number refers one helicopter. Not just any helicopter, but OUR helicopter. We paid for it voluntarily because we saw that it was needed, despite bureaucratic insouciance. It is also a reminder to me that I once did a good thing and gave a reason for doing it, even if that was just an aside in an essay called Bureaucrats like BIG.
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