The McGuffin Effect: What happened to New Ed?
The last few weeks have been super tough for Team Miliband. I made sure of that. As my Mom-Mom (God rest her soul) used to say, “Joe, what don’t fucking kill ya’s gonna give ya balls like baked potatoes”. Then she’d grab your arm and pinch the skin real hard, a warning to always be on your guard.
All my life, the Book of Mom-Mom has been my Bible. Her hard truths and casual cruelty were an inspiration in 2008 when Barack and I made our pitch. Q: Can we bring about effective and lasting change to the moral landscape of politics? A: Fuck yeah! After audience testing we changed that to “Yes we can!” The rest is history.
In 2012 Mom-Mom’s tough love was crucial. Everyone majorly jaded by then. Q: “You motherfuckers seriously planning a second term?” A: “Sure, whatever”. It takes guts, brains, ass, spine and balls to triumph over the dark forces of apathy, but we did it. “Sure, whatever” got us another four years.
Call it bullying, intimidation, threatening behavior backed up if necessary with physical fucking violence. Suck it. Politics is power. It’s an Inconvenient Truth. Not that I have ANY time for that man-lizard Al Gore, who can fuck entirely off. Should have Bidened his time as Clinton’s chunky bro. Faded into non-exec semi-retirement. But oh no, the dumbass thinks he can beat Bush Junior and BOOM, Democrats get two terms in the desert on a horse with no name while Call Me Al travels the world with his Powerpoint, dancing with fucking wolves and declaring himself the UN’s Special President of Fucking Weather. Yeah, Al Shitgoblin Gore, the Inconvenient Bitch.
Lately of course I’ve been taking out my rage on the Labour Party, with limited results. After that dick-in-the-soup party conference it’s time to rachet up the toughness to maximum Mom-Mom.
I mean in the name of Jesus Mary and all the Kardashians, what happened to New Ed? This was his MLK moment. He was gonna have a dream and sweep us all up in an emotional journey. Instead we got “I had an anecdote about this guy I met in the park but I’ve forgotten it, so give yourselves a round of applause while I concentrate on walking around this goddam stage without falling the fuck over”.
And where was Labour’s conference message: “The Tories are burglarizing your house, would you like us to club those bastards unconscious and recover your stolen property?” God, all the fucking workshops. The primal screaming sessions (me in their stupid faces). The boot camp with the survivalist training in the woods, the pontoon building, the eating fucking insects and whatnot. All for nothing. Team Ed choked on their own trembling uncertainty, yet again.
Meanwhile, other parties had no problem getting THEIR conference messages across. Conservatives: “Don’t touch a thing, you don’t know what you’re doing, leave it to us, scumbags”. Lib Dems: “Please, please help us, we’re trapped in a loveless marriage”. Ukip: “We’re not racist BUT”. Green: “You better take us as seriously as Ukip or we’ll all squeak in fucking unison and nobody wants to hear that”.
I despair. We got six months before the General London Election. At every strategy meeting there’s Snoop Doggy Doug in my eyeline with his “about to be put down” look, tears in his eyes, saying shit like it’d be crazy to have a coup now, right? I tell him – son, it makes no difference if it’s Ed in the big chair or a sack of tree bark. This is about message. The time to change leaders is after an election. That’s when everyone else will be doing it. And anyway Doug, who you got? Mrs Balls? That retired fucking mailman who can whistle an entire Beatles tune while taking a piss? Please.
Before I headed back to Chicago I assembled the whole sorry bunch of them. No more apologies. No more excuses. Work the phones, hit the streets, get the grassroots out, this so-called recovery is leaving the working poor behind… “I don’t THINK so”. Some plummy voice in back of the room. That fat asshole Vaz again. Apparently he’s “a senior politician, not some teenager in a call centre”. “Fuck you, Vaz”, I reason. “You want me to fuck you up? Because I will fuck you up”. He stands up, a quivering human jelly baby. “I will NOT be spoken to in this…” BAM! Jab to the throat. BAM! Legsweep.
He’s on the floor, I’m sitting on his fucking chest and he’s ONE FUCKING SECOND from going in the gimp suit. Yeah, you better believe that shithead is suddenly on-message. Mom-Mom would’ve been proud.