As a student I experienced the world of hard graft. It was bearable only because it was temporary, students paid no income tax in those days for some reason, and it earned me more cash than I had ever imagined. I started off washing pots in one hotel, then progressed to silver-service waiting. Some weekends I’d start at 6.30 on a Saturday morning serving breakfasts, clear and lay for lunch, serve morning coffee, then lunch, then afternoon tea, then lay up for dinner, serve dinner and then at 11pm move over to the ballroom to do a couple of hours behind the bar at a busy dinner-dance. That’s an eighteen and a half hour day. Two or three times during the day I had to change my top and change-up the coins I had received as tips and which bulged my trouser pockets like roof-tilers nail bags. A shorter sixteen and a half hours on Sunday and I would walk away with the equivalent today of about £400 for the weekend. I was a grafter, and they would have me for as many hours as I cared to do. During the holidays I guess I worked more than a hundred hours a week and took home a bigger wedge than the hotel manager.
I also and at other times and places picked fruit and veg in the open fields, drove a fork lift truck and worked a gruelling night-shift in a bronze foundry. What’s pertinent is that I spent enough time with people who have no choice but to labour painfully for their whole working lives to have scant sympathy for imagined hardship. I was a student, and had a life of relative ease and working comfort ahead of me; the lined, worn and weary faces of the men on the night shift who faced being physically worn-out by fifty and encumbered with all the chronic medical disorders that hard physical labour brings had no such choice.
So MPs who claim that their lives are ‘devastated‘ by ‘working’ in the House, who claim that nineteen weeks holiday is not enough, and that a salary that puts them amongst the top 5% of earners is inadequate are not merely unfit to represent the ordinary people of this country, the whining little shits are grossly insulting all those of our fellow citizens who really do have to graft for their living. They are utterly dissociated from reality, living in a cosy bubble and no doubt imagine that brioche forms part of the normal diet of the working man.
Some 55% of this pampered elite think politics is a career and have ambitions to become ministers. 100% of them think being an MP is about them, their own self-interest, ambitions and welfare, and that being an MP is about what you can screw out of the job rather than what you can bring to the common good. I’ll bet not a single one has even my own limited experience of hard work, let alone any understanding of the position of their constituents. Apparatchiks, blow-ins and parachutists, narcissistic and avaricious little turds, they represent the preferred lobby-fodder of the metropolitan party HQs; with no experience beyond playing politics at university, and from comfortable and shielded upbringings, they have cultivated mediocrity and elevated sycophancy to a virtue. These are Oborne’s Political Class. These are our enemy.
Whining MPs may wish to remember there is another kind of dissociation that may prove more attractive to many electors; it is the crack of the fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae being dissociated.