And Then, What Next...

I see Teaser May-lose, in front of that same open goal, has now kicked the ball over the bar and out o’ the park with her plans  for the elderly and the elderly sick. Yes, I know that if you dig down and work it all through on a thirty page spreadsheet it’s not too bad at all, but...

The problem is who’s going to do that? Few to nobody I’d guess and the MSM isn’t going to help at all so all we’ll hear and see, and take note of is that Mustapha Headline chap on the BBC wailing about the Con plans to hit the elderly from all sides. No details. No comparison with the present situation and that’s all the elderly will hear before preparing to the kitchen, muttering, to make the evening nosebag.

The papers? All the elderly will see is the Elderly Sick Can Now Only Leave Pennies To Their Kids type headlines as they pass the Waitrose news stand on their way to pick up groceries and a free coffee.

And the opposition parties don’t even have to tell fibs now. They just need to repeat Teasers words, with varying degrees of accuracy, and the seeds of doubt are sown in the heads of waverers and, indeed, many believers.

Teaser has probably convinced four out of every ten elderly to vote in a way that’ll do limited damage to their country but in no way help someone now perceived to be an elderly hater.

Teaser says, in a small damage limitation exercise, that she wants to be honest with the electorate with the manifesto. Teaser, the electorate don’t want the truth, they want ‘feel good’. If you really wanted to wipe-out all opposition, you’d have given us a manifestoes full o’ fun an’ fibs. And why not? Manifestoes aren’t legally binding anyway, right? Hell, Timmy Forlorn’s promised us weed  will be available down at the corner shop, the one run by that nice Mr Patel, and now the elderly are left wondering if they’ll even be able to afford it for heavens sake! 

Day by day it looks more like the rubbish I typed here may well be coming to pass.

Tell you wot, if UKIP hadn’t decided to self destruct, they may well have been in with a shout round about now.

Quote;  Shel Silverstein.

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
”I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
”But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
”I know what you mean," said the little old man.