Is it ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’ where we see the peasants praising the qualities of different types of mud, as King Richard ‘rides’ by? I only ask because it seems to me that we are sinking further and further into a Monty Python kind of world. And I’m not (necessarily) talking about Brexit.
It feels that we, unaided, (i.e. there is no-one else to blame) have fallen into a kind of time-warp. To put it simply, we appear to have allowed ourselves once again to become ‘ruled’ (See: History. Or, ‘what goes around comes around’) by a group of people who feel fully entitled to do so based on wealth, education and who they know. In short, a group of people who we, as usual have nothing in common with. A group of people who believe wholeheartedly, that they know, better than we do.
Let’s start by way of illustration with our local MP (Nadhim Zahawi) who is (good for him) a multi-millionaire. In other words, he has nothing in common with the majority of the people he represents. He has a privileged life-style which is a complete mystery to us poor people and I am not talking about his political persuasion. He has no experience of how the ordinary citizen lives present-day. If he ever did, he will, if he has any sense, have put it behind him.
At this point let me say I have nothing against multi-millionaires. I would like to be one myself. The difference being that I hope I would be realistic enough to realise that I have stepped over the imaginary line that separates me from people who worry about paying the gas or electric bill. I will have transcended everyday problems and worries. I will still have problems, but they will be different than they used to be. I will have moved up the worry tree a few levels. I.e. ‘What will be the tax consequences if I buy another couple of houses?’, rather than ‘where is the nearest food bank?’
As hard as he might try to understand his constituents, it is an impossibility. Everything about our lives that he thinks has knowledge of is and will be second-hand. In other words, he has not experienced our various and common situations for himself. The days of the cotton mill owner improving the lives of his workers, is over. We have our own spokes men and women now. The rich mill owners like Zahawi, Rees-Mogg et al need to step aside or let history repeat itself and be prepared to be pushed.
As far as I’m concerned, a Member of Parliament who works well is one concerned about the plight of ‘his/her people’ and has at some time in his/her life ‘lived’ or at the very least, touched upon the everyday situations that his constituents experience every day. (OK, so this Stratford upon Avon, but you get my point)?
In my opinion Zahawi has proved himself unfit for purpose on a couple of occasions. Who can forget his botched attempt to claim on expenses re the heating for his stables? Can you imagine such a claim being so easily forgotten in another area other than Stratford upon Avon where horses and stables abound? Of course not. Mister Zahawi’s manner is that of the oil executive. More at home in the board room than on the factory floor. His ambition is raw and obvious for all to see. And now his blind obedience to Mrs May has rewarded him with a position to represent Children and Family, a group it has to be said, that this government has gone out of their way to reduce to poverty.
I don’t know what Zahawi is like at dinner parties, I’ve never been invited to one. He’s probably a very nice man who knows how to treat people, especially those better placed than him. I’m sure he knows how to hold an audience with amusing tales of the boardroom and of livery, but as a representative of the people…nope.
Ever since (as a stagehand) I helped Anthony Sher up onto his wooden horse in Dick the Shit (Richard III) he has been my favourite stage actor. However, and this I admit is weird, I don’t know what it is he does to make him so. It’s a mystery, and I like it that way. And here he is again doing whatever it is he does, in 
Anyway, this is a picture from ‘The Style Book’ (*cough) in The Observer a couple of Sundays ago.
One of the things that really gets my goat about how these incredibly wealthy organisations operate, is the way they assume willy-nilly that they can interrupt our lives, when and where they feel like it.
For those of a nervous disposition (snowflakes), turn away now…
I was done and returned, clad in my rather fetching paper suit to Rosie who was napping in my bed space (except you don’t get a bed now, you get a rather snazzy ‘easy boy’ chair like Frazier’s Dad has in er…’Frazier’.) Then follows a three/four hour wait to check that you don’t bleed out or explode. You are wearing a pressure bandage over the entry wound in your arm artery that allows you hand to match the colour of the paper scrubs you are wearing and you are freezing cold. Tea, biscuits and sandwiches do not help. You just want to go home and die.
