Ed won… I knew he would. When he made a speech saying we shouldn’t be told to fear the free market, the media got the jitters. Of course we should fear the free market! At last, a Labour leader who doesn’t believe in the Just Do It Or Die mantra of the Tories. So we can look forward to the Tory press dredging up some great Red Ed demonising headlines. Red Ed Will Tax Your Babies. Red Ed Will Tax Your Pint.
The NYT had a fascinating article about madmen in business. How those who simply react to the free market might actually be “mentally ill”, whereas those who think their way through the mayhem are better placed to face the future. They cited Henry Ford as a mad man who discovered that by repeating the same thing over and over you could make millions and laugh at silly old fools still making beautiful things to order and earning a living wage. Deluded cretins! Of course, no one asked whether the man on the Henry Ford production line was happy, which of course he most definitely was not. Which brings me on to the poems of Fred Voss, the production line poet. Romanticism is dead and good riddance.
My parents were on about “gangs of Lithuanina squatters” they’d read about in the Daily Expat: How Migrants Snatched Our Homes. No emotive editorializing there. If you read the story, it’s “a gang of Lithuanian squatters” not a plural of gangs, and it’s more to do with the disgraceful way two people in affordable housing have been treated by Springboard Housing in Barking, rather than about “terrifying” and “violent” Lithuanians, but then the Expat has never missed a chance for an emotive racist slur. A Springboard Housing Association spokeswoman said: “We are very sympathetic to our tenant, Angie’s, situation. We are continuing to do everything we can to make sure she can return to her property as speedily as possible.” So from a story about “snatching migrants” to just one person. Angie. How would the couldn’t-care-less-we-voted-4-Clegg-Guardian treat the local story about a squat? In at least two words. Tough Tit!
There’s always Tabloid Watch which looks at the Expat’s appalling racist headline: Muslim Plot to Kill Pope. Horrible rag. We all know that a volcanic eruption will kill the pope in St Peter’s Square.
I hate Mondays. Nothing new there except that I also hate Fridays. That leaves Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Sunday. My collection of short stories, over 30, looks more like a pamphlet of short stories, fast becoming just a sheet. I never understood the advice to weed out unnecessary verbiage only for 390000 word drama histories to become vogue. Maybe it’s a scam and all the words I take out go straight into a Hilary Mantel novel. Former Convent Girl Stole My Words!