To be honest, I’m not sure I would’ve wanted to go. Sat in rows of seats, forced to watch Jacob Rees-Mogg’s ulcerous standup dictionary-waving ‘comedy’ while echoes of “yah, splendid zinger mate” rang out around me, like the tropical birdsong of a Waitrose car park? I’d rather stay at home, thanks. Protect the NHS.
But fortunately, I wasn’t even approached by a single member of the Conservative Party for their not-so-conservative, tenuously-labelled ‘party’, so I didn’t have to worry about making some terrible lapse of judgement and going along.
It’s difficult though. Despite how shit the party appeared, it seems like loads of people are still a bit jealous, and would’ve gone if they were allowed. FOMO, probably: Fear Of More Obfuscation.
And what do you do when you’re partying exclusively but worried other people might sneak their way in?
If you’re Priti Patel, it seems, the solution to possible party-crashers is immediate deportation. And for all those people standing outside complaining “it’s not fair! You’re not holding yourselves to the same standard as you’re holding us! All we want is to be allowed in, get some eggnog, and maybe some human rights? It is Christmas…”, Patel’s reply comes in the form of a baton-wielding henchman in a high-vis jacket. He sees you when you’re sleeping (in his cell), he knows when you’re awake; he knows if you’ve been bad or good, so shut up, for Party’s sake.
Even if the party’s godawful, it’s still nice to get an invite. Doesn’t matter whether the party involves continuous manual labour for super-rich twats, abundant explicit racism and sexism, or the presence of dancing Michael Gove; it’s still common decency to send invites round to everyone who might be expecting one, and not beat up everyone on the street outside. For some, FOMO means Fear Of Massive Ordnance - I’d say we embrace the Christmas spirit, open the doors, and let them in at least.
Some of us still sit at home, wearing our Party™ hats and waiting for an invite to come through the letterbox. Others have long since given up on the notion that the Conservatives will invite us to anything, feeling it rather more likely that we’ll receive a bag of shit and an arrest warrant through the door than a greetings card.
Let’s just let them have their fun. Let them eat pork. But - maybe don’t let them too near the pig’s head. Let them read Greek poetry to each other, make jokes about minorities and hire prostitutes to the table. They don’t want us there - they just want their loaded pals to bring the champagne and lobbying money. As Allegra Stratton succinctly summarised the Conservative government: “This fictional party was a business meeting”. It still is.
We can throw our own parties. We can shout them down, and the key thing is, we can invite everyone. No amount of state goons can clobber us all down if there are enough people out; in fact, we need to party so hard that Priti’s thugs mellow out and join us.
So let’s drive (the point) home for Christmas. Jingle bells and bang drums. Feed the world. It may be cold outside, baby, but war isn’t over.
It’s only just begun…
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