TThe Labor Party is now primarily an argument as to which wing of itself was worse. Come on guys, you have a lot in common! Let’s face it, you two election tanks. Conservatives promise frequent container pickups, Labor promises frequent fires.
The Conservatives won Hartlepool, a seat that Labor has held since its inception in 1974, with a candidate so invisible it could have been an urban myth. Surprisingly, the remaining Labor candidate was an even more far-fetched choice. Of course, we will have to wait whole days to discover all the bands of local results, not least what happened to the Labor seats on the Hartlepool council. If you are not sure how many weeks / hours / seconds of autopsy you can endure, remember: you can always run away and join the war against France. I guess the key questions I’ll ask before heading to the front are: do you have to self-quarantine upon return? And please tell me that there are seats inside?
But however the other key races go, just in the Hartlepool result, the Tories have once again maneuvered Labor into the post-election wounded realm of abstract nouns. We will undoubtedly hear a lot more two-way angst about things like “belonging,” “identity,” “home,” “patriotism,” and “heart.” All of this sounds like things the moderator would write on a whiteboard on some excruciating day in the office. Conservatives have once again caught Labor with the external trap. At any moment, some terrible idiot will say “retail offer”.
Increasingly, Labor’s stated mission to rekindle with his lost heart feels a bit maudlin and overbearing. It has the flavor of one of those stories where a man places a piano under his ex-girlfriend’s window and promises to play it until she gets back with him. Journalists who don’t really get it cover the story with headlines like “The Last Romantic.” All normal women who read it are thinking: I know exactly what kind of man he is. I hope that she and her new boyfriend can eventually relax under the protection of witnesses.
In Hartlepool, anyway, the media pack will soon be leaving town, like rock acts in the sand saying goodbye to Boston with the words, “You’re welcome, Philadelphia!” On the bright side, at least that means we have a few weeks off from the excruciating spectacle of people getting voicemails to see if they’ve ever heard of someone named Keir Starmer. I don’t know why the field growers don’t go crazy and have Attenborough voice the reports. “And here … approaching the trough … there is a local woman. Unaware of Starmer’s injury, his instincts focus on the big shop he needs to do later. Nature is vast and indifferent. “
Anyway: Starmer. Hopefully last week’s attempt to graft a sense of humor into John Lewis wallpaper department succeeded, because you are going to need a laugh. In my eyes, the procedure was a failed attorney’s surgery. On the eve of the elections, the Labor leader was out there telling the cameras: “We are fighting for every vote that goes to those elections tomorrow!” Life comes to you fast. You will notice that the office of a leader that last week reported that Boris Johnson’s dispatch box performance was that of PM “Kevin Keegan Moment“For this week still fighting for this title. Now it is Starmer who will have to go to Tees Valley and get something.
Speaking of the dispatch box, maybe now we can hear a lot, a lot less about people’s perception that Starmer “performs well at PMQ.” This is the equivalent of saying he performs well in his secret diary, or in a mid-afternoon replay of a horticultural detective series from the mid-2000s. Thyme and rosemary. To be clear: NOBODY WATCHES THIS SHOW. If it were shown on a US network, at least two New York executives would lose their jobs, and it would retire before the first commercial break, and affiliates would switch to a 90s sitcom just to make up seven minutes. of hearing apocalypse and avoid the problem. threat of armed insurrection from their advertisers.
As someone who has probably watched PMQ twice in the last year, I’m afraid Starmer always has the look of a person who is tired of having to explain something to you twice. He has slightly scared eyes (as Peter Lilley used to have; I know he likes references to early 1990s British politics). Most of the photographs seem to show it with a thousand-millimeter gaze.
Wherever he campaigned during this local election race, he saw himself as the classic small-town detective fighting his demons, who has been flown there from elsewhere under circumstances he doesn’t like to talk about. I quite like Angela Rayner as her earthy, big-hearted local DS, but she doesn’t seem to have screen time. He has a feeling DI Starmer is still haunted by the case of a drowned socialite that he couldn’t solve 15 years ago. Meanwhile, Boris Johnson was screwing the socialite and probably accidentally drove the car off a dock and then left her to die. And, on some level, an aspiring audience respects the work.
I’m trying to imagine the writers meeting where the Starmer concept was introduced. “Can you give me a character note?” “Er… Do you sometimes wear your suit jacket over your shoulder? He prefers to follow their advice on the big topics, but it seems like he would have an opinion on what makes a coffee “good.” He looks tired, like it’s a big effort to put up with the world. “Now I imagine the widespread disbelief.” But … he gets the job done. Right? RIGHT? I mean, the thing about that character is what he has to do the job? “
We now know that your work is not done in Hartlepool. Therefore, the rest of the plot can tactfully be considered “in progress.”
George is Digismak’s reported cum editor with 13 years of experience in Journalism