The damp slowly creeps up the walls; the rafters collapse under the weight of slate and moss, the elderly retainers are carted off to insalubrious care homes, and eventually only the Momentum squatters stand guard to hold hostage the Haversham creature that gives them the right to live in the building; ripping the ancient staircase from its mooring to burn as fuel, tearing the lead from the roof, caring not that their actions ensure the roof can never again provide cover.
Momentum merges as one with the title of Labour and becomes Laburnum – poisonous to all that touch its leaves, its fruit, even the gnarled bark of its leader.
The Laburnum Top is silent, quite still
in the afternoon yellow September sunlight,
A few leaves yellowing, all its seeds fallen.
As spokespersons for the nation’s ‘underdogs’, the unemployed, the sick, the weak, their voices have all the resonance of a Victorian undertaker’s mute; the death rattle in the throat of the Keir Hardie.
The gadarene Blairites could not wait for the obsequies; they took to their Beatrice Webbed feet and fled; the ‘party that dare not bear its name’ – for fear of legal action. They have no leader, just safety in numbers. 172 of them; a twitching headless corpse; they snatched the ‘our’ from Lab’our’, and declared it ‘their’ property.
In metropolitan covens across the land, the Guardianistas wait for word as to how they should think, how to express their ideas, what to teach the next generation of Guardianistas. Who will lead them to the promised land? Where is their ‘safe space’? Their radiant optimism that they spoke for the dispossessed all but vanquished by the ‘Leave’ vote.
How could it be that the ungrateful wretches rose up and bit the hand that denied their children a council flat, that put them at the end of the queue for Doctors, that filled their school with a thousand mother tongues but English? Did these racists and bigots not understand that the mindless slogans, the fatuous patter, the tractor statistics, the teeming streets, were for a higher purpose? The glorious union with countries that their forefathers had sent them to die in? Be proud to be Scottish, be proud to be Welsh – be ashamed to be English.
Today, the Laburnum Party will dust down their leader, and set him in front of [who the heck will be standing in for the Prime Minister? He hasn’t been seen for days] [Tyrion Lannister in the Speaker’s Chair?] The Game of Drones drones on – he will denounce Blair as a war criminal in league with tyrants in Kazakhstan. To be sure, ’tis a terrible thing for a former Labour Prime Minister to be breaking bread with the first Soviet country to abolish weapons of mass destruction and give all the weapons-grade uranium in their country to the US to destroy. Blair is supporting a country that is 70% Muslim – off with his head!
There is a monumental death wish creeping over the country; drivelling comedians, geriatric pop stars, foul-mouthed far-from-enchanting Welsh chanteuses, expense scammers, fraudsters, will watch the Thatcher-swilling obese figure of Watson, (a man who voted consistently against the £10 million pound Chilcot Inquiry even taking place) lead Corbyn to his seat – and then to ignominy.
They are all prepared to believe anything, no matter how preposterous, how obscure, how authoritarian, to further the cause to which they have given their lives – the furtherance of a Union that will consume them all, abolish their platform, remove the last vestige of their power. They are literally eating their own flesh.
By 12.30pm Corbyn will have fulfilled his task.
And the laburnum subsides to empty.