TOMORROW, Labour will lose a parliamentary seat they have held for 60 years. And, why f**k about, I will accept that it is all my fault.
I won’t mention Brexit. I won’t say anything about governments historically performing well in national emergencies. I won’t mention my twat predecessor. I will take it on the chin.
If arguments are to be made that I’ve only been in office 13 months, we’ve spent most of it in f**king lockdown, and anyway Britain chuckles indulgently at everything the current occupant of Downing Street does like he’s a spoiled bloody child, they won’t be made by me.
Instead I will take responsibility. I will stand there as a Labour seat full of fishermen and steelworkers who’ve had their livelihoods destroyed falls to those who did it, and I will pretend their decision is rational.
‘Lessons to be learned,’ I will say, rather than ‘Lemmings voting for higher cliffs with sharper rocks at the bottom’ or the more simple, prosaic ‘for f**k’s sake’.
And certainly, when left-wing Twitter warriors jeer at me for failing to completely turn around a party that Jeremy Corbyn led to two defeats in two years, I won’t stoop to blaming him for making a national party into radioactive communists.
I will not hide. I will face forward and claim the entire f**king mess Britain and the Labour party are in is down to me. I will look you in the eye and spout that absolute, transparent bullshit.
Because apparently that’s what you like.
