By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who saw that bullet bounce off Trump’s impregnable skin with her own eyes
DID you stay up for it? For the coronation? The moment the people of Clacton, Britain’s bellwether, elected our next prime minister?
Did you see him at the opening of Parliament? A day that was meant to belong to Starmer before he was upstaged by Reform’s Fab Five sparking mania not seen since the Beatles?
The King’s Speech? Sound and fury signifying nothing. Even Charlie, mouthing Labour’s platitudes, had his eyes fixed on the real winner of July’s election: Nigel Paul Farage.
He could have demolished Starmer’s acres of verbiage in a few well-chosen words. He didn’t, because he had to cross the Atlantic to sit at Trump’s right hand, but he could have.
Labour government? There is no Labour government. Oh, they’ll do what damage they can to the fabric of our great nation while they’re in. They know it’s temporary, but a bridge between the last Tory era and the coming Reform Revolution.
As a moral force they will dominate Parliament. No law or budget will pass without Nigel’s verdict and his verdict is final. Like a judgement from God he shall brand every effort to drag this nation beneath waves of woke a failure, and so it shall come to pass.
We have perhaps a year, perhaps less, for Suella to persuade the Conservatives to accept Nigel’s leadership or choose to die. Because the groundswell for Reform will be unignorable.
Within 18 months Labour will be forced to admit they cannot govern. That every seat in the country, whether blue, red or a contemptible yellow, has been turned by a turquoise tsunami.
It’s their decision whether they hold an election or skip the formalities and install Nigel in Downing Street where he’s long belonged. I personally wouldn’t bother. Elections are relics when a nation is in enthusiastic, tumultuous agreement.
Reform won. The rest is a technicality. Prepare your children for glory.
