I see the confusion on your face, the barrage of criticism you’ve received seeming wholly disproportionate to a man who’s built a reputation out of defecating on private member’s bills from an ungodly height. To object on a “point of principle” might seem like due diligence – laws shouldn’t just be slapped on the statute book without proper scrutiny. However it’s a poor excuse to throw out when you’ve clearly just got a bug up your arse about the process. When the entirety of the Conservative party at the moment are doing everything they can to paper over the cracks in the facade, isn’t it a bit fucking daft to object to a bill that argues little more than “men shouldn’t be allowed to sneak a photo of a lady’s hooey?”
It’s more about perception than the intricacies of the process, and an objection in itself doesn’t necessarily equate to opposition – you’ve scrambled to make that clear, like a panicking teenager hastily pulling the duvet over himself when his mum knocks on the door. Your intervention doesn’t mean the law won’t pass – all you’ve really done is embarrass yourself, aligning yourself with the stall-and-delay tactics of Philip Davies, a man who not once in his life has woken up and thought “y’know what, maybe I won’t be a steaming pile of human turd today.”
If that’s the bed you want to lie in I rather expect you’ll be welcome to it – Davies is such a toxic bundle of self-aggrandising wank that he may as well be the god of 4chan, a petulant manbaby lord-of-all-tosspots who would quite happily blame the weather on socialism if he could. To him every bill that smells remotely progressive is the nanny state overreaching, every criticism of his odious nonsense nothing more than a fit of vapours from the coddled and indulged crybabies on the left. The possibility that everyone thinking he’s a twat might be his own doing is a thought that doesn’t even cross his mind.
It’s water off a prick’s back to him, revelling as he does in his reputation as a tedious feminist-baiter. For you, though, Christopher Chope? The vitriol has clearly hurt your feelings, and now your political record is up for debate, which is terribly unfair when all you want to do is be left alone to be a regressive Thatcherite dinosaur in peace.
I see you, Christopher Chope, sighing as your hand rests on the handle of your front door. It’s time for another day in the spotlight, isn’t it? Another day in the harsh glare of public scrutiny.
I see your shoulders sag as you step out in to the street, the flashbulbs popping, the shutters clicking. I see the paparazzi lying at your feet, rushing in behind you to hold their mobiles under your arse, all of them trying to get the money shot.
I see your lower lip trembling as you try to rush past them, upset and embarrassed, your privacy invaded and your worth lowered to nothing more than a piece of titillation for a gross subculture of intrusive and abusive dickheads.
If only you’d had an opportunity to send a message about not tolerating that sort of bullshit.
I see you, Christopher Chope. I fucking see you.
