I see you jumping on to any broadcast with low enough standards to have you, wiping the dirt off your pitchfork before Tuesday’s vote. You’re a good performer, as polished a TV presence as you ever were, the Nolan sister who can’t sing for shit but excels at downright mendacity. You’ve got the husky Scouse drawl of the everywoman and the carefully crafted image of a daytime TV host, the perfect combination of slick dishonesty and sleight of hand that the cameras lap up. Never mind that your relationship with the truth is so strained that he’s changed the locks and moved to Bermuda – you’re here to protest, Esther McVey, and you better believe they’re going to shove you in front of the cameras for it.
What a perfect avatar you are for the hard Brexit rebellion – all smoke and mirrors and tub thumping rhetoric, the tacit invocation of good old-fashioned British excellence and ambition. Never mind that it comes with no substance, no solutions and no particular relationship to the reality of the situation. “We don’t need the backstop, so bin it” is a fantastic soundbite, but it means fucking nothing, empty bravado that holds so little water as a negotiating position that it couldn’t slake the thirst of a pubic louse. As for threatening to withhold the money we’ve already pledged to spend? Or better yet, Priti Patel’s downright sociopathic suggestion of threatening to starve Ireland?There’s less good will left around the EU’s table than there is for Christmas dinner at Cain and Abel’s house. The idea that playing hardball now is going to lead to anything other than disaster is such a short-sighted one that it looks at Philip Davies from across the room and gets the horn.
Just when are you, Mogg, Johnson and all the rest going to stop banging their fucking idiot drums and accept reality? There is nothing left to negotiate, nothing left to go begging for, and absolutely no hope of Theresa May or any one of you other cowards strong-arming anyone into any kind of capitulation. You’ve already proven yourselves too craven, too incompetent, too unambitious and too downright useless. You’ve not only dropped the ball, you’ve fucked it into oblivion, and to now expect the EU to pick it up and continue playing your horrendous new sport of spunk-rugby just because you stamp your foot and huff and puff is so deluded that it’s laughable. Yes, May’s the one who mashed out this dog’s breakfast of a deal and it’s her ultimate responsibility, but what else were the actual Brexiteers expecting when they ran and hid from the mess they created?
Tuesday’s vote is looking set to be the absolute car crash it deserves to be, just another pothole on this government’s road to complete and utter collapse. May seems to be a weird cross between a crane fly and a Highlander, as resilient as she is useless, so it remains to be seen if this latest humiliation will finally be the end of her. If it comes to that, who knows who’ll be left standing in her place – could it be you, Esther McVey?
You wouldn’t rule it out, which is the sort of veiled allusion we’ve come to expect from the chronically ambitious and terminally underqualified. Who better to over promise, under deliver and plunge thousands into abject poverty with Brexit than the woman who’s already done exactly that with Universal Credit?
What a world that would be, Esther McVey. You’ve proven yourself utterly selfish in your willingness to lie, sneering at the National Audit Office and misrepresenting their findings, hauled before parliament to half-arse an apology that you neither meant nor cared about. Why should Brexit be any different? It could be a world of Trumpian spin and outright deception, lying to Parliament through your teeth and ticking off your utterly disingenuous list of achievements on Twitter. All that matters is McVey’s success, a bottle-blonde veneer of presentable fallacies that paper over the cracks of the human suffering you inflict.
You could have it all, Esther McVey. Your empire of dirt. And the only comfort the rest of us can take from your ambitions?
The fact you’re utterly fucking reviled, a snake that even the worst of us would struggle to stomach in May’s place. And you’re one of many, a pit of vipers squirming under her increasingly unstable seat. The best we can hope for is some sort of say in who sits on it next.
Hopefully, just like Wirral West did, we’ll be able to tell you to fuck right off.
I see you, Esther McVey. I fucking see you.
