My Sweet Lord

Donor Kebabbed

Every princess goes through a stage when they want to be a gymnast. Both mine did.

By the age of five my little Olga Korbuts could already perform a graceful cartwheel while resembling a sack of potatoes being chucked in the back of a van, and were easily able to execute a forward roll with all the elegance of drunk nana falling down some stairs.

And so, convinced of their Olympic potential, the decision was taken to enrol them into what all the local mums apparently agreed was North London’s premiere gymnastic club.

Which took place every Saturday morning at our local council run sports centre.

Access to this gymnastics club was limited. It was extremely popular and heavily oversubscribed. So to make things fair, places were awarded on a first come, first served basis. Meaning that the only way to secure a highly prized spot was to actually turn up, in person, on registration day.

It’s a good system, and almost incorruptible. Which is one reason why we used to use it for democratic elections. And why we don’t now.

Registration started early, at 8am. And I was warned that to be on the safe side I should start queuing at least an hour and half before that.

To be honest this seemed a little excessive, and I’m not exactly a morning person, but whatever, so on a cold, wet, grisly October morning I dragged myself out of bed and made my miserable way to the centre.

I expected the nasty weather and early hour would be enough to put a lot of people off. Nope.

By the time I arrived, at around 6.40 am, the queue already snaked around the building like a middle class centipede.

Because despite the fact that it was a council run scheme, the queue was a sea of Boden, Barbour and Bugaboo. If a bomb had gone off amongst this lot, John Lewis, Oxford St would have gone out of business.

Of course this was a couple of years before Brexit and OG Trump, but here was exactly the North London crowd which would go on to define itself by its loon eyed opposition to one, and visceral, even murderous hatred, of the other.

In short, these were British people who, if they were Americans, would not hesitate to put one of those ‘In this house we believe…’ signs on their immaculate, immigrant maintained lawns.

What would you expect? We were basically standing in the bit of the Venn diagram where the constituencies of Keir Starmer and Jeremy Corbyn intersect. The absolute heart of Labour country, the literal home of the PMC, the left’s progressive elite.

There wasn’t a lot of chit chat in the queue, and a distinct lack of matey bonhomie, this was clearly no Wetherspoons. And as well as the cold dampness of the clingy rain, a chilly sense of rivalry and competition hung misty in the air.

Eventually the doors opened and we were led into a large sports hall which had been filled with rows and rows of seats, as if for a school assembly. At the front were three registration tables, with a member of the gymnastics team seated at each one.

We were invited to fill the seats from the front, until the hall was full.

Anyone without a seat was too late, they had missed their chance and would have to apply again next year.

When it was our turn we were to get up, make our way to whichever official was free, and register our child. Then we were to immediately leave the hall by one of the exits. The instructions were strict, clear, and non negotiable. Again, it all seemed a bit much for a local gymnastics club.

Once everyone had sat down the registration process began.

As I waited, bleary eyed, for my turn, I noticed something weird happening.

When the parent on the end of the line of chairs got up to take their turn, a member of staff scuttled in and immediately removed their chair. Taking it away and placing it on an ever growing stack.

And so the hall not only emptied of people, it also emptied of places to sit. Like a tuneless, joyless, game of musical chairs.

At first I couldn’t work out the point. Were they just clearing the way to make it easier to get to the front? Or maybe stacking the chairs to save them a job later?

Then it dawned on me.

They were taking the chairs away so that no one cheated.

Removing the chairs was necessary because unless these North London bien pensant, Guardian reading, middle class parents were strictly supervised, and physically prevented from doing so, some would simply ignore the protocol, and plonk themselves down in a seat at the front of the queue.

Elbowing their way to the front faster than Jess Phillips in an A&E department.

These people could simply not to be trusted to play fair, and follow the rules.

It was like watching Keir Starmer’s Labour Party in action.

I’m not going to list all the largesse Labour ‘donor’ Wahid Alli has hosed around the Labour front bench.

To be honest I wouldn’t be able to keep up. It’s not a drip drip of new revelations. It’s more like a tsunami. So though I might attempt to list each new gift, treat, bounty, goodie bag, and present as they were exposed, I genuinely doubt I could type that fast.

Everyone on Labours front bench seemed to get something.

Even David Lammy, a man whose promotion to Foreign Secretary gives lie to the nonsense that these goons care two hoots about Britain’s ‘international reputation’,  trousered £32,000.

None of which he seems to have spent on either history books, or an atlas.

Not one of them, from the top down, seems to believe they have done anything wrong. Rather than seeming shamefaced or apologetic, they appear confused at what all the fuss is about.

When the Prime Minister was questioned about his ever growing mountain of freebies by Beth Rigby on Sky News, he appeared exasperated, irritated and annoyed that anyone would have the impertinence to question his integrity.

He even refused to acknowledge that the optics looked bad. It’s surprising that anyone with free glasses that expensive could be so short sighted.

And where’s the Opposition? When the only thing holding your government to account is Beth Rigby, you know your democracy is in trouble

It’s clear that Starmer doesn’t think the problem is that he has snuffled up too many freebies. He believes that the real issue is that post Leveson, the press still has the freedom to ask him about them.

And that is a problem that Labour is planning to do something about. They won’t stop the small boats, unclog our sclerotic economy, or deport foreign rapists.

But they are steadfast in their determination to clamp down on ‘disinformation’ (read: any criticism of the elites, or their policies, by the little people) by joining the growing international coalition dedicated to saving ‘our democracy’ (read: the elite class’s unchallenged authority to rule) by removing our right to free speech, turning our freedoms into state administered privileges, and criminalising dissent.

This is not a conspiracy theory. This is clearly their goal. They happily tell us so themselves. Here’s former US Secretary of State and Special Presidential Envoy for Climate, John Kerry saying as much at the….. actually, can you guess where?

Yes. Correct.

The World Economic Forum. Obviously.

And it’s not just Starmer, the whole grasping jamboree believe they are above scrutiny.

None more so than Education Secretary Bridget Phillipson, who when challenged about the fourteen grand Lord Alli had splashed out on her fortieth birthday bash, literally laughed at the question, while imperiously waving away any accusations of impropriety.

Bridget claimed the handout was a legitimate expense because this was her ‘public’ birthday party. One especially for journos, lobbyists and influence peddlers. And that she had a separate birthday for friends and family.

So in her own defence, this highly placed member of the workers’ party of Clement Attlee and Ramsay MacDonald, claimed that she actually has two birthdays. You know, a bit like the Queen.

Very humble.

And there’s clearly no ‘black hole’ in Rachel Reeves’ personal finances. The robot voiced chancellor was happy to take £7500 worth of ‘free clothes’ from another deep pocketed Labour backer, Juliet Rosenfeld.

I don’t mean to be rude. But you’d think Ms Rosenfeld might have stretched to a haircut.

Of course many in the elite class, are in denial about the scale of the scandal, consoling themselves that, ‘of course, the Tories were worse’.

In no fan of the Tories as you know, but this strikes me as a convenient fiction, a shibboleth that everyone right-thinking is nodding along with, to demonstrate their continued allegiance to the ‘correct’ side. A way to mitigate somewhat the cognitive dissonance which comes with the knowledge that your tub thumping, high minded, and morally righteous equity warriors, might not be quite so virtuous after all.

And certainly this scandal seems to have barely bothered the BBC. Sure they are covering it. But at most a bit half heartedly. And certainly not with the glee and giddy delight that accompanied the wall to wall coverage afforded, the wall to wall coverage, of Boris Johnson’s golden wallpaper.

Besides. Boris Johnson had a legitimate excuse. He’s a greedy, money grabbing freeloader who needs to somehow fund his righteous crusade to single-handedly (hang on, that’s not a hand) attenuate the problem of Britains low birth rate. So let’s give him a break.

While writing this I decided to check on the BBC front page, just to make sure I wasn’t misrepresenting the Beeb’s position.

Scrolling down past something about how the beastly Israelis were unfairly targeting much put upon ‘militia group’ Hezbollah, I read the headline

Labour to tighten ministerial hospitality rules.

This is breathtakingly disingenuous.

A casual reader might be lead to assume that the Labour Party are pledging to do little more than tidy up an administrative loose end.

That this issue, if there even is an issue, was caused by the previous government’s lax ‘hospitality’ rules, rather than the present one’s avaricious incontinence.

But look, ultimately this is all fluff, gossip, and tittle tattle.

We shouldn’t allow ourselves to get distracted by Taylor Swift tickets, penthouse flats, or even Steve Reed’s (nope me neither) leather lined Wellington Boots.

Because maybe mega rich peer Wahid Alli wasn’t just buying clothes, Arsenal tickets, and weekends in New York, for members of the British government.

We have to ask if he was buying influence over the British government.

A level of influence unavailable to the rest of us. Maybe we aren’t showering the government with a Santa’s sack full of freebies every week, but we are actually handing over a lot more than that, giving a massive 37% of our earnings every year, to be wasted away, as Whitehall sees fit.

So where’s our all access Downing Street pass?

It’s in the public domain that an Alli employee was seconded to Labour to oversee candidate selection at the last election, helping decide who would make up the Parliamentary Labour Party. You know, the party which now forms our government with a massive one hundred and fifty eight seat one hundred and fifty seven seat (Thanks Rosie!) majority.

That’s a huge amount of power.

And we know that Lord Alli gave money to favoured Labour candidates, including £10,000 to help ensure Liam Conlon became an MP. You might not have heard of Conlon, but you’ve certainly heard of his mum, Starmer’s Chief of Staff, the much unloved Sue Gray.

A public servant whose wages Starmer has sniffily decreed are beyond the purview of the little people who actually pay them.

Because according to this Labour government we, the plebs, have no right to even discuss how it spends our money.

Just to be clear. There is no suggestion that Lord Alli, or indeed anyone in this story has done anything illegal, or broken any parliamentary rules.

Free tickets for the bosses while blue lipped pensioners freeze in their homes. Weekends in New York for party apparatchiks while working stiffs face the highest tax bill in modern history. Penthouse flats for the rulers while the common folk struggle to make rent.

I’m reminded of pictures of Moscow’s road system from the 1970s. With an empty lane reserved for party members Zils.

Make no mistake. These are revelations, claims and accusations, which if levelled against a Tory administration, would bring down a government.

Yet I expect that Labour, will somehow manage to weather this storm, and survive this rotten scandal.

And then Starmer and his authoritarian stooges will work hard to change the laws, and press regulations, to ensure we never get to hear about the next one.

And even if we do, we’ll be too scared of the consequences, too petrified of the punishment, and too fearful of getting a visit from Plod, to ever talk about it.

Let this be a lesson to us all.

This is what happens, when gymnastics clubs, don’t take the chairs away.

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Thank you for reading Low Status Opinions. I do hope you enjoyed this article. There’s been a lot written about this ongoing scandal. So hopefully I’ve put enough of my own spin on this story to make this a worthwhile read.

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All the very best to you and yours

LSO