From:   "John Hurst", [EMAIL PROTECTED]

About Scotland on Sunday
By GERALD WARNER

HI FELLOW home-makers and child-nurturers of the New Britain! I know exactly
what you're thinking: 'Isn't he marvellous - just a couple of weeks after
having a baby, here he is, back at work on a public platform!' But - hey - I
mean - I don't have to tell you that's what it's all about. About
responsibility. Values. Valuing responsibility. Tradition. Change. Changing
tradition. The inclusive ideal that brought me to your conference today -
Opportunism for all!

"Don't expect a political speech from me - you had to put up with enough of
that sort of thing during a thousand years of social exclusion, fox-hunting
and homophobia under the Forces of Conservatism. No, I want to tell you
about
my hopes for young Leo - there should be a pack of photographs on your seats
- and for the kind of Britain I want him to grow up in. New Britain. Full of
hope. Full of university places - for the many, not the few. Full of
asylum-seekers, bringing their wonderful cultural diversity.

"And kids. Your kids. Kids at ease with the fact that they are gay, although
most of them may never have realised it before. A health service where
illness is a thing of the past, where you no longer have to cope with
elderly
parents, thanks to 'Do not resuscitate' notices. Values. Old values. Good
values. Good old British values.

"My call to you today is to respond to the challenge of community by
embracing the kaleidoscope of renewal and the spectre of modernisation, by
changing the world - changing for the better, not the worse - changing
attitudes - changing nappies - Hey! Steady on - if you want to send jars of
chutney as presents to Cherie, leave them at the stage door - don't throw
them! And - by the way - is that the fastest you can clap? '

Blessed are the jam-makers. Historians will record that, at around 11
o'clock
last Wednesday morning, the Fourth Reich collapsed. Britain has awakened
from
the hypnotist's spell, roused from mesmerised impotence by the slow handclap
of the Women's Institute. Labour might, in some guise, stagger through the
next election; but Blairism is dead.

The Great Charlatan has been emasculated by hands skilled in dead-heading
roses with secateurs. Those of us who were never for an instant taken in by
this mountebank have marvelled for years at the purblind naivety of our
countrymen. Now, however belatedly, the blinkers have fallen from their eyes
and they see that the emperor has no clothes. Nor, as became evident at last
week's G�tterd�mmerung, has he the personal resources to recover any
credibility.

As he stood there, barracked and scorned by 10,000 women who could take no
more of his insufferable imposture, the grinning jackanapes wilted like a
rag
doll. His game-show comp�re's grin froze into a ghastly rictus of dismay and
incomprehension: no more the water-treading saviour of the New Britain, he
resembled nothing so much as Frank Spencer, the gormless character in Some
Mothers Do Have 'Em.

The real, mortal damage was caused less by the audience's reaction than by
his inability to cope with it. His face glistened with sweat, like
greasepaint dissolving on the cheeks of an old hag, and suddenly there was
nothing there - no personality, no substance, no guts. Here, nakedly
exposed,
was the dead zombie heart of New Labour. This was Blair: the portrait in the
attic must have improved dramatically at that moment. When the Great
Charlatan shambled off the Wembley stage with the demeanour of a whipped
cur, the curtain came down on the Project.

Even the most ardent supporters of the Project now know that the game is up.
It may be possible to get a Labour government elected again, but the crusade
is over. It is all just ordinary, sublunary politics now. Put as much
sticking plaster as possible on the Health Service, tart-up some schools and
hope for the best; but the first whiff of Islington-speak will act like
mustard gas on Labour supporters.

The wonderful, hopeful thing is that all the signs are that the habit of
disdain for public opinion is now so ingrained that Labour cannot save
itself. Three hours after more than a million Scots had served notice on the
Scottish Executive regarding Section 28, it arrogantly rejected an innocuous
amendment to the legislation which tentatively recognised the existence of
marriage. Similarly, just 48 hours after the Women's Institute, with a
strong
rural base, had reminded Blair of his mortality, he resumed his vendetta
against hunting. Whom the gods wish to destroy -

Blair's place in history is assured and reprehensible. He is a hollow, empty
creature, with no beliefs and no passions, save the holding of office and
the patronage it confers. His sole accomplishment has been to vandalise our
stable constitution and reduce our country to fissiparous incoherence,
eroding our national identity and setting region against region. He has also
gerrymandered one house of parliament into a coven of cronies, an affront to
democracy.

For the rest, he is the champion of family values who has ruthlessly
promoted
sodomy; the semi-Catholic who has voted 28 times to extend abortion; the man
who abolished the Assisted Places scheme, whose son attends the Oratory
School; the jailer of Pinochet who gave grovelling hospitality to the
Chinese
dictator; the ethical statesman who sold jet fighters to Indonesia; and the
bomber of Kosovo who is now bombing in Britain.

It would be wrong to dignify as rhetoric the flow of meaningless, vacuous
waffle that issues from the mountebank who pollutes the office once held by
Pitt, Disraeli and Churchill. The country is now satiated with Blairspeak:
as last week demonstrated, it will tolerate no more. Did he think it could last
for ever? Did the supplanting of Diana by Camilla in the affections of the
fickle mob, within three years, carry no intimation of mortality? Yet mortal
he is and therein lies Britain's hope. Farewell, soon, Great Charlatan.


"In England today we can do what we like, as long as we do as we're told."
-- Marriott Edgar



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