Those new Labour language rules in full

The Labour Party’s Cheerful Committee for Conversational Politeness has followed up its decree that party members shall not call each other traitor or scabs with new guidelines.

  1. It is no longer acceptable to call Ramsay Macdonald a complete shit without first prefacing the remarks with the words ‘but of course he won two general elections which is more than any trot ever has done, so he can’t be all bad.’
  2. It is no longer aceptable to call Roy Jenkins a splitter and a twat without pointing out that by forming the SDP he was in fact the godfather of Progress,and therefore ultimately right.
  3. It is no longer acceptable to call anyone who left Labour for the SDP an alibi for Thatcherism; in fact, they did not really leave Labour, they merely paid their subs to the wrong place. This error in paying their subs to the wrong place should not be referred to as the Toynbe confusion without also acknowledging that Polly’scolumns are far too good to simply be consigned straight to the cat litter tray.
  4. It is no longer acceptable to refer to anyone as a total fucking Blairite unless it is clear from body language or conext that this is a good thing.

Further edicts will follo as soon as we can be bothered to make up excuses for shutting down local parties or pissing on freedom of speech within Labour.

Thunder

The dog looked through through the open door and

Refused to venture into the rain.

Above our heads thunder rolled, and rain came down in

Stair rods, tamping down and beating

The compost in the backyard pots into sodden

Composite.

 

His coat adjusted, another tug on the dog’s lead

Persuaded him to venture out, looking

Unconvinced by my explanation that there is no such thing as

Bad weather, only bad clothing. While I

Hunched inside my coat and pulled my cap peak down

The dog hugged the backyard walls on the

Windward side of the lane, taking shelter where he could.

 

By the time we reached the open space the rain was

Abating, and the dog ran tentatively to the long grass

Parting the  soaking fronds with his nose

Knowing the vixen’s scent should be there, but

Discovering the squall had washed it away.

 

Turning our backs on the copse where the vixen

Sheltered with her cubs we headed home, dog wriggling inside his coat

My cap pushed back to make it easier to see the early morning traffic.

Thunder passed, and soon enough dog was dry and curled up on the sofa

Where I was eating breakfast  and planning my day.

Thunder had passed, and coats were discarded to dry for the next time.