Magrit Curran, my lovely MP, has a tangential relationship to truth, reality, and indeed her electorate. On Monday the fragrant one – she reeks of hypocrisy and stinks of the rot of a socialism that died a long time ago – tweeted that she had voted to stop fracking. She had of course done no such thing, Magrit had abstained on an SNP and Green backed motion to have a moritorium on fracking. She had voted for a Labour motion to allow fracking, subject to a few minor qualifications that will not unduly trouble the energy companies. It’s a bit like claiming you’ve voted to ban television when you’ve supported a small increase in the licence fee, or saying that you’ve voted to ban smoking when you’ve abstained on a measure to introduce plain packaging.
But that’s Magrit for you, she tells you she lives in the East End when she means she lives in a posh hoose in Newlands over the river. When questioned on the discrepancy between the facts and what actually come out of her gob, Magrit claims she represented the aspirations of East Enders – who apparently aspire to live somewhere else. Or possibly, like Magrit, we aspire not to remember where we live. Life in the East End after decades of Labour misrule is so depressing that the best we can hope for is amnesia. Thankfully Magrit has amnesia by the bucketload. She constantly rewrites her own past so she can live with herself in the present. This would appear to be her sole qualification for the job as local MP.
Magrit also accused Alicsammin of being the only person who posed a threat to the Barnett Formula just a few short weeks after she herself said it ought to be scrapped. She claimed she “wasn’t around” back when the Labour government of Wilson and Healey deliberately mislead Scotland on the true worth of North Sea oil, yet at the time she was in fact the heid bummer of Glasgow University Labour club and constantly name-dropping her close association with Labour’s senior figures and hobbing with Labour’s nobs.
During the independence referendum campaign, Magrit expended considerable time and energy – far more time and energy than she’s ever devoted to the interests of her constituents – telling anyone who would listen that if Scotland became independent her son in London would become a foreigner to her. Admittedly, “anyone who would listen” consisted of the Daily Record and much of the Scottish media, but that’s simply another illustration of the problem Scotland faces. None of the outlets which were so very keen to publish Magrit’s opinings on the foreignness of her adult son have been very keen to question her on her statement on fracking. But then that’s scarcely surprising as Magrit’s statement about her son being furren was of course complete and utter bollocks, as in the event of independence Magrit’s Scottish born son would still be a Scottish citizen even if he lived in outer space. And it would appear to be in the vacuum of the space between her ears that Magrit forms her opinions.
Of course, even if it were the case that Magrit’s offspring would have a different citizenship and a different passport from her in the event of Scottish independence and so she’d be alienated from them and unable to love them just the same, this is not an argument against Scottish independence. It’s an argument that Magrit is sorely in need of psychotherapy and counselling. Or more likely it’s an illustration of the fact that Magrit will utter any auld pish that she thinks bolsters her position without considering whether it’s logically rigorous, or indeed true. Which is another way of saying that she takes the rest of us for mugs.
Magrit is Labour royalty, and like members of the royal family suffers from sycophancy syndrome, which is what happens when a person of somewhat lower than average intelligence spends their adult life surrounded by Labour party hacks, and lackeys. Or in the case of Prince Charles, posh inbred dummies with long titles, and lackeys. Labour in Scotland is now also seriously at risk of inbreeding, as there are now too few of them to ensure enough variety in their rapidly evaporating gene pool. This is why Labour did not reveal the number of members who voted in their recent branch manager election – because the number is embarrassingly small.
Being patronised by Magrit Curran is like being lectured by a person who thinks they are an expert on the work of Steven Hawking because they read the star signs column in the Daily Record. But don’t expect that organ to investigate Magrit’s problems with accuracy, the paper is happy to inform its readers that Labour voted for a moritorium on fracking. But then the Daily Record thinks that fracking is a sexual activity indulged in by Tory MPs with orange segments and fishnet tights. Labour’s against that sort of thing, but only because they don’t get an invite to the party, and the Daily Record is against it, but only because it gives them an excuse to publish outraged editorials.
What galls me the most about Magrit Curran is that this creature supposedly represents me in the Westminster Parliament. The only person Magrit has ever knowingly represented is herself. Tell lies all the time, and no one believes you even when you tell the truth. With Magrit the trust deficiency has got so bad that if she had a pet dog she’d have to get someone else to call it for its dinner.
There are only 100 days until the General Election. 100 days left for Magrit’s political career. 100 more days of expenses claims. 100 more days of lying and being patronised. 100 more days of the Daily Record not noticing. I hope they enjoy them while they last, because the clock is ticking and the countdown has begun.
I told myself when I gave up the fags that I could have a cigar on a special occasion. There’s not been one yet, but when Magrit’s career gets well and truly fracked by the electorate of Glasgow East in May, I’ll puff away on a big fat cigar in celebration. Frack you Magrit.