Poor Jim Murphy, he’s getting increasingly desperate as he runs on empty to destination nowhere, and still no one likes him. Even most of his own party can’t abide him – especially not most of his own party, as those poor benighted basterts actually have to deal with him face to face. Poor poor Jim, naebdie is sticking their paycard in the Labourometer, the lights are going out, and his gas is going peep. Poor Jim, everyone hates him and no one cares.
Jim spent much of Wednesday making increasing hysterical claims. The SNP are Cameron’s litle helpers, they’re in league with Satan, they’re the minor demons in the service of Be’elzecameron. The SNP sacrifices Curran chickens on the altar of Osborne. Jim stands alone as the guardian of the gates of Hades, keeping out the saltire face painted hell hordes armed with nothing more than an irn bru crate and the BBC Scotland news department on speed dial.
How can the SNP possibly target hard working honest Labour MPs who’ve never pauchled their expenses that much. It’s wrong. It’s unfair. And by trying to unseat Labour MPs the SNP is doing the Tories’ work for them. Because it’s only the Tories who are allowed to target Labour MPs. The SNP have no business getting involved in a British election. Didn’t Jim win the referendum for the Union armed with nothing more than an egg stained shirt and a megaphone so that Scotland could keep on having British elections? And where’s the thanks he gets eh? Bunch of ingrates, thae voters. Voters in Scotland are not supposed to think, they’re not supposed to make decisions. That sort of thing ought to be left to the likes of Jim.
Only the Tories have proprietary rights to attack Labour in Scotland in Jim’s mental universe. Which is just as well for Jim, because the Tories in Scotland have an even worse aim than the baddies in a Bruce Willis movie, and would never be able to take a pot shot at Jim as he jogs along in Eastwood. Jim’s a superhero, in his own mind if nowhere else, and he’s going to save the Labour party in Scotland so he’s got a career and can get on the telly.
Jim’s a superhero with a special superhero costume and a special superhero superpower. His supercostume is a Scotland top and his superpower is amnesia. He’ll fly into action from the giddy heights of an irn bru crate. He’ll yell at the media with the power of a megaphone. Jim’s forgotten that he’s not a socialist, he’s forgotten that he actively campaigned and bullied in order to get student fees introduced. He’s forgotten all about the Iraq war, privatisation, Tony Blair and sooking up to bankers. He hopes that the rest of us have forgotten too. By the power of numbskull!
Poor Jim Murphy. There he is a superhero with superpowers and the only power he’s got is the power to make Labour MPs vanish. Watch Magrit Curran fade away! See Jimmy Hood disappear! Anas Sarwar will inherit no more, Tom Harris will sink without a trace. Jim has achieved great things, and he’s done it all just by being himself and not the person he wants us to think he is. That’s Jim’s other superpower, but not the one he wants – we can see right through him.
In years to come this will be Jim’s legacy. He’ll be the fag end of the Labour party in Scotland. He’s the footnote, the epitaph, the full stop. Jim’s the little bit of concentrated poison at the end of a long drag that produces the death rattle. And in the history books it will be Jim’s name that’s mentioned when academics discuss how the Labour party died in Scotland, forever associated with killing the party he swore he’d save. Labour in Scotland was born in hope, conceived in fine ideals. It died with Jim’s spinning frantically with notes on his sleeve scribbled by John McTernan, trying shift Scotland further to the right than Ted Heath, trying to get Ed Miliband elected. Labour in Scotland died, not with a bang, but with a wimp.
Poor Jim, all those lies, all those untruths, all those half truths, all those stains on his soul, and all for Naughtie on Radio 4. Jim’s upset at the arrogance of the SNP, how dare they think they might win. That’s supposed to him that’s being arrogant, he’s had a lifetime’s practice for this moment. He was the big hitter, the superhero superstar, feted by the press, hailed by the media. He had his moment in the sun in the winter in Scotland. It didn’t go to plan. Poor Jim.
Jim was going to give the little people what for, he was going to put them in their place. Jim was going to smash the Alicsamminites and smite the Sturgeonistas. Jim had superpowers and a picture in the Guardian with a halo around his head. He was going to walk on the troubled water of the referendum, he was going to turn Labour’s rancid fish and wee bit of stale bread into a feast and feed the feeble forty. Jim was going to bring the lost Scottish sheep home, with his superpower of amnesia and his quiet voice and his McTernan dog whistles. It’s going to take a lot more than a miracle to save Labour’s sorry arses.
But the lost Scottish sheep have other ideas. We’re not fooled by Jim trying to herd us and take our dreams to the abattoir. Because it’s not us who’re in for the chop Jim, that would be you. Labour’s headed for the knacker’s yard, and there’s no superpower on earth that’s going to stop it.
Poor Jim Murphy. It’s almost possible to feel sorry for him as he stares oblivion and humiliation and disgrace in the face. Almost, but then you look at Jim as he spins and he lies and dissembles, and you think to yourself – couldn’t happen to a more deserving man.
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