One rarely has the time to read ‘the papers’. As in all the papers. Generally I scan the Times in the morning, And then one arrives at the airport and one has simply fuck-all else to do with one’s time.

We were ‘rush-houred’. Where if we’d left at a normal time, we’d have arrived 6 hours after the flight left, whereas leaving 15 minutes before ‘perfect’ had us at Heathrow over 2 hours before. Just maffs, innit. Maffs and 32 million cars. Most of ’em diesel.

So I have ‘read’ both the Sun and the Mail’. And decided… they are the same paper. But like, word-for-word, the same. Massive, red-top, sensational right-wing ‘news’. But its not news. Its quite olds. Same song different day. And as its all about Corbyn and his terrorist tendencies. Which, like everything Corbyn, is a lifelong and consistent kind of deal. He is unchanging man. And thus a massive security risk. He was ‘in bed’ with the IRA. He’s the same with Hamas, Hezbollah and is certainly less than unequivocal when it comes to ISIS. An ‘apologist’ they call him. A ‘tosser’ I call him. Oh, and a danger to the country. And if he’s not, then Diane Abbot (who can sometimes remember her own name, just not very often) and John McDonnell (Voldemort) certainly are.

Yet no-one, other than the airport-curious, would ever pick up a Mail or a Sun unless they were already Farage-loving, demi-Trumpster, ultra-right, uber-fascist-just-short-of-the-full-zeig-heil, super-Conservatives. So in a way both are ‘preaching to the converted’, ‘singing to the choir’, pick your metaphor. Its unlikely someone trying to pick up a copy of ‘socialist worker’ accidentally grabs the Mail, reads the first 6 pages of screaming red-top 175-point type and suddenly thinks: ‘wow, Jeremy Corbyn’s socialist agenda would be catastrophic for our fine and proud nation. What a fool I’ve been…’ and burst into a chorus of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. Unlikely.

The election’s tomorrow. But not in Scotland, where I’ll be living for the next eight days. So I’ve voted. Postally. Which, if the mail services don’t screw up, those numb-nut twits at Barnet Council (the ones who didn’t know I was on the electoral register, even though they sent me a polling card, the ones who lost my postal vote application, even though they had Mel’s which was in the same envelope, the ones who printed out the wrong electoral list at the last election, depriving good voters of their right) probably will. But I tried.

Happy Birthday Mummy Natty

A xxxx