Stand up for Emily.

So it seems Emily Maitlis stood herself down after telling the truth about The Cum.
I have been stood down, more than once, for telling the truth.
Mr.Blobby says we can all make up our own minds about The Cum, and thats it’s time to move on from a little political skirmish.
Matt Cock stands at the podium and defends his leader with a stutter and a nod.
The Keir is 24 points ahead in the polls but what does it mean?
We are being played like a kipper. We are being strung along like a chain of bewildered chipolatas. Wool is being pulled, ever so neatly, over our tearful eyes.
Obfuscation, confusion, mystification. Even the commentators sound baffled, upward inflections can be heard all over the newsrooms.
And yet we are being told, reluctantly, to swallow The Cum.
We know there’s something wrong but we can’t quite put our finger on it.
We know they do us wrong but we can’t quite articulate what it is.
We know they are fumbling and lying and fiddling the books but we haven’t got the facts in front of us.
We know The Blob is aping The Fart in the Whitehouse with his fakey shaky news.
We know it has something to do with destabilisation and Bannon and nasty double dealings but we can’t prove it.
We know things they-are-a-changing but we are holding on, our knuckles white with terror.
We know something is ailing, we know something is sick, but the lunatics have taken over the asylum.
If The Cum is sitting in the Rose Garden, his shirt sleeves rolled, his manner calculated and chilling, if The Cum is spewing excuses and the Tory faithful believe him, and the Tory stalwarts give him a chance, if The Cum feigns contrition, and the frightened Blob exonerates him because were he to let The Cum go then he, The Blob, would be even more tongue tied. If The Blob is sooooo inept, incompetent and ineffectual that he cannot dismiss his naughty political strategist then what hope for the rest of us.
We know who put his fingers in the pie, we can see the gravy dripping off his talons, and yet we watch as Master Blobby refuses to do the right thing and punish the rotter for his misdemeanour.
The Cum did wrong, The Cum ran past Blobby’s front door, ran to his car, threw in his wife and child and disappeared oop North, The Cum did what any of us would do, given half the chance, but didn’t because the rest of us did the decent thing and stayed indoors eating left overs and dreaming of a brave new world, whilst The Cum, arrogant and wily, did a moonlight flit. For this self-entitled blighter hid in plain sight, with his shirt sleeves rolled and his job in tact – the cad just slid into his car as Edith Piaf blared out ‘Non, Je ne regret rein.’
The Blob makes me nauseous. The Cum makes me fear for my sanity. He gaslights, and manipulates as the likes of poor old Emily Maitlis are stood down for telling the truth.
But isn’t that what we should all be doing? Calling them out. Boldly shouting from our windows that we are as mad as hell and we won’t take any more, for if we don’t The Cum’s grip on The Blobs cojonas will get even tighter and before you can say ‘second wave’ there will be a third and a fourth and all the good will have died young whilst the bastards inherit the earth.