Cast not a clout till May

I take great exception at having a new Prime Minister foisted upon me again.
I cannot believe that I will be governed by a politician that is taken from the list of rent-a-twat.
If I try and recall them it is with a sinking heart. I mean look at who they are, look who is going to represent us. I say us, for there are those amongst us who will be drooling into their daily expresso as they chow down on their devilled kidneys, who are positively fired up by this leadership contest. Those who are positively in thrall to the likes of Jeremy Runt, sorry I spelt his name wrong, Dominic Raaaaaab, Michael Hove Actually, the rabid Sajid Javid, Rory, the love child of the Adams Family and Boris Trump.
Their combined wealth could rebuild Corby, Port Talbot and the entire South Bank of Teeside. They have as much interest in my wellbeing as a Lorraine Kelly has in an Esther Oy Vey.
The Conservative party, our very own GOP, does not represent me, or indeed millions of others like me, and yet they cling onto power like a rat clinging on with their whiskers. For nine years the United Kingdom has been on a slippery slope of polarisation. For nearly a decade we have been part of the growing divide. When once seven per cent of the population owned eighty-four percent of the wealth the figure is now one-ninety six. Just one percent of the idle rich demonstrating their power over the rest of us serfs. They could care less about my bus service being cut, about my high street dwindling, about my hospital closing. They could give a monkeys about my oak trees dying, about my trains stalling about my graveyard crumbling. They really really say they care, they really do, but if actions speak louder than words then I must have blinked and missed it. We are witnessing The Great British Fake Off, where the lies are so glittery, so garish, so spangly that the poor old truth is standing in the shadows. In 1949 George Orwell described a nightmarish future in his dystopian novel ‘1984’, he wrote ‘In a time of universal deceit telling the truth is a revolutionary act.’
So as the old order huddles in corners, baring it’s teeth, they growl as they are quietly terrified of the articulate young ‘uns who are sprouting up like grass through concrete. I declare my deep respect for those that silence my cynicism, that shout down my tired old moans, I love that Stormzy and Akala and Greta and the placard carrying members of the newly formed Extinction Rebels, stick their fingers up to the so-called elite. I applaud their courage. For make no mistake, when the bookies stop their speculating, whoever gets in we will be left with a Prime Minister who does not want to change anything, other than their own status.
I don’t understand the workings of proportional representation and I don’t understand the confusion about democracy, all I do know is that if people hold the power then whoever the new PM is they had better watch out because I, for one, want my voice heard, and the voices of the young ring louder and sweeter than the xenophobic croaking of the frightened crusties.