Rearrange the letters: “Voters cave in”

There may be no “I” in team (of course, there’s a “me, ta” if you care to rearrange) but there’s definitely one in “misanthrope”. In fact, if you care to sit down with a pen and paper you can make it into “I’m hope’s rant” which,  if you treat hope as the final evil to emerge from Pandora’s box, means that the two configurations  combine to give an apt description of a lot of what I write.  We probably shouldn’t read too much into anagrams, for whilst Tony Blair MP gives “I’m Tory plan B”, Margaret Thatcher gives “That great charmer”.

I learn today, via wise friends, that there’s a bid alive to try to make the August Bank Holiday “Margaret Thatcher Day“. An interesting choice – my first response was that it’s the ideal choice of day, signifying the end of holidays, summer and fun and an inevitable slide into a cold winter that will end up claiming the lives of the weak and elderly. On reflection, I think that referring to Thatcher at the end of August is likely to make the inevitable barbecued repast stick in my craw – although all those barbies will make for easy, impromptu effigy burning. I’ve made my opinions on Thatcher clear in the past (at least as clear as I ever make anything)  so, as you can guess, I’m broadly against this act of holiday consecration.

Naturally, I begin thoughts of fomenting opposition and, just as quickly, part of my brain thinks “Ah, one of those 38 degrees pricks will start…” and I go off the idea.  Here’s the problem with my attempts to be hope’s rants. I’m an equal opportunities misanthrope. Some broken part of my soul finds it just as easy to take against idealists and people who turn up at your door with petitions as it does against the corrupt politicians, bankers, racists and all the other arseholes who go to such lengths to ruin our days.  As soon as you get enough people under one banner that dark corner of my heart labels them as idiots.

There shouldn’t be an I in team. Seriously, you don’t want me on your team. I’ll be an unbearably snide prick. When I manage to briefly silence the devil on my shoulder, though, I believe in all you go-getting, rainforest-saving, democratic, dolphin-friendly bastards. Go for it. Stop them making our official last chance to get rat-arsed at a barbie day into Wicked Witch of the West day. Oppose the oil giants and the bankers and all the other pin-striped tossrags. And when the fight gets desperate and you need evil to fight evil, I’ll be here, skulking in a dark basement like Hannibal Lecter. Bring a nice Chianti.

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