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Labour Leadership Contest


The Next Labour Leader  

118 members have voted

  1. 1. Who do you want to cunt Cameron in the bastard?

    • Liz Kendall - she invented mintcake.
    • Andy Burnham - such sadness in those eyes
    • Yvette Cooper - uses her maiden name because she doesn't want to be called "I've ate balls"
    • Jeremy Corbyn - substitute geography teacher


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No thats your inferiority complex describing itself, you have no solution Ive seen on here but after backing ed milliband to save us and watching him fail, your idea failed there, now your solution is nothing more than hope in five years theres anything left of a media and labour party savaged corbyn, at the behest of the elites who are infinitely more powerful than him for a tiny moment in time where it might seem we are back on top without any understanding of the financial implications or care for how many people will die trying to acheive this, indeed while the nhs morgues are filling up with people waiting to be seen for the next five years the one thing you seem to want is people to strike and starve, to riot and starve, to back corbyn should they let him win the labour contest until the banks have pulled the rug from under our feet which also involves us starving, then given that theres only enough food to last a month in this country in this globalised economy we should expect the rest of the world to comply with our rejection of austerity when theyre 99% in the hands of the 1%.

Whereas my solution is radical, never been proposed anywhere Ive seen of whats only ever been theoretically possible for all of mankinds history but for the past 20 years, if that, what else you want from me, to tell you when you can go to the toilet? 

 

 

Got as far as "backing Ed Miliband" which is simply a lie.

 

Dennis, I think it's far more likely that it's your inferiority complex at play. It's why you turn into a completely different poster when anyone scrutinises your own views.

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Not for me your manufactured biscuits, all packaging and little substance. I'm sticking to my principles and making my own biscuits this afternoon

That's right, darlin', the men are talking politics, so you just get back to the kitchen now, there's a poppet. x

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I see you, Jeremy Corbyn.

I see your snowy beard and your regal silver hair. I see your cardigans and your flat cap, your linen shirts, your open collars. I see the corduroy and the elbow patches. You look like a geography teacher on a Yoga retreat, Jeremy Corbyn, and half the time I'm expecting you to crack out some bongos and a spliff the length and girth of a donkey's cock.

But I like that about you, Jeremy Corbyn. I like the fact that at some point some greased weasel in a Savile Row suit probably asked you to put some more thought into your image. I like the fact you clearly told him to fuck off, because you're quite happy dressing like a model train enthusiast who only shops in Oxfam.

I see the steel that your facade hides, Jeremy Corbyn. I see Krishnan Guru-Murthy try to take you down, even though he's a grown man who still gels his hair like a teenager expecting to finger a girl in a nineties cinema. I see the anger flash in your eyes as you refuse to be drawn into the pointless circus, the maelstrom of media bullshit they're all flinging out to muddy the waters.

I see they weren't expecting it, Jeremy Corbyn, when a little integrity actually resonates with people. I see Andy Burnham's confused little Ken-doll face as he looks at the polls. It's almost as if Labour supporters quite like the idea of not plunging thousands of children into poverty, isn't it, Jeremy Corbyn? It's almost as if not everyone wants cuts piled on cuts served up by a bunch of snivelling cunts in tuxedos. It's almost as if fawning in their shadow doesn't constitute an opposition.

It's almost as if you seem human, Jeremy Corbyn, even if you probably are too idealistic. It's almost as if you might actually give a shit. It's almost as if you're doing this because you actually want to help people rather than fill your pockets with caviar and blood money.

It's almost as if you could win, Jeremy Corbyn. It's such a shame, isn't it?

Such a shame that you'll always be too busy, too tired, too perpetually on edge.

Such a shame that your holy task is the only thing you can truly commit to.

I see you, Jeremy Corbyn, trudging through the grass of the cemetery. I hear the chirping of crickets in the night air and the shriek of a distant fox. I see your breath in the cold void, your flat cap barely lit by the gas lamp bobbing up and down in your hand.

I see the duffel bag in your other hand, Jeremy Corbyn. I see the wooden handle protruding from it. I see the crypt, the gargoyles overseeing its marble corners wrapped in ivy, their grotesque faces mocking and taunting you as the sickly yellow light from your lantern casts long shadows on their features.

I see you push the heavy iron door, Jeremy Corbyn, and I hear the metal shriek. I see you step on the roughly-cut stone steps of the crypt. I hear water dripping from the walls as your descend the spiral staircase, the glow of your lamp bobbing like a firefly in the abyss.

I see your feet touch the sodden earth at the bottom of the staircase, Jeremy Corbyn. I see you hang your lamp on a rusty hook on the wall. I see the high roof of the cave, the stalactites dripping groundwater onto the lichen-covered ground.

I see the crude wooden cross in the churned earth, Jeremy Corbyn. I smell the sweet scent of decay. I see you check your watch. It's five minutes to midnight, isn't it, Jeremy Corbyn?

I see you place the duffel bag down on the ground. I see you pull the wooden shaft free and I see its perfectly sharpened point. I see you aim it at a spot in the earth just in front of that wooden cross, your body taut, coiled like a snake ready to strike.

I hear your watch beep once as the clock strikes midnight, Jeremy Corbyn.

I hear you gasp as a withered hand punches through the muck, clawing to get out, dragging itself free. I see the frizzy orange hair, the dessicated head, the empty eye sockets. I see the fanged mouth hissing, spitting dirt. I see a second hand burst free, reaching for you, frantically pedalling the air.

I see you brace yourself, Jeremy Corbyn. Not yet.

I see the torso burst from the earth, Jeremy Corbyn. I see the faded blue of the mouldering old blouse. I see the pearl necklace.

I see you lunge, Jeremy Corbyn. I see the point of your spear crash through the monster's ribs, splintering them like wet twigs. I hear the inhuman roar, nasal and high-pitched. I feel the ground shake as the beast screams, smoke pouring from its rotten mouth.

I see it slump, Jeremy Corbyn, the skeletal fingers twitching and drumming on the earth. I hear you breathing heavily as you pull your weapon free.

This is your real duty, isn't it, Jeremy Corbyn? In the day, you do all you can to keep cruelty out of power. But at night - every night - you're here. All because she's too evil to stay where she belongs. All because every night, she tries to claw her way out of Hell. All because this lady's not for burning.

Every night, Jeremy Corbyn.

Well, almost every night. Charlotte Church does every other Wednesday, just so you can have a nap and a spliff.

I see you, Jeremy Corbyn.

I fucking see you.

 

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I see you, Jeremy Corbyn.

I see your snowy beard and your regal silver hair. I see your cardigans and your flat cap, your linen shirts, your open collars. I see the corduroy and the elbow patches. You look like a geography teacher on a Yoga retreat, Jeremy Corbyn, and half the time I'm expecting you to crack out some bongos and a spliff the length and girth of a donkey's cock.

 

But I like that about you, Jeremy Corbyn. I like the fact that at some point some greased weasel in a Savile Row suit probably asked you to put some more thought into your image. I like the fact you clearly told him to fuck off, because you're quite happy dressing like a model train enthusiast who only shops in Oxfam.

I see the steel that your facade hides, Jeremy Corbyn. I see Krishnan Guru-Murthy try to take you down, even though he's a grown man who still gels his hair like a teenager expecting to finger a girl in a nineties cinema. I see the anger flash in your eyes as you refuse to be drawn into the pointless circus, the maelstrom of media bullshit they're all flinging out to muddy the waters.

I see they weren't expecting it, Jeremy Corbyn, when a little integrity actually resonates with people. I see Andy Burnham's confused little Ken-doll face as he looks at the polls. It's almost as if Labour supporters quite like the idea of not plunging thousands of children into poverty, isn't it, Jeremy Corbyn? It's almost as if not everyone wants cuts piled on cuts served up by a bunch of snivelling cunts in tuxedos. It's almost as if fawning in their shadow doesn't constitute an opposition.

It's almost as if you seem human, Jeremy Corbyn, even if you probably are too idealistic. It's almost as if you might actually give a shit. It's almost as if you're doing this because you actually want to help people rather than fill your pockets with caviar and blood money.

It's almost as if you could win, Jeremy Corbyn. It's such a shame, isn't it?

Such a shame that you'll always be too busy, too tired, too perpetually on edge.

Such a shame that your holy task is the only thing you can truly commit to.

I see you, Jeremy Corbyn, trudging through the grass of the cemetery. I hear the chirping of crickets in the night air and the shriek of a distant fox. I see your breath in the cold void, your flat cap barely lit by the gas lamp bobbing up and down in your hand.

I see the duffel bag in your other hand, Jeremy Corbyn. I see the wooden handle protruding from it. I see the crypt, the gargoyles overseeing its marble corners wrapped in ivy, their grotesque faces mocking and taunting you as the sickly yellow light from your lantern casts long shadows on their features.

I see you push the heavy iron door, Jeremy Corbyn, and I hear the metal shriek. I see you step on the roughly-cut stone steps of the crypt. I hear water dripping from the walls as your descend the spiral staircase, the glow of your lamp bobbing like a firefly in the abyss.

I see your feet touch the sodden earth at the bottom of the staircase, Jeremy Corbyn. I see you hang your lamp on a rusty hook on the wall. I see the high roof of the cave, the stalactites dripping groundwater onto the lichen-covered ground.

I see the crude wooden cross in the churned earth, Jeremy Corbyn. I smell the sweet scent of decay. I see you check your watch. It's five minutes to midnight, isn't it, Jeremy Corbyn?

I see you place the duffel bag down on the ground. I see you pull the wooden shaft free and I see its perfectly sharpened point. I see you aim it at a spot in the earth just in front of that wooden cross, your body taut, coiled like a snake ready to strike.

I hear your watch beep once as the clock strikes midnight, Jeremy Corbyn.

I hear you gasp as a withered hand punches through the muck, clawing to get out, dragging itself free. I see the frizzy orange hair, the dessicated head, the empty eye sockets. I see the fanged mouth hissing, spitting dirt. I see a second hand burst free, reaching for you, frantically pedalling the air.

I see you brace yourself, Jeremy Corbyn. Not yet.

I see the torso burst from the earth, Jeremy Corbyn. I see the faded blue of the mouldering old blouse. I see the pearl necklace.

I see you lunge, Jeremy Corbyn. I see the point of your spear crash through the monster's ribs, splintering them like wet twigs. I hear the inhuman roar, nasal and high-pitched. I feel the ground shake as the beast screams, smoke pouring from its rotten mouth.

I see it slump, Jeremy Corbyn, the skeletal fingers twitching and drumming on the earth. I hear you breathing heavily as you pull your weapon free.

This is your real duty, isn't it, Jeremy Corbyn? In the day, you do all you can to keep cruelty out of power. But at night - every night - you're here. All because she's too evil to stay where she belongs. All because every night, she tries to claw her way out of Hell. All because this lady's not for burning.

Every night, Jeremy Corbyn.

Well, almost every night. Charlotte Church does every other Wednesday, just so you can have a nap and a spliff.

I see you, Jeremy Corbyn.

I fucking see you.

Fuck. Ing. Hell.

 

That's beautiful; must be Stewart Lee. Shirley?

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If Jeremy needs time off to lead the Labour Party, I'll happily take over the Thatcher undead duties. I'll even have Hermes sat, tied to a chair, watching me stake his beloved through her heart night after night.

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http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/jul/27/labour-is-now-so-passive-it-might-as-well-be-led-by-an-out-of-office-email

 

 

Labour is now so passive, it might as well be led by an out-of-office email

 

So Labour passed the welfare bill with the passive silence of a married orgasm. It has lost touch so badly that it is now getting lectures on empathy from someone from Paisley. Harriet Harman might as well stand down and leave the party to be managed by an out-of-office email. It’s as if their MPs know they lost the election but don’t realise they actually still have jobs in parliament. Like when a nursery kid finishes their one line in the nativity play then carries on picking their nose in front of the school … LABOUR WE CAN STILL SEE YOU.

 

Some explanation for the abstention is vote pairing, which means if a Tory MP isn’t there to vote yes because they’re busy abroad, or at a function, or laying eggs into the mouth of Prince Philip, a Labour MP will abstain in return, to make the decision about whether people who didn’t go to uni are allowed more than two children, by two parties run by people with three children, fairer. How to explain vote pairing? It’s like when someone is too ashamed/ill to go to their food bank, but most people living in that area are too self-obsessed to donate anything – it kind of evens out.

 

It is somewhat rich to see Labour being berated for abstention by an electorate who largely didn’t vote because Thursday is “pizza night”. I suppose the Labour party are like people who’ll watch a man beating his wife in the street but don’t want to get involved. “Really this is a private matter between the Tory party and the starving, distracted masses who decided to stay with them. I mean – if she really didn’t enjoy living in poverty – why didn’t she just leave in May?”

 

At least we know why Ed Miliband ruled out any deals between Labour and the SNP: he knew that realistically he’d have been doing deals with the Tories. We now have a Labour party so passive they make Anastasia Steele look like Boudica. Is there anything they will oppose? The destruction of the BBC? Leaving a Murdoch-dominated media landscape with shows where, each week, shrieking irradiated cannibals sing power ballads as they compete for the right to die?

 

An antsy liberal press pushes the idea of one of the leadership candidacy androids being able to court Tory voters, despite seeming completely unable to convince their own, and frets that Jeremy Corbyn will lead Labour to the left and alienate public opinion. From where they are at the moment John Major could lead them to the left, and Corbyn’s policies are actually fairly popular with the public. It’s worth remembering that in the press, public opinion is often used interchangeably with media opinion, as if the public was somehow much the same as a group of radically rightwing billionaire sociopaths. To be fair, much of the negative commentary on Corbyn explicitly focuses on how badly he will play in the media, without asking why that should be when he is the only candidate with any obvious personality or charm. In lieu of any charisma from the preferred candidates, Tony Blair appeared like a prize-winning Iraqi Halloween costume and was cheered for spewing out some meaningless rhetorical algorithm by a political class that somehow still uses the phrase “big beast” in the middle of a paedophile scandal.

 

I suspect that what all the Corbyn-bashing really means is that our media thinks the only people who are fit for anything in this society are those who have internalised the assumptions of its propaganda. That banks are too big to fail but countries aren’t. That unbelievable foreign villains have made movies ridiculous, but not history or the news. I honestly don’t think that Corbyn would make a good leader but only because he would quickly take his own life in a highly unconvincing manner on a long country walk, an inquiry taking 15 years to report that he had kicked himself to death.

 

The reason for Labour’s abstention is that polls indicate a lot of public support for the welfare bill. I guess for anyone who’s read Descartes, the logical conclusion of deciding your policy through polls is eventual non-existence.

 

One thing the welfare bill accomplishes is to put people who have failed a fitness to work test on to the same payment as people who have passed it, like some tent-revivalist preacher tipping sinners out of wheelchairs and screaming “Walk!” Who would have thought that electing people who hate the welfare state to run our welfare state could go so badly? In practical terms this change means people with things such as MS and Parkinson’s will lose £30 a week. That extra £30 a week was there because, sometimes, chronically ill people’s bodies don’t work so well and they might have to get a bus or a cab or pay the babysitter to stay for an extra hour so they can get to and from the latest humiliation from the Department for Work and Pensions. If you, as a candidate for leading a political party, can’t make your electorate see that is wrong – or, worse, won’t try – then you have stated that you don’t want to fight injustice but are simply looking for your own role in serving it.

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Good to see Burnham offering some type support to Corbyn by slating the haters. At least he can see what the party supporters are wanting and acknowledging it. Rather than demanding they all get a transplant and calling them all loony lefties.

 

I think he's probably just jostling for position with Cooper. "I'm the nicest of the three Tories".

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I'll get negged for this - and rightly so - but the fortunes of the Labour party have mirrored that of football. A working class concern that was taken over by the middle class and has gradually become more and more bland and generally full of money obsessed cunts.  I can just see Chuka Umuna in a Silvinho shirt telling you how much he loves Graham George.

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The fact that this

 

" I honestly don’t think that Corbyn would make a good leader but only because he would quickly take his own life in a highly unconvincing manner on a long country walk, an inquiry taking 15 years to report that he had kicked himself to death."

 

 is printed and a lot of people will think that is a genuine possibility is fucking mental. I'm one of those who think it is a genuine possibility!

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The fact that this

 

" I honestly don’t think that Corbyn would make a good leader but only because he would quickly take his own life in a highly unconvincing manner on a long country walk, an inquiry taking 15 years to report that he had kicked himself to death."

 

 is printed and a lot of people will think that is a genuine possibility is fucking mental. I'm one of those who think it is a genuine possibility!

 

I don't think they'll even let it get that far. They'll just lie about the vote if he wins.

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I don't think they'll even let it get that far. They'll just lie about the vote if he wins.

Well aye, but it's a clear nod to Robin Cook, and Dr David Kelly. So what we are saying is that a lot of people strongly suspect that our government murders people!

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They haven't got the brains or balls to actually argue on the reality so they just continue to smear in order to keep the readers misinformed.

 

The left has the facts, the right has the voice.

 

Tory policy is far more "extreme" than most of the things that Corbyn is pushing.

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Tories, don't vote for Jeremy Corbyn. It won't end well The "#ToriesforCorbyn" want the Marxist dinosaur to lead Labour into political oblivion, but his election would poison British politics

 

With each passing day, the likelihood of Jeremy Corbyn being elected Labour leader becomes yet greater. And with the chance of the unreconstructed Marxist dinosaur becoming Leader of the Opposition rising, the spirits of Conservatives everywhere have risen too.

But I’m not one of these #ToriesForCorbyn. Toby Young et al make a good point – a Corbyn victory would be a disaster for the Labour Party, and by Jove, who wouldn’t want that? Well, I would, except it would also be a disaster for the country and for conservatism. That’s why I coined the hashtag #ToriesAgainstCorbyn, and here’s why you should oppose Corbyn becoming Labour leader, too.

 

A government led by Jeremy Corbyn would be unthinkably bad for the UK. “A-ha, but he could never get into government!” I hear #ToriesForCorbyn say. But an official opposition led by him would hardly be good. No matter how incredible or ludicrous, Corbyn would still have six questions at PMQs. His frontbench would still have a representative on Question Time and Newsnight. His party’s policy announcements and press releases would get just as much news coverage as a credible opposition.

 

In short, Labour being Labour, they’ll still have the same platform, no matter how bizarre their leader’s views. The only difference is Corbyn’s views will be more left-wing, so will shift the entire political debate to the left. Long-term, so long as Labour and the Conservatives remain the two major parties in the UK, the only way to make progress is to persuade Labour to accept our position. Our ideas don’t win just when our party does, but when the other party advocates our ideas, too.

 

Instead, a Corbyn victory would lend credibility to the far-left’s rejection of reality: giving a megaphone to their already over-blown and bombastic politics of fear and envy. Inevitably, this would skew the discourse, letting Corbyn’s ideas become the default alternative to the Conservatives. Corbyn’s brand of socialism would poison the groundwater of British politics for a generation: influencing people, particularly young people, across the political spectrum.

 

But even if you agreed with that, a Corbyn victory also offers a platform to even nastier views. His leadership would legitimise tolerance of Hezbollah and Hamas, whom he calls his ‘friends’: as he did the IRA just two weeks after they almost killed Margaret Thatcher. And with a global struggle against extremism, the stakes are far too high to have a Leader of the Opposition that considers terrorists to be his friends.

 

All of the above applies if he loses the general election. Although that’s made more likely by Corbyn’s longing to be back in the USSR, it’s not a foregone conclusion. Indeed, in 1975, Margaret Thatcher was widely portrayed as ‘unelectable’. Her election as party leader was cheered by Labour as playing to the Conservative base and guaranteeing yet another Conservative defeat. Three general election landslides later, nobody was left worrying about her electability.

 

Jeremy Corbyn – to say the least – is no Margaret Thatcher. But as Harold Macmillan said, governments can always be undermined by “Events, dear boy, events.” And if he were leader, it would take just one event – from the collapse of the Eurozone to a domestic political scandal – to put Jeremy Corbyn into Number 10. For the sake of the country and for the innumerable Conservative achievements he’d unwind, it is important that that option be taken off the table.

 

I don’t think Jeremy Corbyn would win the 2020 election – but then I don’t Andy Burnham, Yvette Cooper, or Liz Kendall would either. Their party – divided, in denial, and wholly owned by the unions – is no match for a competent Conservative government overseeing a growing economy. But there’s always that risk of the unexpected. So while Corbyn doesn’t reduce the risk of Labour winning, he does raise the stakes. And the danger of bringing socialism back to the UK under Jeremy Corbyn is all too real a threat for #ToriesAgainstCorbyn to risk.

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The only difference is Corbyn’s views will be more left-wing, so will shift the entire political debate to the left. Long-term, so long as Labour and the Conservatives remain the two major parties in the UK, the only way to make progress is to persuade Labour to accept our position. Our ideas don’t win just when our party does, but when the other party advocates our ideas, too.

 

This bit. Just. This. Bit.

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