During the Cold War, it was accepted that we would recruit spies and so would they.
Oxford and Cambridge became notorious hunting grounds for the Soviet Union, as they sought out clever young lefties who they might convince to go full retard into communism and then spy for the Motherland.
They had some success with some dapper young gentlemen called Philby, Maclean, Burgess, Blunt and Cairncross – that’s a story for another day.
It was notable that during the whole affair, British intelligence simply refused to believe that one of their own had been corrupted. They could not entertain such a notion, and so the Cambridge Five remained able to betray their country over and over again.
Which brings me to Ken Clarke.
There he sits, day after day, warmly ensconced at the heart of the British Establishment, farting at our expense into the esteemed cushions in our House of Commons and wobbling his jowls at us as he lectures us about embracing the globalist delights of supranational socialism.
That he has remained so obviously in the wrong party for so many decades, influential for years in a party with whom he seems to share almost no values at all, I found myself wondering what strange charms he wields – how he remained so perfectly camouflaged and immune to accusation that he is clearly a fifth column liberal EU stooge inside what used to be a Conservative party that he and those that followed him have so profoundly corrupted?
He is the living embodiment of Lenin’s view that the best way to control an opposition is to lead it yourself – who knows whether malign forces in Brussels placed this malevolent hypnotoad into position, but if not I struggle to imagine what they might have asked him to do differently. He has wedged open the door for all the snobby progressives and useful idiots that followed him, and if his presence is not an accident no doubt some EU version of the Star of Lenin awaits him in some dusty antechamber.
He’s surely an EU stooge – a man whose early leftist leanings would have found him beavering away under Harold Wilson in 1972 instead of Ted Heath, were it not for his disdain for the flat caps and broad Northerner dialects that infested the Left at that time.
Unable to overcome his loathing of the stench of whippets, and a full decade before Steel and Owen’s SDP would have rescued him from his terrible dilemma, he found himself drawn to the class snobbery of the Conservatives. Politically misaligned, but culturally at home, he made his bed and has now lain in it for many a long year.
My suspicion is that by the time the SDP arose and he saw at last a natural home where his middle class elitism and disdain for the working classes could at last be married with his liberal political sensibilities, he found to his dismay that he was now an important part of the Tory Party! Faced with the choice of sacrificing his status to risk it all with Steel and Owen , he settled down as a sleeper agent in the Tory Party, giving up his dream of being able to come out of the closet as a liberal in exchange for the comfort of status and privilege, no doubt nourishing himself with the thought that perhaps his influence might one day be enough to reforge the Tory Party in his image?
Twenty years later, how he must pinch himself to check he is not asleep after a hearty taxpayer-subsidised lunch – all that he dreamt of has occurred. The Tory Party has indeed become as wet and liberal as any wet liberal could wish – the right-wing is now exclusively referred to in public as the “far right” and seems now to be represented only by about forty member of the ERG. The rest of the Tory Party is nicely aligned with Comrade Ken and they now lovingly call him the Father of the House.
The Lib Dems have remained as wet and liberal as ever they were, and Labour has obligingly deteriorated in the same manner as the Tories, with the rump of their party remaining in the soft wet liberal middle ground (and all those horrible flat caps and whippets ushered off to the bigoted UKIP ranks) leaving about forty on the far left to heave their rancid spittle at the world.
The main difference between the forty on the Tory benches and the forty on the Labour benches is of course that the former are sidelined backbenchers within their party, and the latter are the Shadow Cabinet and assorted lackeys!
And Ken sits in the middle of this progressive barforama like Lardass, beaming beatifically as his wet liberal dream (or should that be liberal wet dream?) splatters its way into full view.
So there you have it – Ken Clarke the hypnotoad has sat by the river so long that the bodies of his enemies have truly all floated by and there is nothing left to do but slowclap him into retirement, with perhaps some establishment baubles?
I can think of one he richly deserves.
Hero of the
Soviet European Union.