In search of blue skies

​I have to sympathise with the three remaining contenders in the Labour leadership race. At a time when members must be well in the dumps, the hopefuls have to light a fire which will inspire and regenerate, and unite, and, and, and. But I’ve not yet heard the call or the triumphant blast of new-found hope. Perhaps if one of our contenders was a self made billionaire there’d be something to talk about (only joking—Labour has not yet become the Democrat Party, despite what some may say). As things stand, my vote remains with Rebecca Long Bailey, but she needs to seriously up her game, and one thing that would be a plus in my book would be if she chucked her campaign manager Jon Lansman overboard. That man clearly has an over-inflated sense of political self-importance so great I suspect he could easily spend a long night discussing politics with his own arse, or the next best thing, Dominic Cummings. At their level there must be a mutual loathing come respectful common understanding enabling some communication with each other.
 
 But we don’t need Svengalis. We don’t need gurus. We don’t even need ‘blue sky thinkers’ (how old fashioned). Does anybody remember John Birt by the way? Can you name five of the lasting achievements of that particular brain-fest, employed if a I remember by T. Blair to shake things up?
 
Anyway, my vote for the next Labour leader is still a bit up for grabs, so all I can do now is wait. That is, given this age where algorithmic technology reigns supreme, I assume that what I have just written will be somehow read and digitally understood and a tailormade message will soon be winging its way to my inbox. Like Billy Bunter, I will gorge on aunty’s cheques, if they arrive.