Infected

By the time you read this, the sun would be have set on Tony Blair’s political career and the US lecture circuit should be fervent with anticipation of his impending arrival. The Blairs’ bank managers would breathe a big collective sigh of relief, as the dollars roll in and we all would be breathing an even bigger one, as the Tony and Cherie bandwagon rolls out of Downing Street.

In the ten years that the Blairs have inhabited the house with a ten on its front door, the United Kingdom has morphed into an unrecognisable isle. The elation and hope that greeted New Labour’s electoral victory has been replaced with a simmering hatred and distrust for everything political and government related. Simple things like the British sense of good manners and fairness have been replaced by belligerence, civil disobedience and an acute apathy for each other’s welfare.

As with most people who would do almost anything to get power and even more to cling on to it, he led a team that stopped at nothing to frustrate the likes of Dr Kelly, whilst festering their power-crazed interests. The same team that dreamt up a fictional tale to invade Iraq, all because their master had made a commitment to his American svengali of unflinching support, even if the civillised world said no.

Blair's team were nothing, but a flawed group of individuals so driven by their warped belief of their own superiority; blind to reality and so far up each other’s orifices, that it is no surprise they have left such a stink about the place.

Having just read a stupefying Newsweek article on the Blair legacy, I can only conclude that the man lives in a world of his own. The Blair years fall into two phases; the bright beginning and the dark ending. Let’s face it, he had us going for a while and it was only our willingness to succumb to his charms that let TB into our lives.

Let’s hope it’s not the incurable strain.


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