Hello and lads and lasses. Mike Nev here, Tried to get this on the Wrap before, but unfortunately I had no response for hours.
So, here it is:
Vote fucking Labour.
You haven’t heard from me in a while. Been busy, Sorting life out. Sorting my shit. Hard isn’t it?
The Reds are great though aren’t they? I’ve done the same as you lads and lasses. Been, hugged, kissed, suntanned in Madrid, cried, drank, sobered up, and drank again. On repeat. Ad infinatum.
But that’s football. Lovely. What a release for the working man. Keeps us sane, or at least it’s meant to.
However, footy is absolutely fucking irrelevant. Doesn’t cure cancer, doesn’t stop heart failure; just play YNWA at my funeral. All will be sound. Love you, Gerry but on that score, just fuck off.
Play the Bunnymen’s “Lips like Sugar” as you carry me out. Or else, I’ll haunt yers.
Here’s the fucking drill, right?
The Real Reds need your help.
I have digressed.
I was inspired to write this by my mate. A great mate I’ve known for fucking donkeys’ years. A staunch fucking bluenose. Archie. Love him to bits. He’s a blue, but he’s red through and through. A socialist – yeah that’s a label – who cares about us, people, The People.
He’s Labour. So am I. You probably are too but speak up, win us every vote we can.
That alternative is that when your kids are born you’ll have to pay for it. When your mum is dying, your dad will have to pay for it. When you’re in intensive care (been there) the bill lands at your family’s door. When your children need operations, you’re fucked.
Me? Haven’t paid a fucking penny, except for the taxes you and I pay to keep the health service going. Us, our work, our taxes. It belongs to us the NHS.
Again, straight to the point.
That monstrous c*nt Johnson is going to sell what you pay for; a beautiful construct of Socialism, courtesy of the hero, Aneurin Bevan, building on the beliefs of a fella who resembles Alisson Becker; Dr Benjamin Moore, a Liverpool professor/physician Dr Benjamin Moore who wrote of The Dawn of The Health Age in 1910.
Johnson is selling it to his mates. Lies if they say they’re not. Had enough LIES? Me too.
Sell the NHS To America? Reds? Remember the dangers of that. THE USA? It’s already happening, about 13/% already flogged to capitalist vipers.
The Yanks.
Trousering our hard-earned money, lies, greed (or avarice, thanks Shanks, lid) theft, gross larceny and even from this relatively benevolent Hedge Fund lot, £77 tickets that forced us to walk out. Apologies to all my lovely Democrat American friends of the same ilk who refuse to accept Trump despite the fact his hair is “funny”. He’s copied it from A Flock of Seagulls. Another Scouse first. And it’s fucking ridiculous. Just like his mate from the Bullingdon.
My nan once said, don’t vote conservative unless you’ve got anything to conserve. I got it. My nan didn’t have much, having moved to Formby (The Dock Road moved north as they said in those days)
apart from her cats, milk that had gone off and my fantastic uncles John and Phil. This was after my dad had left home and my grandad had passed away very young.
My nan struggled.
But she had the brothers.
John was a frail old lad, like something out of Boys from the Blackstuff, always in pyjamas, sometimes on oxygen, often dressed like that in the Book-kies, as they called it. Philip was heartier, much stronger, as befits an auld seadog of the Liverpool/Bootle parish.
Phil used to sit at ours at Chrimbo, coughing his working-class guts out, regaling tales of every alehouse in town (and then there were hundreds instead of these 10 bourgeoise fake houses), inextinguishable ciggie in hand, talking about fucking football. And birds. And more ciggies. And more pubs. Actually, just talking life. My role model.
He also sung me the Red Flag. What a Christmas present. Every year, until he moved to an old bar stool in the sky.
“Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer, we’ll keep the Red Flag flying Here.” Thanks Uncle, Phillip. Your words kept me grounded and humble.
Most of us still fly that crimson standard high. Those who care. Those who feel. Those who love.
Football will remain the most important of the unimportant things in life. Politics is really important. It’s an actual matter of life and death.
VOTE LABOUR. SHANKLY WOULD.
THIS MEANS MORE.
