#NH Campaign for Voting Rights

[sophie-frm-mars]

The Cass Review, and what we can do about it

The UK government is making decisive moves toward banning trans healthcare outright. The NHS says it is adjusting its policies to be in line with the "cass report", a pseudoscientific report written by a transphobe that goes as far as to claim that little boys playing with trucks and little girls playing with dolls is biological, and which disregards dozens of scientifically sound previous studies into HRT and trans healthcare in order to reach its conclusions that trans healthcare for under 25s should be radically changed to discourage transition at every turn and make it as hard as possible for young people to transition.

These moves will kill countless young trans people. I would not have made it to 25 if healthcare wasn't available and I know so many other trans people wouldn't have either.

The mainstream reporting in the UK is keeping itself ideologically cohesive by claiming that trans people exist, nobody hates them, and they're very rare, and the big problem is the explosion of new cases of not-really-trans people who are clogging up the system (this is a lie, the system has been intentionally slowed by malicious neglect, it isn't even a resource issue, the clinics have far more capacity than the number of patients who are let through)

Once again, this is genocidal and is actually a commonplace methodology of genocide. The nazis asked GRT people to help them understand which Traveller families were "real" travellers and which were the fake ones, since they insisted it was only the fake ones who were the problem and who had to be exterminated (because a lot of nazi GRT policy was based on American indigenous reservation policy).

Labour, the main opposiiton party in the UK, has announced it will "follow the Cass Report", and implement these restrictions on trans healthcare once in government.

For the survival of young trans people, robust community structures must be developed immediately.

Efforts to change the electoral situation will proceed at a snail's pace and will be entirely at the whims of what is politically expedient. It will turn around, but it will take a long time. At the voting level, everyone in the UK who cares about trans people needs to make it clear that they won't vote for Labour unless they reverse position on this, and to be clear about this: Labour will not listen. They are PR Brained Psychopaths and they don't want to get into this "controversial" issue in a way that might cost them further popularity and the easy election win.

Wes Streeting, inhuman lab experiment and Labour Shadow Health Secretary has said that activists need to "stop protesting to ask us to be better opposition and start protesting to ask us to be better government", in other words their electoral promises are cynical reactionary bargains and deals to get them into power and the only point at which they will change anything is once they are in government, if at all. I know this sounds very "push Biden left" but I'm not saying give up now - to repeat, everyone who cares about trans people in the UK should tell Labour to get fucked right away, and then keep doing it as loudly as possible, but it's just not going to change until after the general election at least.

Another way to help could be through legal routes, like the work that The Good Law Project has been doing for trans people for several years now, but I don't know enough about the law to know if it can be used to challenge this at all.

We have to accept there is no electoral solution right now to this genocidal campaign against trans people in the UK, and while those efforts are ongoing trans people and cis allies need to fucking organise. Trans exclusive / separatist organising is riddled with issues, I don't want to cast hopelessness around but there are really very few of us and while it's absolutely necessary to privilege trans voices in trans organising and give us the deciding power and the autonomy, we need to utilise the support and time and labour of every cis person who is willing to help in whatever way they can.

Robust community structures means community structures that are helping young trans people get healthcare as an absolute basic starting point, but it means a lot more than that besides. We need community structures that are consciously organised by people who are taking responsibility for the community roles they are in and being completely explicit with each other about the nature and function of their organising. We need HRT community resources so young trans people can survive this medical segregation, we need drug user harm reduction spaces so that what people turn to in despair doesn't kill them, we need sober spaces so that people can get away from unhealthy coping responses, we need conflict resolution structures so that our problems are dealt with privately and nobody is left completely isolated, but more than any of those things, and in order to have all of those things, we desperately need trans assemblies

Assemblies are how we will get a community of robust radical organisers, because only by repeatedly practicing the ongoing process of democracy can people learn how to do it in a way that will facilitate their own organising. We have to empower the whole community to answer our own questions, come up with solutions, organise people into structures to enact those solutions and then do them. All this means is that an open door event convenes frequently (at least fortnightly) to discuss what is happening in the community. Trans people get the mic for allotted time, and discuss the issues, and then whatever voting structure the assembly uses facilitates further discussion, for example through working groups - the assembly breaks into smaller groups to discuss the topic and then representatives report the outcomes of those discussions back and consensus is reached from what the representatives report.

We have to get people engaging in this process because in order to effectively combat this situation trans people must agree on the solutions and then tell cis allies how to help and so far we haven't been doing that. We really really haven't been. But we could be with a little work. And as I'm saying, doing this will also empower everyone in the community to organise toward specific solutions for specific issues like HRT provision, sober spaces, housing, food, etc.

fuck

I'll have more to add to this post later I have to get to therapy I just got really mad when I saw the news this morning

[seafarersdream]

Campaign Trail | Modern AU! (Gwayne Hightower x Y/N)

Strap in for the wild ride of Gwayne Hightower’s political rise, as seen through the eyes of his campaign manager, Y/N. From clueless debates to dodging scandalous tabloids and pretending he knows the price of a pint, Gwayne is your classic posh boy gone rogue running as a Lib Dem candidate. And it’s Y/N’s job to keep his ego in check, his speeches on point, and, occasionally, his pants on. Welcome to the Gwayne Hightower campaign. Expect chaos. Word count: 12k

TW // Strong language and profanities, characters frequently consume alcohol (including scenes of heavy drinking), boss/employee romantic trope, power dynamics, sexual and crass humor, depictions of extreme wealth and privilege (rich assholes basically).

“Bloody hell, Gwayne, are you even listening to me?” Y/N slammed her pen down on the table, the clatter echoing through the dimly lit campaign office. It was well past midnight, and the stale smell of cold pizza mixed with the faint scent of Gwayne’s overpriced cologne was starting to make her head spin.

Gwayne Hightower, the posh prat in question, barely looked up from his phone. He was lounging back in his chair, long legs stretched out like he owned the place — which, to be fair, he probably did in some indirect, old-money, nepotistic kind of way. “I am listening,” he drawled, though his thumb kept scrolling. “Something about, uh, housing and healthcare. Right?”

Y/N rolled her eyes so hard she could’ve seen the back of her skull. “Yeah, mate, just the minor detail of your whole bloody platform,” she shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You know, the stuff that actually makes people vote for you?”

Gwayne’s lips curled into that infuriatingly perfect smirk, the kind that belonged more to a model, not on some would-be politician. “You mean the bit where I pretend to care?”

She let out a frustrated sigh and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, the pretending bit. But let’s make it convincing this time, yeah?”

The office was a mess of coffee cups, crumpled notes, and campaign leaflets. A lone desk lamp threw a harsh yellow light across the room, casting long shadows on the wall. Outside, the rain battered against the windows, the only sound in the quiet street below. The clock ticked loudly, reminding them of every minute they were wasting.

Y/N picked up a sheet of paper, waving it in his face. “Look, you need to hit them where it matters. People care about the NHS. They care about whether they can afford to put a roof over their heads. Not about… whatever posh nonsense you were going on about last week.”

Gwayne finally put down his phone, leaning forward with a feigned look of interest. “What was wrong with what I said?”

She snorted. “Mate, you can’t promise a home for every hardworking Brit when your idea of a starter home is a bloody Georgian townhouse in Chelsea.”

Gwayne chuckled, and for a second, she hated how charming he could be when he wasn’t being an absolute prat. “Fair point. Alright, Ms. Campaign Manager, what do we say?”

Y/N leaned in, their faces just inches apart, and she could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. “You say,” she whispered, “that you’re going to make housing affordable, that you’ll protect the NHS like it’s the crown jewels, and that you actually give a damn about people who don’t have trust funds or daddy’s money to fall back on.”

He stared at her, something unreadable flickering across his face. “You think they’ll buy it?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Not if you keep looking like you’re about to laugh every time you say it. You need to mean it, Gwayne. Or at least act like you do. Think of it like… theatre.”

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that surprised her. “Theatre, is it? So what, am I Olivier or just a bloke in a bad panto?”

Y/N grinned. “Depends. You reckon you can handle a bit of method acting? Maybe imagine you’re someone who doesn’t have everything handed to them on a silver platter?”

Gwayne leaned back, still watching her, and she felt a strange tension crackle between them, something electric, something unspoken. “You’ve got a smart mouth, Y/N. That why I hired you?”

She shrugged, trying to ignore the heat creeping up her neck. “Nah. You hired me because I’m the only one who’ll call you out on your bullshit.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You like calling me out, don’t you?”

Her breath hitched for just a second, and she cursed herself for letting him get to her. “Someone has to,” she said, her voice steady. “And you clearly love it.”

His smirk grew. “Maybe I do.”

She felt her face flush and decided to change the subject before she ended up doing something stupid. Like kissing that smug grin right off his face. “Right, back to work. We need a slogan that sticks. Something the punters will remember. Something that makes them think you’re the real deal.”

Gwayne leaned back, eyes still locked on hers, a challenge glinting in them. “You mean something like, Vote for me or I’ll bloody well buy your house myself?”

Y/N snorted, and for a moment, the tension eased. “Yeah, that’ll go down a treat in Hackney.”

“Alright,” he said, leaning closer again, his voice softer now, more serious. “Help me, then. What do I say?”

She felt that pull again, that magnetic draw that made her want to slap him and snog him in equal measure. She shook her head, trying to focus. “You say,” she murmured, leaning in so close their noses almost touched, “that you’re going to fight for them like you’d fight for your own bloody life. That every day you’re in office, you’re not just some posh tosser playing politics. You’re there because you bloody care.”

Gwayne’s breath brushed against her lips, and she swore she saw his eyes flicker to her mouth. “And you think they’ll believe me?”

She felt her heart race, her pulse quickening. “They’ll believe it,” she whispered, “if you say it like you bloody well mean it.”

For a second, everything hung in the air between them, the rain pounding against the window like a drumbeat, their breaths mingling in the space between. And then he moved back, breaking the spell, his grin back in place.

“Alright,” he said, voice light again. “Let’s do this, then. Make me sound like a bloody hero.”

Y/N smiled, picking up her pen. “Oh, I will. And you better not cock it up.”

He winked. “Wouldn’t dream of it, love.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips. She will either kill this campaign, or it kills her first. Which she is not sure yet.

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“Remember, Gwayne,” Y/N muttered as she straightened his tie, fingers brushing against his collar for a moment too long, “Stick to the message. Focus on the solutions, not the problems. You’re not just some arse in a suit; you’re the bloke who’s going to fix this mess.”

Gwayne’s grin was too confident for her liking. “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he replied, eyes twinkling with that familiar arrogance. “It’s not my first rodeo.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Right, because you’ve handled so many housing crises in your plush penthouse.”

He chuckled. “Come on, love. Give me a bit of credit. I’ve been prepping for this all week.”

“Yeah, and it shows,” Y/N shot back, sarcasm sharp enough to cut glass. “Now, get in there, charm their pants off, but for God’s sake, don’t let him corner you on the numbers.”

The studio lights were blinding, hot enough to feel like the sun itself had decided to join them inside. Across from Gwayne sat Martin Caldwell, a journalist infamous for his pitbull tactics and never letting a politician off the hook. Caldwell looked like a vulture in a cheap suit, his eyes narrowed and mouth twitching as if he could already smell the blood.

Gwayne settled into his chair, flashing that perfect smile. “Thanks for having me, Martin,” he said smoothly.

Martin didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Gwayne?” he said, leaning forward, voice like a scalpel. “Housing crisis. The capital’s got over 60,000 homeless households, more than 80,000 children living in temporary accommodation. And that number’s only climbing. Now, you’re here, all clean and polished, talking about affordable housing, but let’s be real — what’s your plan, really? Because people out there, they’re struggling. They’re angry.”

Gwayne didn’t flinch, kept his smile steady. “Look, Martin, the housing crisis is a massive issue, no question. It’s about more than just numbers; it’s about people, families—”

“But let’s talk about numbers, Gwayne,” Martin cut him off, eyes gleaming. “Since 2010, there’s been a 70% increase in households in temporary accommodation. 70%! That’s a bloody lot, isn’t it? How do you plan to fix that with just more of the same?”

Y/N watched from the sidelines, her heart thudding against her ribs. This wasn’t going to be easy. She’d told him to stick to the message, keep it simple, but she could already see Caldwell trying to lure him into a trap. Gwayne’s jaw tightened — just a fraction, but she saw it. And so did Caldwell.

“Look, the current policies clearly haven’t worked,” Gwayne replied, leaning in, voice steady. “What we need is a radical overhaul. A commitment to building a new generation of affordable homes, partnerships between government and private sectors, and a serious plan to cut down the bureaucratic red tape that—”

Caldwell pounced. “Right, but where’s the money coming from, Gwayne? You’re talking about a ‘radical overhaul,’ but that means a radical budget. Are you going to raise taxes? Cut other services? Let’s hear it, Gwayne. What’s the actual plan?”

Gwayne hesitated, just for a second, and Y/N felt her stomach drop. That was all Caldwell needed. The interviewer leaned in further, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Or is this just another politician’s promise? More hot air while kids sleep in shelters?”

Gwayne’s smile faltered, just a flicker, but it was enough. He could feel the pressure mounting, the audience’s eyes on him, waiting for a stumble. “Look,” he started, but his voice wasn’t quite as strong now, “it’s a complex issue, and we’re working—”

Caldwell cut him off again, like a shark sensing blood in the water. “Working on what, Gwayne? A plan that doesn't exist?”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her ears. Damn it, this was spiraling, and fast. She moved closer to the stage manager, whispering frantically. “I need to get on his earpiece. Now.”

Seconds later, Gwayne heard her voice, calm and clear through his earpiece. “Stop defending. Go on the attack. Talk about the real culprits — landlords, greedy developers, government failures. Take control, Gwayne, before he buries you.”

Gwayne’s eyes flicked to the camera, and his posture straightened. He smiled, but this time there was steel behind it. “Alright, Martin, let’s talk about the real issue here,” he said, his voice steadying. “The housing crisis didn’t happen overnight, and it didn’t happen because of the people living in temporary accommodation. It happened because of decades of government inaction, because landlords were given free reign to hike rents, because developers were allowed to build luxury flats while people can’t afford a basic home.”

Caldwell raised an eyebrow, surprised by the shift. “So, you’re blaming the private sector now?”

“I’m blaming a system that’s rigged, Martin,” Gwayne shot back, finding his stride. “A system where a handful of people get rich while everyone else suffers. And that’s what I’m here to change. To fight for a fair deal, not just for the few, but for everyone.”

Y/N could see Caldwell’s eyes narrow. He wasn’t expecting this. Good. Keep him off balance.

Caldwell pressed again, but now there was a hint of frustration. “But specifics, Gwayne. People want to know how—”

“I’ll give you specifics,” Gwayne cut in sharply, leaning forward. “First, we cap rents to stop people being priced out of their own communities. We fund social housing properly, no more of these half-hearted measures. We build homes people can actually afford, and we crack down on empty properties left to rot while families go homeless. And yeah, Martin, if that means stepping on a few toes in the private sector, so be it. Because this isn’t about comfort. It’s about doing what’s right.”

There was a pause. Caldwell seemed momentarily lost for words, and that was all Y/N needed. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

Gwayne finished strong. “I’m not here to make friends with the developers or the landlords, Martin. I’m here to make sure that every child in this country has a safe place to call home.”

Caldwell recovered, trying to regain control. “Strong words, Gwayne. But can you deliver?”

Gwayne smiled, this time without hesitation. “Watch me.”

The interview wrapped up, and Y/N could feel the tension slowly ease out of her shoulders. As Gwayne walked off set, she met him in the wings, her expression a mix of frustration and begrudging admiration.

“Nice save,” she said, crossing her arms.

Gwayne grinned, a bit of the cockiness back. “Thanks to you. You always know just what to say, don’t you?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a smile. “You were one misstep away from a bloody train wreck, you know that?”

He stepped closer, his voice low, teasing. “Maybe I like a bit of danger. Keeps things interesting.”

She felt that familiar heat rise between them, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Well, next time, try not to give me a heart attack on live TV, yeah?”

Gwayne chuckled. “No promises. But… thanks, Y/N. Really.”

She gave him a nod. “Just doing my job. Now let’s go. We’ve got a lot of damage control to do.”

He watched her walk away, a smile tugging at his lips. “And here I thought we just saved the day.”

Y/N looked back over her shoulder, grinning. “Maybe. But the day’s not over yet, Hightower.”

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“This place is bloody ridiculous, Gwayne.” Y/N muttered as she wandered through the lavish rooms of his Belgravia townhouse, glass of absinthe in hand. The place screamed money — old money, the kind that people like her never saw outside of films or the pages of Tatler. She ran her fingers along the gilded edge of a massive mirror, its frame probably worth more than her yearly salary.

Gwayne, sprawled comfortably on a deep leather sofa, shot her a lopsided grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She rolled her eyes and took a swig of her drink, the bitter taste burning down her throat. “I mean, look at this,” she said, gesturing around with her glass. “A townhouse in Belgravia? You’ve got Raphaels hanging on your walls, for fuck’s sake. You collect rare artwork like most people collect fridge magnets.”

He glanced at the painting she was pointing to — a delicate Madonna in blues and golds, her serene face glowing softly in the low light of the room. “Not just any Raphaels. The best ones. Acquired at private auctions, if you must know,” he replied with a lazy smirk. “It’s not a crime to have taste.”

Y/N snorted. “Yeah, because that’s what everyone does with their disposable income. Attend auctions with the world’s elite and outbid some oligarch for a Bernini bust.”

He grinned wider. “It was a spirited bidding war, I’ll give you that. Oligarchs can be quite tenacious.”

She laughed despite herself, shaking her head. “You’re something else, Hightower.”

The townhouse was ridiculously opulent. The kind of place that would feature in a glossy spread titled London’s Most Exclusive Homes. Velvet drapes framed enormous windows that looked out onto pristine, manicured gardens. The walls were adorned with priceless works of art, paintings that most people would only see behind thick glass in a museum. A faint scent of rich leather and wood polish filled the air, mingling with the sharper notes of absinthe.

Gwayne had insisted on pouring her a drink the moment they got in, promising her it would “take the edge off.” And she had to admit, it was doing the trick.

“Alright, you’ve buttered me up with the fancy booze,” Y/N said, plopping herself into a chair that felt like sinking into a cloud. “Now spill. Why the bloody hell are you running as a Liberal Democrat?”

Gwayne blinked, surprised by the bluntness of her question. Then he chuckled. “You’ve been dying to ask me that, haven’t you?”

“Are you kidding? It’s been killing me,” she shot back, leaning forward. “I mean, look at you. Everything about you screams Tory. The suits, the townhouse, the art collection that could fund a small country. And yet here you are, waving the Lib Dem flag. It doesn’t add up.”

He took a slow sip of his own absinthe, letting her words hang in the air. “Maybe I like a challenge,” he finally said, a hint of mischief in his tone.

She snorted again. “Oh, come off it. You’re not in this for a challenge. You’re in it for… hell, I don’t know, but it’s not because you’re a bleeding heart liberal. So why?”

Gwayne’s smile faded slightly, his blue eyes studying her carefully. “Maybe I actually believe in something, Y/N. Did you ever think of that?”

She held his gaze, not backing down. “Sure. I just thought that something would involve tax cuts for the rich and a couple of fox hunts on the weekends.”

He laughed, a real laugh this time, not the polished, practiced chuckle he usually gave to the cameras. “Alright, fair play. I can see why you’d think that.”

“So…?” she pressed.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair, swirling the emerald liquid in his glass. “Alright, you want the truth?”

“That’s why I asked,” she replied, her tone softer now.

He hesitated, just for a moment, before speaking again. “I was supposed to be Tory. God, was I ever. Family’s a line of them. Granddad, Dad, every bloody Hightower since time began, probably. I was raised for it, groomed for it. Eton, Oxford, the whole bloody conveyor belt to Westminster.”

She nodded. “I’m with you so far. Still not seeing where the Lib Dem part comes in.”

Gwayne leaned forward, his voice lower, more serious. “It was all set up. Tory membership card practically in my cradle. Then one day, I actually took a look at what was happening around me. Went to a few dinners, talked to the ‘right’ people. Listened to them… talk. And, Christ, Y/N, it made me sick.”

She blinked, surprised. “You? Sick? You love a posh dinner as much as the next trust fund baby.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t the dinners, love. It was the people at them. The entitlement. The utter lack of care for anyone outside their bubble. I realized I didn’t want to be part of that. Not if it meant towing the line on policies that only protect the people who’ve already got everything. The way they talked about people… like they were numbers, not lives. I couldn’t do it.”

She leaned back, considering his words. “So, you’re telling me you had some grand epiphany?”

He shrugged. “Something like that. I figured, if I was going to get into politics, I’d do it to actually make a difference. The Lib Dems… they’re not perfect, but they’re about giving a damn about everyone, not just the privileged few.”

Y/N arched an eyebrow. “And you’re not one of the privileged few?”

He laughed. “Oh, I am. Born and bloody bred. But that doesn’t mean I have to play by their rules. Maybe I want to rewrite them.”

She stared at him, her heart unexpectedly softening. Maybe this privileged prat actually believed what he was saying. “So, what’s the endgame then? 10 Downing Street?”

He chuckled. “Maybe. But that’s for another day. Right now, I just want to make some noise and see if anyone’s listening.”

She took another sip of her absinthe, feeling the warmth spread through her chest. “Well, you’ve got my attention, at least.”

He leaned closer, a playful glint in his eye. “Oh, I noticed.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t let it go to your head, Hightower. I’m still here to make sure you don’t bollocks this up.”

He grinned. “I’d be lost without you, Y/N.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Yeah, you would.”

For a moment, the room seemed smaller, the space between them charged, and Y/N felt that familiar pull again — the magnetic tension that always seemed to hang in the air whenever they were close. She tore her gaze away, looking around at the paintings instead.

“This absinthe’s going straight to my head,” she muttered.

He chuckled, watching her closely. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Careful, Gwayne. I’m still your campaign manager. You need me sober enough to make sure you don’t say something stupid again.”

He leaned back, his smile still in place. “Fair enough. But maybe just for tonight, we can forget about campaigns and crises. Just… be two people having a drink.”

Y/N met his eyes, and for once, she couldn’t find a quick comeback. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Maybe just for tonight.”

And for a brief, quiet moment, neither of them spoke. The townhouse, with all its ridiculous wealth and art, seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them, caught in the electric tension of what might be.

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The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the streets of Hackney into a grey, slick mess. Puddles formed in the cracks of the pavements, and the smell of wet concrete hung in the air. Y/N was soaked to the bone, her coat heavy with rain, but she didn’t care. She was too busy making sure Gwayne didn’t make an utter arse of himself.

They were in the heart of Hackney, one of the neighborhoods hardest hit by the housing crisis. Rundown council flats lined the streets, their brick facades crumbling, windows boarded up or patched with mismatched panes of glass. Gwayne’s designer shoes were caked in mud, and she couldn’t help but smirk as he tried to navigate the uneven pavement, clearly out of his comfort zone.

“Careful, mate,” she teased, nudging him with her elbow. “Wouldn’t want to scuff those fancy loafers of yours.”

Gwayne shot her a look, half-amused, half-exasperated. “I’ll have you know these are perfectly sensible shoes.”

“Sensible?” she scoffed. “For what? A yacht party in Monaco?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Just focus on the job, yeah?”

The rain showed no sign of letting up, but the community center up ahead was buzzing with activity. Inside, a group of local residents, activists, and a few journalists had gathered. The room was crowded, the air thick with the smell of damp coats and instant coffee. There was a mix of skepticism and curiosity on the faces of the people, and Y/N knew this was their chance to make an impression.

She turned to Gwayne, lowering her voice. “Alright, here’s the plan. Listen more than you speak. They don’t need another politician giving them empty promises. They need to feel like you’re actually listening to their problems.”

Gwayne nodded, adjusting his jacket. “Got it. No posh nonsense.”

She gave him a small, approving smile. “And for the love of God, don’t mention your townhouse.”

He grinned. “Noted.”

As they stepped inside, all eyes turned to them. The chatter quieted down, replaced by the soft hum of whispered conversations. Y/N could feel the tension in the air, the weight of expectation. Gwayne moved forward, shaking hands, offering polite nods and warm smiles, and to his credit, he seemed genuinely interested.

But she could sense the underlying wariness from the crowd. These were people who had been promised a lot by politicians, only to be disappointed time and again. They weren’t going to be won over by a posh accent and a well-tailored suit.

She nudged him toward a group of women huddled in the corner, each with tired eyes and worn faces. “Start here,” she murmured. “Single mothers. Most of them on the housing waiting list for years.”

Gwayne approached them with a disarming smile. “Hello ladies, I’m Gwayne Hightower,” he began, reaching out to shake their hands. “I’m here to listen to your concerns and see how we can work together to make things better.”

One of the women, a middle-aged lady with a mane of curly hair and an accent as thick as the rain outside, crossed her arms, eyeing him suspiciously. “You a politician, then?” she asked, her tone laced with skepticism.

Gwayne nodded. “Yes, I’m running for Parliament—”

She cut him off, snorting. “Figures. Another posh boy with promises, eh? What makes you different from the rest?”

Y/N held her breath. This was it. Make or break. She watched as Gwayne took a breath, steadying himself. “I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m here because I want to change things. I know I come from a different background, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what’s happening here.”

The woman eyed him for a moment, then turned to Y/N. “And you? You believe him?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“Yeah,” the woman pressed. “You look like you’ve got a brain in your head. Why you working for him?”

Y/N hesitated, glancing at Gwayne. For a second, she wasn’t sure how to answer. But then she decided to be honest. “Because I think he actually gives a damn. As much as it pains me to admit it.”

The woman’s eyes softened a fraction. “A posh boy who cares, eh? That’s a new one.”

Gwayne chuckled, relaxing a bit. “I promise you, I’m full of surprises.”

Before the woman could respond, a young man in his twenties stepped forward, anger flashing in his eyes. “What are you going to do about the housing crisis?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “I’ve been stuck in a hostel for two years with my daughter. No council house, no help. You lot don’t care about us. You don’t have to live like we do.”

Gwayne met his gaze, a serious expression crossing his face. “You’re right. I don’t live like you do. But that doesn’t mean I can’t fight to change it.”

The man scoffed. “Easy for you to say. You’ll go back to your fancy house tonight, yeah? What do you know about struggling?”

Y/N felt a surge of defensiveness on Gwayne’s behalf, but before she could speak, Gwayne raised a hand, his voice calm. “I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes. But I’m here because I want to learn, and I want to do something about it. I want to make sure that people like you don’t have to go through this.”

The young man seemed taken aback by the directness of his answer. “Yeah? And how are you going to do that?”

Gwayne looked him straight in the eye. “By building more affordable homes, by fighting for rent controls, by holding landlords accountable, and by putting pressure on the government to prioritize housing over profits.”

Y/N watched the young man, his expression slowly shifting from anger to something closer to consideration. Maybe even hope. She felt a flicker of something in her chest — pride? Maybe.

But then, the conversation was interrupted by an older woman, her face lined with years of hardship. “Talk is cheap, love,” she said quietly. “We’ve heard it all before.”

Gwayne nodded, not shying away from the hard truth. “You’re right. It is. But I’m here because I want to prove I’m different. And if I’m not, then hold me accountable. Make sure I deliver.”

The older woman studied him for a moment, then gave a small, reluctant nod. “Alright, then. We’ll see.”

Y/N turned away from Gwayne for a moment and spotted an elderly man sitting in the corner, his hands trembling as he held onto a cane. She approached him, crouching down. “Hello,” she said softly. “What’s your name?”

“Frank,” he replied, his voice raspy. “I’m here every week… watchin’… listening.”

Y/N smiled gently. “What do you think of all this, Frank?”

He chuckled, a dry, weary sound. “Think he’s different, your lad. Might even mean it. But they all mean it at first, don’t they?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah, I suppose they do.”

Frank’s eyes twinkled. “But he’s got fire. And fire’s what we need. Someone to burn the whole bloody system down and start fresh.”

Y/N glanced back at Gwayne, who was deep in conversation, genuinely listening, and she felt something stir inside her. Maybe Frank was right. Maybe Gwayne wasn’t just a posh boy with a fancy townhouse and a taste for absinthe. Maybe he was something more.

She turned back to Frank and smiled. “Yeah, maybe he is.”

Frank nodded, then winked. “You make sure he don’t lose that fire, eh?”

Y/N grinned. “Oh, I will, Frank. I will.”

Y/N could feel the crowd’s eyes on her, a mix of doubt, curiosity, and frustration etched into their faces. This was her moment. If they were going to stand a chance of winning over Hackney, she had to make them believe. Not just in Gwayne, but in what they could actually do together.

She stepped forward, hands raised in a gesture of openness. “Alright, listen up,” she called, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the room. “I know what you’re all thinking. Who’s this posh boy, swanning in here with his fancy shoes, telling us he’s going to solve our problems?”

A few people in the crowd nodded, some even chuckling in agreement. Gwayne shot her a wary look, but she ignored it, pressing on.

“You’re right,” she continued. “He’s got a swanky townhouse, he collects art worth more than most of us will see in our lifetimes, and he probably can’t tell a Greggs pasty from a bloody foie gras. But wouldn’t you rather have one of these posh boys on your side for once?”

The crowd was listening now, intrigued. She could see the skepticism starting to crack just a little.

“Think about it,” she went on, her voice gaining strength. “He’s got money. He’s got connections. He knows the people who pull the strings, the ones who make decisions about your lives while sipping champagne in Mayfair. He’s got the kind of influence that actually moves things along. Don’t you want someone like that fighting in your corner instead of against you?”

A few heads nodded slowly. She caught the eye of the young man from earlier, still frowning but clearly considering her words.

“And before you write me off as just another one of his people,” she added, raising her chin, “I’m not like him. Not by a long shot. I’m from Manchester — Manny born and bred. My dad owns a power tool shop, and my mum’s been working as a caterer for as long as I can remember. I worked my arse off to get into university, full ride scholarship because that was the only way I was getting in.”

She saw a few faces in the crowd soften, nodding in recognition. They knew what it meant to work for everything you had.

“And now here I am,” she continued, with a hint of defiance in her voice, “standing next to this posh, pretty boy. Not because I believe in his money or his connections, but because I believe he actually wants to do some good. Because for once, we’ve got one of these guys willing to take a stand, to fight for something other than his own bloody bank account.”

There was a murmur of approval now, a few people nodding, even clapping. She saw Frank in the corner, grinning like he’d just won a bet.

“So yeah,” Y/N said, letting her voice ring out strong, “I’m all in with him. And if you give him a chance, he’ll show you that he’s all in with you too. What have you got to lose? Another empty promise? Another politician who forgets about you the second they get to Westminster?”

Gwayne looked at her, a new appreciation in his eyes. He hadn’t expected her to go all in like that, to put herself on the line for him in front of these people. She had just thrown her whole story out there, her whole self, and it was resonating.

Y/N turned back to the crowd. “We know how this works, don’t we? We know the system’s rigged, and we know it’s not built for people like us. But here’s the thing — we can’t fight it alone. We need someone who can get into the room, sit at the table, and make some noise. Someone who’s willing to push the boundaries and shake things up.”

She took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline pumping through her veins. “I’m putting my money where my mouth is. I’m working with him, and I’m going to make damn sure he doesn’t just talk a good game. And if he tries to slack off, I’ll be the first to give him a kick up the arse.”

The crowd chuckled, a few cheers going up, and Y/N felt a surge of relief. They were starting to come around.

“So what do you say?” she finished, raising her voice. “Give us a chance. Hold us accountable. Make us prove it to you. Because I promise you, he’s not perfect — far from it — but he’s got fire, and he’s got the guts to use it.”

A small cheer went up, and Y/N felt a smile break across her face. The woman from before nodded approvingly, the young man seemed to relax a little, and even Frank was clapping slowly, his grin widening.

Gwayne stepped forward, taking his cue from her. “I know I’ve got a lot to prove,” he said, voice steady. “But with Y/N by my side — and with your support — I’m going to fight like hell for this community. For every single one of you.”

A louder cheer erupted this time, and Y/N felt her chest swell with a mix of pride and something else she wasn’t quite ready to name. She caught Gwayne’s eye, and he mouthed a silent “thank you,” a look of awe on his face.

She nodded, just a small dip of her head, but she couldn’t help the grin that spread across her lips. “Don’t thank me yet,” she whispered as he turned back to the crowd, her voice low enough only for him to hear. “We’ve still got a long way to go, posh boy.”

He chuckled, that infectious grin back on his face.

And as they continued to work the room, shaking hands and listening to stories, Y/N felt something shift.

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“This place doesn’t even have a bloody sign,” Y/N muttered, peering up at the unmarked black door set into a pristine brick facade. She shot Gwayne a sidelong glance as they stood on the dimly lit Mayfair street. “Is this one of those places where they judge you if you ask for ketchup?”

Gwayne smirked, adjusting the cufflinks on his tailored suit. “Only if you pronounce it wrong.”

She rolled her eyes, but her nerves were starting to kick in. “And you’re sure I’m dressed alright for this? I’m feeling a bit like Bridget Jones at a state dinner.”

Gwayne gave her a quick once-over, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. “You look perfect,” he said, a bit softer than usual. “Better than perfect. Trust me, they’ll be too busy being themselves to notice.”

She snorted, trying to shake off the unease creeping up her spine. “Well, that’s reassuring. So, remind me again why I’m here?”

Gwayne’s grin widened. “Because I want you to meet my father. And my sister. And because I’m tired of them assuming I’m completely useless.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “So, I’m your human shield, then?”

“More like my secret weapon,” he replied, flashing that grin again, and she felt a flicker of warmth despite herself.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” she muttered, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The restaurant was beyond posh. It was the sort of place you didn’t even know existed unless you were born into a world where five-course meals were standard Tuesday fare. Dim lighting, soft jazz playing in the background, and tables spaced so far apart that you’d need a map and a compass to navigate. A sommelier in a suit that probably cost more than Y/N’s rent stood by the door, giving them a nod as they entered.

“Mr. Hightower,” he murmured with a deferential nod. “Your party is already seated.”

“Cheers, mate,” Gwayne replied, slipping the guy a tip that was probably equivalent to a week’s worth of groceries for her.

They were led to a private alcove, tucked away behind a velvet curtain. At the table sat Sir Otto Hightower, the very picture of an aristocratic patriarch, his white hair immaculately styled, a pin on his lapel glinting in the low light — the insignia of a Knight Grand Cross of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. Because, of course, he bloody was.

Next to him sat Alicent Hightower, Gwayne’s sister, her auburn hair twisted into a perfect chignon, a string of pearls draped around her neck. Alicent was the epitome of a British socialite — impeccably dressed, with that strange air of religious guilt that seemed to cling to her like perfume. Y/N knew the type: all sweetness and light on the surface, but beneath… God only knew.

“Father, Alicent,” Gwayne said, his tone a bit too cheerful. “This is Y/N, my campaign manager.”

Sir Otto’s eyes flicked to Y/N, appraising her with a cold, calculating stare. “Ah, the one steering my son’s misguided adventure,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk but with a sharp edge.

Y/N offered her hand, forcing a smile. “Nice to meet you, Sir Otto. Though I prefer to think of it as a ‘guided’ adventure.”

Otto’s lips twitched slightly, a half-smile. “Quite. And what brings a… Manchester girl to this peculiar position?” He spoke ‘Manchester’ like it was a foreign concept.

Y/N bristled slightly but kept her composure. “Good old-fashioned hard work, Sir Otto. That, and a full scholarship to UCL.”

Alicent, who had been sipping her wine in silence, finally looked up. Her green eyes were bright, inquisitive. “UCL, how… admirable,” she murmured, her voice soft. “Tell me, Y/N, do you believe in God?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Er, not the best topic for a first dinner, is it?” she replied with a grin. “But sure, I’d say I’m more spiritual than religious.”

Alicent smiled, but there was something unsettling in it. “Oh, how lovely,” she cooed. “Spiritual… but not tethered to the truth of the Lord’s word.”

Y/N couldn’t help herself. “Well, I suppose the Lord’s word didn’t help much with the housing crisis, did it?”

Gwayne’s eyes widened slightly, and he hid a smirk behind his hand. Sir Otto, however, leaned back, an amused glint in his eyes. “I see you’ve brought a firecracker, Gwayne.”

Gwayne grinned.

Sir Otto’s expression shifted, serious now. “Gwayne, I’m concerned about this… campaign of yours. It’s one thing to indulge in some youthful rebellion, quite another to throw away your future in politics for a party that, frankly, doesn’t hold much weight.”

Y/N decided to jump in. “With all due respect, Sir Otto, that’s precisely why he’s running with the Lib Dems. Because they don’t have the same old baggage, because he wants to make a difference, not just go along with the same tired rhetoric.”

Otto’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp and assessing. “And you believe he can do that, Miss…?”

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. “L/N. Y/N L/N,” she replied with a slight tilt of her head, James Bond style. Her tone was cool, collected, and a bit cheeky. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her, not tonight.

Sir Otto chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound, as he scooped a bite of beluga caviar onto his spoon. “What’s in it for you, Miss L/N?” he asked, his voice dripping with curiosity as he placed the expensive delicacy into his mouth.

Y/N smiled, her expression nonchalant, and met his gaze without flinching. “Well, money, sir,” she said bluntly. “Can’t say no to a decent paycheck, can I?”

Otto laughed, a genuine, hearty sound that seemed to surprise even him. “Ah, honesty. A rare trait in politics. Refreshing.”

Alicent, who had been quiet for a moment, leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity and a hint of amusement. “She is quite pretty, isn’t she?” she said with a small, mischievous smile. “Tell me, Y/N, any boyfriend? Fiancé? Surely someone must have snatched you up by now.”

Y/N kept her smile, though she felt the sting of the question, the way Alicent’s words seemed to pry at her personal life like a needle. She decided to answer truthfully, but with a touch of humor. “Well,” she began with a dry smile, “the last one ended because he cheated on me with his co-worker.”

Alicent’s eyebrows shot up, and even Otto paused mid-sip of his wine, surprised. Gwayne’s head whipped around so fast he nearly knocked over his water glass.

“Seriously?” Gwayne blurted out, before catching himself. “I mean… sorry, that’s… that’s bloody awful.”

Y/N shrugged, as if it were nothing more than an amusing anecdote. “Yeah, well, it makes for a good story at dinner parties, doesn’t it?”

Otto chuckled, clearly impressed. “You’ve got a tough skin, Miss L/N. You might just be what my son needs after all.”

Y/N grinned, raising her glass slightly. “Cheers to that, Sir Otto. Here’s to tough skins and thicker wallets.”

Alicent smiled, though her eyes were still studying Y/N carefully. “You certainly are… interesting, Y/N. Different from the usual lot Gwayne brings around.”

Y/N met her gaze without flinching. “Good. Because I’m not here to impress anyone, just to get the job done.”

Gwayne couldn’t hide his grin. “And that’s why she’s the best, Father. She’s real. And she’s not afraid to tell me when I’m being an idiot.”

Otto leaned back in his chair, still smiling. “Well, she’s got her work cut out for her then, doesn’t she?”

Alicent laughed softly. “Indeed. I rather like you, Y/N. And believe me, that’s not something I say often.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I think.”

As the dinner continued, the conversation flowed a bit more easily, a bit more openly. Y/N felt the tension easing just a little, but she knew better than to let her guard down completely. This was still the Hightowers, after all. They were never off-duty, never fully relaxed.

As they walked out of the restaurant into the crisp night air, Gwayne turned to her, an amused smile on his lips. “You were bloody brilliant back there. I think you might have actually impressed them.”

Y/N shrugged, her face breaking into a grin. “Well, it’s about time someone shook things up around here, don’t you think?”

He laughed, slipping his hands into his pockets. “God, I really do need you, Y/N.”

She shot him a sideways glance. “Yeah, well, don’t go getting too soppy on me now, Hightower.”

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The campaign office was buzzing with a nervous, almost frantic energy. The air was thick with the scent of coffee, sweat, and anticipation. Papers were scattered across desks, phones were ringing off the hook, and the TV in the corner was blaring the election coverage at full volume.

The room was packed with volunteers, team members, and every random person who had decided they wanted a front-row seat to Gwayne Hightower’s political gamble.

Y/N stood by the window, staring out at the rain-slicked streets of Hackney. Her arms were crossed, her foot tapping against the floor in a steady rhythm that betrayed her nerves. She could feel the tension building in the room like a pressure cooker about to blow. This was it. Months of work, endless nights, arguments, laughter, and more cups of coffee than she could count — all leading up to this moment.

She glanced over at Gwayne, who was sitting in the center of the room, gripping a bright orange stress ball in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other. His hair was slightly disheveled, his tie loosened, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. For the first time in weeks, he looked genuinely worried.

“Jesus, Gwayne, if you squeeze that thing any harder, it’s going to explode,” Y/N teased, trying to lighten the mood.

He gave a tight smile, his fingers tightening around the stress ball even more. “What, this?” he muttered. “This is keeping me from climbing out of the window and legging it down the street.”

She chuckled, walking over and plucking the glass of scotch out of his other hand. “And this?” she asked, taking a sip. “Liquid courage?”

“Something like that,” he muttered. “How’re we doing?”

Y/N glanced at the TV, where the talking heads were dissecting the election results, constituency by constituency. “Early counts look good,” she said, though her voice was steadier than she felt. “But it’s still too close to call.”

Gwayne nodded, his eyes flicking nervously to the screen. “Bloody hell. I haven’t felt this nervous since that time I accidentally set fire to the old headmaster’s garden at Eton.”

Y/N snorted. “You did what?”

“Long story,” he muttered, squeezing the stress ball again. “Involved fireworks and far too much brandy.”

She shook her head, laughing despite herself. “Remind me never to leave you alone with flammable objects.”

Across the room, one of the volunteers called out, “Turn it up! They’re about to announce something!”

Everyone fell silent, their eyes glued to the screen as the anchor shuffled his papers, looking far too pleased with himself. Y/N felt her stomach twist into knots. She glanced at Gwayne, who was sitting on the edge of his seat, knuckles white around the stress ball.

The anchor spoke, his voice calm and measured, “And now, the latest results coming in from Hackney South and Shoreditch…”

Y/N held her breath. This was it. The moment of truth.

Gwayne muttered something under his breath, his eyes wide, and she could feel the tension radiating off him like heat. “Come on, come on,” he whispered.

The anchor continued, “It appears we’re seeing a significant swing tonight. Early numbers suggest that the Liberal Democrat candidate, Gwayne Hightower, is making a strong showing in what was expected to be a closely contested race…”

A cheer went up from the room, and Y/N felt a wave of relief wash over her. But she knew better than to celebrate too early. “Still just early numbers,” she called out over the noise. “We’re not done yet!”

Gwayne turned to her, his face a mix of disbelief and hope. “We might actually pull this off,” he breathed.

She smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Might? Don’t you dare start doubting now. We’ve come too bloody far for that.”

He nodded, swallowing hard, and squeezed the stress ball once more. “Alright, alright. Deep breaths.”

Y/N chuckled. “You look like you’re about to have a heart attack. Maybe lay off the scotch for a bit, yeah?”

He laughed, but it was a nervous sound. “Can’t promise that.”

Another volunteer rushed over, holding a phone up to Y/N. “Call for you,” they said breathlessly. “Someone from the party headquarters.”

Y/N took the phone, pressing it to her ear. “Yeah? What’s the news?”

She listened for a moment, her expression hard to read, and Gwayne felt his heart leap into his throat. “Y/N?” he asked, voice tinged with panic. “What is it?”

She hung up, turning back to him with a grin. “They’re saying it’s looking even better. We’ve got a real chance here, Gwayne.”

He exhaled sharply, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “God, I hope so.”

Y/N nudged him gently. “You’ve done the work, Gwayne. You’ve talked to people, you’ve listened. Now it’s in their hands.”

He nodded, looking around the room at all the people who had put their faith in him, who had worked tirelessly by his side. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

They both turned back to the TV, watching as the coverage continued, the tension building with every passing second.

GWAYNE HIGHTOWER HAS WON HACKNEY SOUTH AND SHOREDITCH.

The words flashed across the screen, and for a heartbeat, the entire room fell silent. The anchor’s voice echoed in the stillness, confirming the impossible — Gwayne Hightower had won. He was going to Westminster.

And then, the room exploded. Cheers erupted, people jumped from their chairs, and the air filled with the sound of shouting, laughing, and the popping of champagne corks. Y/N felt a wave of exhilaration rush through her as she was engulfed by a sea of hugs and high-fives from the volunteers, their faces lit up with joy and disbelief.

“WE BLOODY DID IT!” someone shouted, and another cheer went up, even louder this time.

Y/N turned to Gwayne, who was standing in the middle of the chaos, his mouth hanging open in shock. He still had the stress ball in one hand, but his grip had slackened, and the glass of scotch dangled precariously in the other. Slowly, a grin spread across his face, growing wider and wider until it seemed to take over his whole expression.

“We won!” he shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. “We actually fucking won!”

Before Y/N could react, Gwayne grabbed her and pulled her into a bear hug, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around. She laughed, breathless, feeling the pure, unfiltered joy radiating from him. “Put me down, you idiot!” she shouted, but she couldn’t stop laughing.

He finally set her down, his eyes bright, his face flushed with excitement. “We did it, Y/N! We actually did it!”

She grinned back at him, her heart pounding with pride. “You bloody well did, Hightower. I told you you could.”

He took a deep breath, looking around at the crowd of volunteers, staffers, and supporters, all of them hugging, toasting, and celebrating like there was no tomorrow. “Right,” he announced, raising his voice above the noise. “This calls for a proper celebration.”

He made his way to the corner of the room, where a large cabinet stood. Y/N watched as he pulled open the doors to reveal a stash of bottles that looked like they’d been imported from some long-forgotten royal cellar. “Alright, who wants a drink?” he called out, holding up a bottle of whisky so rare it probably had its own pedigree.

A cheer went up, and Y/N laughed as Gwayne began pouring glasses of the finest whisky she’d ever seen. “I thought you were saving that for… I don’t know, the King’s visit or something,” she teased, accepting a glass.

He grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Forget the King. This is better.”

The glasses were passed around, and Gwayne raised his own high, a look of pure triumph on his face. “To everyone in this room,” he began, his voice strong, clear, “to every single person who believed in this campaign when no one else did, who knocked on doors, who made phone calls, who put up with my bollocks day in and day out… thank you. This isn’t my victory. It’s our victory. Ours. And I promise you, I’m going to make every single one of you proud.”

Another roar of approval filled the room, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel a lump rise in her throat. She watched Gwayne, standing there with his messy hair, his loosened tie, and that damned expensive whisky in his hand.

“To Gwayne!” she shouted, raising her glass high.

“To Gwayne!” the room echoed back, and they all drank, the whisky burning a warm path down her throat. She felt Gwayne’s arm slide around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, feeling a sense of relief and joy wash over her.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he murmured in her ear, his voice soft, almost lost in the noise of the celebration. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

She turned to look at him, her heart thudding in her chest. “Oh, please,” she replied with a grin. “You did all the hard work. I just yelled at you a lot.”

He laughed, a deep, happy sound, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of them, standing in the middle of that chaotic, jubilant room. “Well, keep yelling at me,” he said, his eyes locked on hers. “Because I’ve got a feeling we’re just getting started.”

She smiled, a warm, genuine smile, and clinked her glass against his. “To Westminster,” she said.

“To Westminster,” he echoed.

But then, “Gwayne, it’s your father.”

Gwayne looked down at his phone, the name “Otto Hightower” flashing on the screen like a warning sign. He shot a glance at Y/N, who was still grinning from ear to ear, surrounded by the celebrating team. With a sigh, he swiped to answer the call.

“Father,” he said, raising his voice above the noise of the room, “calling to congratulate me, are you?”

Otto’s voice crackled through the phone, formal and clipped. “Of course, son. It’s a remarkable achievement. The family is very… proud. Your mother insisted we call. We’d like you to drop by the estate at Kew so we can celebrate properly.”

Gwayne’s face flickered with something Y/N couldn’t quite read. He glanced at her, then back at the phone. “Tonight?” he asked, a slight hesitation in his voice.

“Yes, tonight,” Otto replied. “Your sister is already on her way. It’s only right that we toast your success together, as a family. You’ve done well, Gwayne. It’s time to show the world that we stand united.”

Y/N caught his eye, sensing his indecision. She smiled, trying to keep it light. “Go on, Gwayne. They’re your family. Go celebrate with them.”

But Gwayne’s brow furrowed, his grip tightening on his phone. “Yeah, but…” he started, then turned away slightly, lowering his voice. “Look, Father, I appreciate it, really. But I think I might stay here, with my team. With the people who made this happen.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, then a slight huff of breath. “Gwayne,” Otto said, a touch of impatience creeping into his tone, “these are the optics you have to consider now. Come to Kew. Show your face. You’ve won a political seat, but don’t forget your roots. You’re a Hightower. It’s time to act like one.”

Gwayne closed his eyes, his jaw tensing. “I know,” he muttered. “I just… I need to think about it, alright?”

Otto’s voice softened just a fraction. “Just think about what this means for all of us, Gwayne. We’re waiting.”

The call ended with a click, and Gwayne stared at the screen for a moment before slipping the phone into his pocket. He turned to find Y/N watching him, an eyebrow raised.

“So?” she asked, trying to keep her tone casual. “You off to the family estate then? Sounds like a big deal.”

Gwayne frowned, his expression conflicted. “I don’t know, Y/N,” he replied, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, they want me to, but…”

Y/N gave him a playful nudge. “Go on, posh boy. It’s your moment. Go drink champagne in a fancy mansion, eat some ridiculous hors d’oeuvres, bask in the glory of finally being the golden child.”

But Gwayne shook his head, his eyes still fixed on hers. “It’s just… that’s not where I want to be tonight.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean? They’re your family. This is huge for them too.”

He sighed, leaning against the table, his gaze never wavering. “Yeah, but they weren’t the ones who stood by me through this whole bloody mess. They weren’t the ones knocking on doors, calming me down when I thought I was going to blow it, or making sure I didn’t look like a total prat on TV.”

Her grin softened, a bit of warmth creeping into her voice. “Gwayne…”

He took a step closer, his voice dropping low, just for her. “You’re the one I want to celebrate with, Y/N. You’re the one who I owe all of this to.”

She felt her breath hitch, her heart racing in her chest. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, trying to laugh it off, but her voice came out a little too shaky. “You did this, Gwayne. You won.”

Gwayne shook his head, determination in his eyes. “No, we won. Together. And I don’t want to go to some stuffy dinner with my family when I could be here, celebrating with you. With the people who actually matter.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a grin, a teasing light dancing in her eyes. “Alright then, MP,” she replied, leaning back with her arms crossed. “But if we’re going to celebrate, we’re going to do this right.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And what does right look like to you?”

“No posh nonsense,” she declared with a smirk. “I’m in the mood for a proper drink. None of this ‘hand-picked by the King’s personal sommelier’ rubbish. We’re going to my favorite pub in Camden.”

Gwayne chuckled, clearly amused. “Camden? Really?”

“Yeah, really,” she shot back, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m talking Guinness, maybe some Negronis if we’re feeling fancy. Real drinks, in real glasses, in a place where they don’t care what your last name is or whether you’ve got a seat in Parliament.”

He laughed, already feeling a sense of relief wash over him. “Alright, alright, Camden it is. I’m game.”

She grinned, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the door. “Come on, MP. Time to show you how the other half celebrates.”

Thirty minutes later, they walked into a well-worn pub in the heart of Camden, the sort of place where the tables were sticky, the music was too loud, and everyone shouted over it anyway. It was packed, warm, and smelled faintly of spilled beer and fried food. Perfect.

Y/N pushed through the crowd, leading the way with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where they were going. “Oi, Derek!” she called to the barman, a burly man with a thick beard and a friendly grin. “Two pints of Guinness, and keep them coming!”

Derek gave her a knowing nod. “Y/N, love! Been a while. You brought a friend?”

Y/N grinned back. “Something like that. This is Gwayne. Gwayne, Derek. Derek, meet Gwayne, our newest MP.”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up. “MP, eh? Well, blimey, look at that! In my pub? Must be a special occasion.” He winked at Y/N. “What’s he doing slumming it here with the likes of us?”

Gwayne laughed, feeling more at ease than he had in weeks. “Trying to remember what real people are like,” he said, and Derek let out a hearty laugh, clapping him on the back.

“Good on you, mate. First round’s on me,” Derek declared, pouring their pints with a flourish.

Y/N grabbed the pints and handed one to Gwayne. “Cheers,” she said, clinking her glass against his.

“Cheers,” he echoed, taking a long, satisfying sip. The Guinness was cold and smooth, and he let out a contented sigh. “God, that’s good. I see why you like this place.”

She smirked, leaning against the bar. “Told you. No frills, just fun. And now, we celebrate properly.”

Gwayne’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Alright, then. Let’s have it. What’s next?”

She grinned. “Next, we toast. To winning. To not being a total prat. And to more nights like this.”

He laughed, raising his pint high. “To more nights like this,” he agreed, his voice filled with a happiness he hadn’t felt in ages.

They drank, they laughed, and they joked, and for once, Gwayne felt like he could actually breathe, like the weight of the election had finally lifted. He didn’t have to be the polished, perfect politician tonight. He could just be… himself.

Y/N leaned in, her voice low over the din of the pub. “See? Isn’t this better than some stuffy dinner with your dad?”

He smiled, his eyes locked on hers. “Much better,” he admitted, “though I think it has more to do with the company than the location.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her grin. “Flattery will get you everywhere, MP.”

“Good,” he replied with a wink, “because I’m just getting started.”

They spent the rest of the night laughing and drinking, sharing stories and toasting to every little victory. By the time they were onto their third round of Negronis — and perhaps more than a little tipsy — Gwayne realized he hadn’t felt this free in years.

As the night wore on, the pub became louder, rowdier, and Gwayne found himself leaning closer to Y/N, his shoulder brushing against hers, her laughter in his ear. He looked at her, really looked at her, and wondered how he’d managed to get so lucky.

“So, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and sincere, “if I’ve got any shot at making it in this crazy world of politics… it’s because of you. You know that, right?”

She smiled, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol, her eyes bright. “I think you’re doing just fine, Gwayne. But I’m glad to have helped knock a bit of sense into you.”

He laughed, reaching out to clink his glass against hers again. “To knocking some sense into me,” he agreed, his voice soft.

She grinned, and as their glasses met with a gentle clink, he felt that same familiar spark — the one that had been simmering between them for weeks. And tonight, with the pub alive around them and her laughter in his ear, he felt like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

▐░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▌

A few hours later.

Y/N stumbled out of the pub, her head spinning from the pints of Guinness and the Negronis they’d downed. Gwayne was beside her, his arm draped lazily around her shoulder, his laughter echoing in the cool Camden air.

“Alright, MP,” she slurred slightly, flagging down a cab that seemed to materialize from nowhere. “Time to get you back to Belgravia before you pass out on the pavement.”

Gwayne pouted, a tipsy grin spreading across his face. “But I’m not done celebrating,” he protested, swaying slightly.

She chuckled, tugging him towards the cab. “Mate, you’re done. Trust me. Come on, get in.”

She pushed him gently into the backseat and climbed in after him, giving the driver Gwayne’s address. The cabbie nodded, pulling away from the curb.

Gwayne leaned his head back, staring at her with a goofy smile. “You’re a bossy one, aren’t you?” he slurred, his eyes half-lidded.

“Someone’s got to keep your posh arse in line,” she shot back, smirking.

He laughed, the sound warm and careless, like he’d never had a worry in his life. “S’true,” he murmured, leaning his head against the window, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “You’re my rock, Y/N.”

She chuckled, feeling the warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. “Alright, Shakespeare, save it for when you’re sober.”

The cab wound its way through the quiet London streets, the lights blurring past them. Y/N’s head buzzed pleasantly, and she kept sneaking glances at Gwayne, who was still grinning like a fool.

Finally, they pulled up outside his townhouse, and the cabbie turned to look back at them. “Here we are, mate,” he said. “You alright getting out?”

Gwayne blinked, looking around like he’d just woken up. “Yeah, yeah, this is me,” he mumbled, fumbling with the door handle. He managed to push it open, but instead of getting out, he reached for Y/N’s hand, pulling her along with him.

“Oi, what are you doing?” she laughed, stumbling out after him. “You’re home. Get inside and sleep it off.”

He turned to her, his eyes wide and a bit desperate. “Wait, wait,” he said, his words slurring together. “I need you to… to punch in the code for me.”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “You’ve forgotten the bloody code to your own house?”

He nodded with all the seriousness of a drunk man trying to seem responsible. “I need your help,” he insisted, tugging at her arm. “Can’t… can’t do it without you.”

Y/N sighed, but she couldn’t help the smile that crept onto her face. “Fine, fine. Come on, let’s get you inside.”

He beamed, still holding onto her arm like she was the only thing keeping him upright. “Knew I could count on you,” he said, leading her up the steps to the front door.

She punched in the code he mumbled under his breath, shaking her head in amusement. “Honestly, Gwayne, you’re hopeless.”

The door clicked open, and she nudged him inside, making sure he didn’t trip over the threshold. “Alright, you’re in,” she said, hands on her hips. “Now go upstairs and sleep, before you do something stupid.”

But he didn’t let go of her arm. Instead, he turned to face her, his expression suddenly serious, almost vulnerable. “Stay,” he murmured, his voice low and soft. “Just… for a bit. I don’t wanna be alone.”

Y/N’s heart did a weird little flip, and she swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “Gwayne, you’re pissed. You need to sleep it off.”

He shook his head, his grip on her arm tightening just a little. “Please,” he whispered, his eyes searching hers. “Just… just for a minute. I don’t want this night to end.”

She hesitated. “Gwayne, I…”

But his eyes were so earnest, so genuinely pleading, that she found herself nodding, unable to resist. “Alright,” she sighed, trying to sound annoyed but failing. “Just for a minute.”

He smiled, that boyish grin that made her insides twist, and he led her inside, closing the door behind them. The grand entrance hall was dimly lit, the soft glow of antique lamps casting shadows on the walls.

They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, and she could feel her heart racing in her chest. “Okay, you’re in,” she repeated, a bit breathless now. “Now what?”

He stepped closer, his hand still on her arm, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. “For everything. For… believing in me.”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush, and she looked away, suddenly feeling very sober. “Yeah, well,” she muttered, “someone had to.”

He laughed softly, his thumb brushing against her arm. “I think… I think it had to be you.”

She met his gaze again, and for a second, she forgot where they were, forgot everything but the way he was looking at her, like she was the only thing that mattered.

“Gwayne,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Stay,” he repeated, his eyes dark, serious.

Y/N sighed then she left Gwayne sprawled out on the leather couch, one arm dangling off the side, his head leaning back with that drunken, lopsided grin still on his face.

“Yeah, sure,” she muttered to herself, looking around his ridiculously posh townhouse. “Just for a bit, and somehow I’m now in charge of making sure you don’t choke on your own tongue tonight.”

She glanced at him one more time. “Stay put, alright? I’m getting you some water.”

Gwayne gave a lazy thumbs-up, eyes half-closed. “Water… perfect idea. You’re brilliant, Y/N. Absolutely… magnificent,” he mumbled, slurring his words, his grin widening as if he’d just had the most profound thought.

She shook her head, smirking. “You’ll thank me in the morning, trust me.”

Y/N made her way toward the kitchen, weaving slightly as the room swayed around her. She was definitely feeling the effects of those Negronis. “Right,” she muttered under her breath, “just need to get some water. How hard can it be?”

She turned the corner and entered what could only be described as a space-age kitchen — all sleek chrome and glossy surfaces, like it had been designed by some avant-garde architect who’d clearly never boiled an egg in his life. She blinked at the sight of a state-of-the-art water system built into the counter, with more buttons and screens than the bloody cockpit of a plane.

“What the hell is this?” she muttered, frowning at the contraption. “It’s a water tap, not the bloody TARDIS.”

She poked at one of the buttons, and the display lit up with a series of choices: Still. Sparkling. Ice Cold. Room Temperature. Mineral Infused. pH Balanced. Alkaline. There was even an option for Artisanal Mountain Spring, which she was pretty sure was taking the piss.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she groaned, rubbing her temples. “Why does he need this much choice for a glass of water?��

She jabbed at the Still button, but nothing happened. She tried Room Temperature. Still nothing. The machine made a faint, mocking beeping sound that she swore was laughing at her. “Come on, you fancy piece of crap,” she growled, slapping the side of it. “Give me some bloody water!”

She pressed another button, and a small panel opened up, revealing even more buttons. “Are you kidding me?” she muttered, leaning closer, trying to make sense of the digital display that was now flashing at her like she’d accidentally triggered the launch codes for a nuclear missile.

“Alright, let’s try this…” she muttered, tapping another button labeled Dispense.

The machine hummed for a moment, then spat out a single drop of water. A single, mocking drop.

“You have got to be joking,” Y/N muttered, staring at the droplet like it had personally insulted her. “Come on, work, damn you!”

She tried again, this time holding the button down longer, and finally, a stream of water began to flow — freezing cold and spraying out far too fast, splashing over the side of the glass and onto her shirt.

“Bloody hell!” she yelped, jumping back and nearly slipping on the pristine marble floor. “Why is it so complicated to get a drink in this bloody house?”

Gwayne’s voice floated in from the living room, a lazy, amused drawl. “Y’alright in there, Y/N?”

She shot a glare in his direction, even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah, fine!” she called back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just wrestling with your bloody spaceship tap!”

She finally managed to fill the glass without any more incidents and turned off the tap, which thankfully didn’t require any further button-pressing. Taking a deep breath, she made her way back to the living room, where Gwayne was now lying sideways on the couch, humming some Beatles tune to himself.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the glass into his hand. “Drink. You need water, or you’re going to wake up tomorrow feeling like a truck hit you. And I’m not in the mood to deal with your whining.”

He blinked up at her, his eyes glassy but grateful. “Thanks, Y/N,” he murmured, taking a sip. “You’re… amazing. Like, really. You know that?”

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, yeah. Drink up.”

He chuckled softly, downing the water like he hadn’t had a drink in days. “Seriously, though,” he continued, setting the glass on the coffee table, “don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She felt a flutter in her chest, but she kept her tone light. “Probably end up dehydrated on your fancy couch, for starters.”

He grinned, his eyelids drooping as the alcohol started to catch up with him. “Maybe. Or maybe I’d just… still be lost.”

Y/N’s breath hitched for a second, but she brushed it off with a chuckle. “Alright, enough with the confessions. Time for you to sleep.”

He nodded, his head lolling to the side. “Yeah… sleep sounds good,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

Y/N watched him for a moment, making sure he was actually dozing off and not about to get up and start another drunken adventure. “Goodnight, Gwayne,” she whispered, almost too softly to hear.

He mumbled something in his sleep, a smile still on his lips, and Y/N turned to leave, shaking her head. She’d gotten him home, hydrated, and onto his couch. Mission accomplished for now.

[avelera]

So I don’t plan to become a political blog here but I was a poll worker and regularly volunteer as a poll worker at elections in my ward. And I want to push back on two assumptions I see on here, one that is comforting, one that might not be.

First, the perhaps comforting one.

1) Jill Stein did not get any votes. I live in a blue ward in a purple state. Harris got about 2,200 votes, Trump got about 700. The Libertarian candidate got like 24 votes. Jill Stein got 12.

Yes, even in a very blue town, no one was giving their protest vote to Jill Stein in any significant numbers. Obviously I can’t speak to all states, but I think that the shadow of the 2016 third party votes is misapplied here, ie stop yelling at Jill Stein or third party voters for losing this, they don’t exist in any significant numbers.

2) Palestine protest votes were also a negligible percentage during the Primary. Biden wasn’t even on the ballot in my state (NH) but there was a significant write in campaign that netted him some 70k votes I want to say, which was significant since they were all write in. That’s very unusual. He got about 700 in my town and there’s a lot less turnout in an uncontested federal primary. Literally there was no reason to show up except to write him in and a lot of people did.

But we also got protest write in votes for Free Gaza and From the Rivers to the Seas (which I had to explain the meaning of to older Democratic volunteers there) and that number was 22.

Literally nothing was lost to show up and cast this protest vote and it was also a negligible number, despite what you might think from being on social media.

I mention this to bring perspective to how widely held a view can seem online, when you can collect and converse with other like minded people around the world, vs how this manifests even in areas that align with your politics in the real world.

I say this too because I hope it offers some perspective on these percentages we see in elections. Everyone you will ever know and agree with us still a small percentage and not enough to swing an election usually. That’s why big coalitions are needed. That’s why politicians must often appeal to people you don’t agree with, because you’re adding up all those little percentages.

Perhaps this is inherently obvious, but I hoped to offer a sober, statistical view of how what seem like vocal movements online often don’t make any sort of waves in the ballot box, at least not without significant organization efforts, which often take years if not decades to pull together (ie, decades of civil rights or accessibility organizing). This is also not to belittle the Free Gaza movement, not at all, but to offer perspective on how that online vehemence did, or didn’t, manifest at the ballot box.

[phoenixyfriend]

I would advise listening to this podcast all the way through:

There is a section where they talk about how, while pro-ceasefire progressives are loud, they are low in number. The two statistics given are an opinion poll in Pennsylvania about how a pro-Israel stance has actually benefited one of the Senators, and the New Hampshire democratic primary.

In the NH primary, Biden was not on the ballot, for complicated Democratic infighting reasons about which state gets to host the first primary. He nonetheless won the state with about 64%, because people wrote in with his name.

There was also a campaign, a loud one, to get people to write in "ceasefire." It got under 1,500 votes.

Biden got over 77,000. As a write-in candidate.

"But the primary didn't matter!"

Sure, in terms of actual impact on delegates, but look. People are using it as evidence that the people begging for a ceasefire are louder than they are numerous. Shouting, but only a handful.

Abstaining does nothing, even in the primaries.

Hopefully, Michigan will change that, but we cannot rely on one blue-wall state to make a case for all of us.

Do not just shout online. Even in-person protests won't do much when it's a small handful of people each time, because What If It's The Same Five People. That's only five votes, right?

But what if you vote, and tell them you disapprove?

What if you call in, tell your Senator and House Rep that you may not vote for them if this continues, and they match your name and address to a database and find that yes, you DO have a vote you can withhold?

I know I'm a broken record, but PLEASE call your reps.

I'll even help you figure out what to say.

[aeolianblues]

I’ve been poring over the election result maps (why?? Curiosity maybe?) and the thing I’m seeing is that pretty much all over the country, the Tories have 1. lost seats, and heavily. 1.2. They’ve lost seats in Conservative strongholds. They’ve lost seats in places that haven’t not voted Tory in decades, 50+ years.

2. More importantly, every place I’ve seen that will have a Tory MP is a seat the Tories have retained. Meaning the Conservatives have gained basically no seats at all, unless I missed something on the map. No constituency this time has looked at the last four years and thought, ‘I haven’t voted Tory before, but I’m going to consider it this time’. The only seats they will hold are ones that voted Tory last time, and even those they lost many of.

The great news is this means Tory scare tactics have NOT worked. Rwanda has not worked. ‘We’ll introduce national service’ has not worked. Threatening to leave the ECHR has not worked. Matt Hancock’s celebrity TV appearances have not worked. Rishi Sunak’s politicisation of climate change has not worked in favour of the Tories, in fact the Libdems and the Greens have made historic inroads into government.

Partygate was not forgotten. ‘Let the bodies pile high’ was not forgotten. Sewage in the rivers was not forgotten, nor forgiven. The villainisation of NHS workers, striking workers and people in public services has not worked, in fact both Labour and the Libdems had headlining parts of their manifestos talking about reducing NHS waiting lists, creating more funding for the NHS and in fact public services (nationalised clean energy being one of Labour’s big election promises), whereas Rishi Sunak’s blaming NHS waiting times on striking doctors on the campaign trail was widely denounced as being in poor taste.

There’s stuff to take heart from, in spite of it all.

Of course we worry that a lot of those Tory seats shifted further right to Reform for the first time. And Kier Starmer’s Labour shares a few policies with the Tories. But I’m still out here hoping that with Labour now in power, Kier Starmer can now stop trying to win Conservative votes and actually act like a Labour leader. I’m hoping the Libdems and Green are able to keep pulling Labour to the left.

Hopefully Kier Starmer is made very clearly aware of how many votes Labour lost because of his initial stance on Israel and Gaza. The fact that members of his own party were on Radio 4 this morning publicly saying that most the independent seats Labour lost were to candidates who were running on criticism of how long it took Starmer to eventually join calls for a ceasefire, and who could highlight that the difference between a leader of opposition calling for a ceasefire, and a government in Downing Street that has the ability to curtail the arms sent to Israel was massive, and a far from symbolic gesture.

In terms of the tone of politics in the UK: Tim Davie is still the director-general of the BBC, but a lot of the caution on the part of the BBC to ‘remain impartial’ to the point of never fact checking the Tories, allowing some of the most vile and fringe commentary on trans rights to enter the country’s public consciousness and discourse, not correcting the Tories as they kept demonising striking rail and NHS workers— a lot of that was down to them not wanting to lose funding for the BBC, which the Tories would threaten to gut, loudly and often. Hopefully with Labour in government, the BBC can go back to somewhat sensible reporting.

There is stuff to look forward to, in spite of everything. Lower energy bills in the future would be a nice place to start, and if it is genuinely nationalised green energy as Starmer has stated before, then that’s a sweet, sweet plus.

[mariacallous]

The Conservative Party has a “weird” problem. Research organisation More In Common conducted 10 focus groups around the country on the Tory party and its leadership contest – and one of its headline findings is the party needs to seem more in line with regular voters, and to be a bit less “weird”.

That “weird” charge is a nightmarish one for any political movement to face, as Donald Trump is learning to his cost in the US presidential contest. Since Kamala Harris’s pick for vice president, Tim Walz, started using the “weird” label for team Trump – over their fixation on attacking “childless cat ladies“, and policing women’s bodies – the campaign has struggled to rebut the allegation.

America is much more steeped in the culture wars than Britain. Right-wing Americans and left-wing Americans get their news from completely different sources, and so hear completely different narratives. The country is far more polarised on social issues like LGBT rights and abortion. Trust is far lower. In America, engaging in so-called culture wars is necessary to capture some voters, even if it comes with the risk of looking weird.

It shouldn’t need saying, but Britain is not America. We still agree on much more than we disagree on. The UK public is overwhelmingly in favour of gay marriage and women’s right to access abortions – including a majority of Conservative voters, on both issues. The BBC is both the most accessed source of news and the most trusted news brand in the UK, across all age groups.

Voters of different parties largely agree on the top issues facing the UK: cost of living, the NHS, and the state of the economy – even if they disagree on how much of a priority immigration is. The messaging from the public couldn’t be much clearer: they want politicians who will get on with the boring stuff. They want public services to work better, they want better wages, and they’d like to be confident their children will be able to afford homes.

It is notable that everyone in More In Common’s focus groups voted Conservative in 2019, when Boris Johnson was in power and was hardly tiptoeing around being some kind of politically correct or “woke” icon. The people warning they find the Tories weird right now are not classic snowflakes – they are exactly the voters the party has lost.

All of which makes the decisions of some of the Conservative leadership contenders even more baffling than they first appear. The campaign trailer of Kemi Badenoch, ostensibly the front-runner in the contest, opened with an attack on the actor David Tennant, with Kemi Badenoch herself boldly stating she is “not afraid of Doctor Who, or whoever”.

Who is this stuff supposed to be for? It does not align at all with the priorities of Conservative voters, and so will surely just lead the party down another electoral dead end.

Elected Conservatives have become obsessed with the weirdness of US politics. Some of this may be self-serving: there is a lot of money to be earned on the US right-wing speaking circuit for retired British politicians, but they have to serve up the red meat that US Republicans want.

But some of it is simply the UK obsession with America and our “special relationship”, which leads politicians astray into thinking our politics are more similar than they are. This leads them in to assuming hot-button American political issues will play well here, when they go down like cold sick.

It leads to decisions like Tory leadership challenger Robert Jenrick saying he would vote for Donald Trump, a wildly unpopular man with UK voters. Most in the UK public barely watch the news, let alone follow politics closely. The very act of being in politics makes you “weird” – but the Conservatives risk taking it to a whole new level.

Unless they start listening to the voters actually living in the country, rather than looking to the US, they are set for a long time in opposition indeed.

[carby]

Long long long story short, we have an election tomorrow that will determine who will lead parliament, the Tories or Labour. The Tories have been in power for the past ~14 or so years but support has been dwindling, especially after the whole getting caught throwing parties in lockdown thing and actively trying to kill the NHS and privatize it so we have a similar healthcare system to the one in the US.

Anyways, current PM Rishi Sunak (derogatory) has spent his current campaign telling us how he will bring back conscription for those who turn 18 after he is voted in and passed the law, meaning this will coincidentally affect the same people who literally can't vote right now as they are under 18. But yeah, how's your day going?

Oh so we're just all just suffering at the hands of lunatics then. Pretty normal. Pretty sane. Yuuuup yupyupyup cool coolcoolcool neat-oooo nifty 👍🏻✨

BEEP ‼️

[gothhabiba]

Brazilian activists have voiced outrage after congress moved to drastically dilute the powers of the environment and Indigenous peoples ministries in what campaigners called a potentially crippling blow to efforts to protect Indigenous communities and the Amazon.

[...] By 15 votes to 3, a congressional committee approved draft legislation that would strip the environment ministry of control of the rural environmental registry, a key tool in the fight against illegal deforestation and land-grabbing, and water resources. The rule change would also strip the ministry for Indigenous peoples of responsibility for delimiting Indigenous territories, handing those powers to the justice ministry.

[...] “They are fleecing the environment ministry,” Marina Silva told the newspaper O Globo.

“The Brazilian people elected President Lula but it seems congress wants a repeat of the Bolsonaro government,” Silva added, warning the moves would undermine Brazil’s international claims to be committed to fighting deforestation and climate change.

Guajajara told AFP that attempts to erode her ministry’s powers went “totally against what president Lula is defending” and represented a “step backwards” for Indigenous rights.

A prominent political columnist, Miriam Leitão, claimed the changes were tantamount to “the demolition of the [two] ministries”.

In a separate move, the lower house also approved plans for an imminent vote on legislation which activists fear would annul all Indigenous claims to land Indigenous people were not physically inhabiting when Brazil’s constitution came into force in 1988.

On Twitter, Guajajara called that manoeuvre “genocidal” and a direct attack on Indigenous rights, territories and the fight against climate change.

[...] Marcio Astrini, the chief executive of the Climate Observatory environmental watchdog, said the moves – if approved in their current form – would deal a severe blow to the environment ministry and an even greater one to the Indigenous ministry, whose raison d’être was the demarcation of Indigenous lands.

“It would be like having a finance ministry that couldn’t handle fiscal or tax policy. It would be like having a health ministry that didn’t run the NHS,” Astrini said, urging Lula’s administration to find ways to block or alter the proposed changes.

“The government is going to have to take some decisions … Will it cave in to all the demands of the ruralistas and Bolsonaristas in congress? Or will it stick to President Lula’s campaign promises? It seems very clear to me it can’t do both,” he added.

(25 May, 2023)

[sourcreammachine]

REFORM PARTY "MANIFESTO" 2024 SUMMARY

they say it ain't a manifesto even though it is. they're tryna pretend they're not politicians even though they are. their reasoning is that they know they won't be the next government, so this is what they'd push for as opposition members - just like in the manifestos of the greens, SNP etc. but anyway, this "contract" of theirs is scant and they're running a vibes-based campaign. you don't need to see any actual policies, no no no. you already know if they're for you or not. oh, and if you think they're for you - just like all far right parties, they ain't: they're for capital, they're for vested interests, they're for cruelty. they're for the classic quasi-accelerationist burnout cycle that'll weaken the base of society and the economy and ruin fucking everything. but hey, at least there won't be no immigrants. i'm so sorry if you see them as the future: they're taking you for a ride just as you've been used time and time again, because there is no clearly accessible political solution to improving your material conditions as current politics stand, i'm sorry - that is, within the paradigm you know - there're answers just outside the tunnel-vision you've been forced into. why not take a look sometime. who knows, you might find some hope.

i'm not shitting you, though. the manifesto is not long. go read it. see for yourself the draconian horror they advocate, and will push for these five years, and will endorse with the hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of Short Money coming their way after they get into parliament. this isn't a 2015 UKIP moment, a single-issue agenda that'll flame out. even if they fail in their 2029 campaign with no votes against the tories to count on, these ideas and their influence are here to stay for the medium-term now. even if we remove the rosethorn it'll keep bleeding and bleeding and bleeding

yeah, on account of the scantness, these policies are vague. they're much more like ideas rather than proposals. the general nonsense of them has been fact-checked time and time again so i won't bother. here's just a summary of their rambling ephemeral suggestions

💷ECONOMY

revoke benefits after four months, MANDATORY acceptance of the second job offer on pain of benefit revocation, make all eligibility capability assessments in-person, mandating medical assessments, to catastrophically reduce disability benefit entitlements

raise the personal allowance to §20k/a, cutting individual taxation by §1600/a. raise it to §25k for the married

raise the second band of income tax from about §50k to §70k cutting an ABHORRENT amount of tax from the upper-middle class, far far far far far more than the tax cuts on §20k-earners

leave the World Economic Forum, plummet corporation tax from its already international tax-haven low levels, abolish any business tax for "high-street based" small businesses to create a new class of fat cat burghers, VAT refund for businesses making under §150k/a profit no matter what it is they're flogging

revoke european trade agreements and collapse trade with the mainland

massive tax breaks for defence contractors

'frontload' the child benefit system, plunging it after the child turns four

pour money into giving tourists a full refund on VAT

surge the inheritance tax threshold to §2m BUT "allow the money to be donated to charity instead" (ie allowing massive loophole scams)

massive deregulation, including on the regulation of business and employment laws as "we must make it easier to hire and fire". the manifesto also whines about "6700 eu laws" that still stand, but whines and moves on, implying a mass unbounded deregulation of industry

🏥PUBLIC SERVICES

abolish the NHS and replace it with a private voucher system

catastrophic austerity: every government department to be removed of a 5% of its funding that it must account for itself, reducing spending across the board without central planning or oversight

catastrophic statecapture: abolish civil service leadership and replace them with politicised government appointees "from the private sector"

catastrophic hike on university entry requirements and mandate many be cut to two years

catastrophic privatisation of the remaining public healthcare with surge in outsourcing and contracting, 20% total tax relief for private healthcare

statecapture the BBC with full nationalisation

comprehensive curriculum audit to impose "patriotic education": mandate "any teaching about a period or example of british or european imperialism or slavery must be paired with the teaching of a non-european occurrence of the same to ensure balance", teach children about "their heritage"

public inquiry on "the harm of vaccines"

leave the WHO

end the exemption private schools from the 20% VAT. wait, wait no hang on i've got that wrong. oh right yeah, that's labour's policy, sorry. reform says to impose a 20% TAX RELIEF ON PRIVATE SCHOOLS. sorry peasants, your tax money is funding Eton now

🏠HOUSING

catastrophic tax breaks for small landlords

revoke the renters reform bill

abolish stamp duty (the tax on the buying of homes) under §750k and plummet it above that mark, allowing obscene wealth transfers, massive property buyup, catastrophic housing supply saturation, and the annihilation of first-time buying

🚄TRANSPORT ?

ban and abolish low emission zones

ban and abolish low traffic neighbourhoods

ban and abolish all 20mph zones except outside schools

lower petrol tax

👮FORCE

abolish the human rights act

abolish the equality act

leave the european convention on human rights

freeze "non-essential immigration", and they do not elaborate what they mean or what the policy definition is to be. so they're just gonna be rambling about ephemera to kingdom come. that's the game they're playing

10% HEAD TAX ON IMMIGRANTS via additional national insurance charge

REVOCATION OF CITIZENSHIP FROM IMMIGRANT UK CITIZENS COMMITTED OF CRIMES, without specifying whether or not this applies only to dual-citizens, meaning reform supports the mass imposition of STATELESS status, A GRAVE AND ABHORRENT CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY

invade france. i'm being serious. they'd intercept and arrest small-boat crossers and 'take them back to france', violating french territorial sovereignty on both land and sea via the use of force, gravely violating international law against our neighbour

FORTY THOUSAND new police in five years, around 25% more, massively prioritise pipelining ex-military officers and enlistees into the police, abolish PCSOs and make them regular broken-windows police

labour camps for young offenders

create a US-style coast guard and begin routine patrols for migrants or foreign fishers

surge armed forces funding by the highest amount proposed by any party

"stop Sharia law being used in the UK", ie draconian monitoring of mosques, muslim community organisations, the palestine movement, and any muslim

absolute prohibition on asylum applications from "safe countries", sentencing desperate seekers to political persecution and death by mere categorical definition

increase stop-and-search powers, mandates and centrality in policing tactics, pursue broken windows policing,

MANDATORY MINIMUM OF LIFE for second violent/serious offences or ANY drug dealing, new offence for 'substantial possession of drugs'

catastrophically demolish the legalised definition of hatecrime to de facto prevent its use for any prosecution

mass prison building, convert disused military bases into prison camps

bad internet bill: massive inquiry into 'child social media use' (under their watch requiring catastrophic restrictions), renew the online safety bill as "social media giants that push baseless transgender ideology and divisive critical race theory should have no role in regulating free speech"

abolish the northern ireland framework, seemingly unilaterally, paving the way for a hard border and blowing the starting whistle on The Troubles 2

speaking of which: exempt the armed forces from human rights law

catastrophically plummet the number of student visas and prohibit international students with dependents

end funding for european defence programmes. sorry estonia looks like you're lost. oh also "the west provoked putin" so there's that

require the licensing of foreign trawlers in the eez, beginning a cold war with iceland

halve international development / foreign aid funding from its already tiny budget, with specific mention of "global quangos" (literally how many centuries has it been and antisemitism is STILL invoked by these pillocks)

🌱ECOCIDE

repeal every penny of green investment

abolish all emissions targets including for all public services

abolish all renewable energy subsidies

mandate the use of fertile land for farming, ban natural england from protecting 'farmland' land, end and ban all rewinding programmes

abolish environmental levies

catastrophic surge on oil/gas licensing and open new lithium and coal mines, and support biomass/biofuel

🗳️DEMOCRACY ?

begin trumpist restriction on the ability to vote

abolish all postal voting apart from the elderly and disabled

keep voter ID

"legislate to stop left-wing bias and politically correct ideology"

proportional commons and elected senate

🏳️‍⚧️REACTIONARY AGENDA not otherwise covered

for all transgender schoolchildren who have not been permitted a gender recognition certificate: prohibit the use of correct pronouns by any teacher, prohibit the recognition of social transitioning by any teacher, and require mandatory outing to their parents

ban all unisex toilets

"cut funding to universities that undermine free speech", with no clarification, meaning they get to bully anyone they chose

abolish the public health observatory on racial health disparities

look, yeah. the manifesto is short, their purview is open. the door is not shut. everything is on the table. their one, two, three or more MPs are going to be using your tax money to advocate anything and anything that harms migrants, queer and trans people. nonwhite citizens and any annoying political movement can and will be fair game for total attack and political annihilation. wherever the transphobic tornado goes next they will join in. it is going to be a dangerous time for us. they are going to push for absolutely anything they can to harm trans people. your country. your money. your responsibility to fight them. that is what democracy is

[eaglesnick]

“The True measure of our wealth is how much we’d be worth if we lost all our money.” – J.H.Jowett

The Byline Times carried this headline on 18th January 2024

“Reform UK Limited: The Political Business Brought to You by Billionaires.”

I have always been somewhat surprised why so many of the British electorate vote for Nigel Farage. He is not a “man of the people”, he rarely speaks “common sense" and he breaks his political promises as often as Sir Keir Starmer. (We all remember the slogan, “We send the EU £350 million a week. Lets fund our NHS” that turned out to be either a "mistake" as Farage later described it, or a deliberate lie, depending on your point of view.)

There are two themes that run throughout Forages political career – accusations of racism and his love of money.

Lets take racism:

Farage’s infamous anti-immigration poster of 2016 was described by George Osbourne as both “vile" and reminiscent of “nazi propaganda”. Farage is a master at promoting feelings of “us” and “them”, the polarizing political rhetoric that pits one group of people against another.

Despite claiming to “hate” the EU, its institutions, its personnel and its policies, Nigel Farage was a member of the European Parliament for 21 years, raking in a small fortune while doing so. (More of this later) He very successfully used the language  of  “hatred” to persuade the British people to leave the EU but at the same time created a problem for himself as he also scuppered his earning potential. Having defeated the bullying EU he needed to create a new enemy to rail against – Muslims.

Sky News (27/05/24:

“Nigel Farage called out for 'blanket accusation' as he says 'growing number' of Muslims 'loathe' British values.

And LBC said:

“Farage defends Reform UK candidates after anti-Islam and far-right comments exposed." (13/06/24)

Farage’s anti-Muslim position had been known for many years. In 2013 Farage claimed Muslim migrants were  “coming here to take us over". But since leaving the EU it has taken on new significance, Muslims being  an easily identifiable group for the particular brand of "hatred" politics that Farage peddles in order to make money.

Let us suppose for arguments sake Farage actually believes what he says about Muslims trying to “take over Britain” and “loathing British values”. The question then arises as to why he has handed the Chairmanship of the Reform UK party to a Muslim millionaire.

Before the last election Reform UK accepted hundreds of thousands of pounds from very wealthy individuals, the largest donor being Muslim.

“The precise amount Zia Yusuf has given to the party has not been disclosed but Reform UK claims it is the biggest donation of their general election campaign so far." (BBC News: 19/06/24)

Two months later and Zia Yusaf has been made chairman of Reform UK. If Muslims are intent on “taking over" Britain what better way than becoming Chairman of Britons fastest growing political party? But why would Farage open the door to a “takeover” by the very people he claims loath British values?

The answer is of course money. When you “donate” millions to a political party you expect something in return. And for Farage money has always been of primary concern regardless of ethics.

Reform UK is backed by billionaires and millionaires because they feel it will protect their interests. Nigel Farage does not really care about the so-called “Muslim threat” anymore than he hated the EU.  Farage’s primary concern is funding his ever-growing bank account that being a controversial figure in the political limelight allows him to do.

The 21 years that Farage was a member of the despicable European Parliament he was paid approximately £2.2 million before tax (£1.7 million after tax). In 2018, Esquire magazine (21/08/18) revealed that Farage was living in a £4 million Chelsea town house, and was paid nearly £1million pounds for his broadcasting contracts on top of his job as an MEP. That isn’t all. As a retiring MEP Mr Farage was entitled to an extra payment of £152,000 before tax, and a massive pension of £73,000 per year. Strange that Mr  Farage had told the Daily Mail only months earlier that he was “skint” and that there was “no money in politics”.

It is money that drives Farage not political conviction. It is no wonder that the Financial Times (17/08/24) reported that:

“Nigel Farage is Britain’s highest earning MP, Common records reveal."

Farage has been absent from his Clacton constituency and not holding constituency surgeries on the pretext "the public will flow through the doors with knives in their pockets”. A more plausible explanation might be he has been too busy in America supporting Donald Trump and raking in huge sums of money for his speaking events.

The Independent (17/08/24) revealed Farage is pocketing £98,000 a month from his various political activities this year. Stoking political and social division pays very nicely it seems. His anti-EU, anti-immigrant, anti-Muslim, credentials have kept him firmly in the media spotlight, and this has provided him the opportunity to feather his own nest regardless of the economic cost to the nation regards Brexit, or the social cost regards his anti-immigration, anti-Muslim stance.  Where making money takes precedence over all things is it any wonder that Reform UK is the party of billionaires.

[187days]

Day Forty-Three

My day did not start out very well, but when news breaks over the weekend that one of your former students has been arrested for crimes involving your current students, well, that's to be expected. Thankfully, The Superintendent was able to notify all the district families before the press got hold of the story. And, today, the Principal sent an email to our students and staff as a follow-up. He also got on the intercom after the morning announcements to address the issue.

I had to talk to two of the students in my advisory about their response to that, and their behavior didn't really improve from there, which was stressful. My classes were good, though. Everyone came in with a positive attitude, did the work, it all went super smoothly. I'd been bracing for it to be very different, so that was a relief.

My Global Studies students read an article about Islam and used it to add to the charts they've been making to compare and contrast the "big three" monotheistic religions. Then they did a bit of research on the Five Pillars of Islam, which we'll go over to start the next lesson. It's one of the many simple yet effective lessons I've got in my repertoire, and I was happy students found it engaging. I hardly had to do any redirecting- just pointed them in the right direction to find information here and there- and the timing was darn near perfect.

Also perfect: the APGOV lesson I did on presidential campaigns and elections. I knew I'd get a bunch of questions, so I purposefully left room for them; most were about the electoral college, but I also got quite a few about caucusing and about party conventions. I had to Google a handful of the answers because I didn't know them off the top of my head, but that's fine. Students had just enough time, when the discussion wrapped, to vote in the PBS NH mock election. They got stickers for voting, and if you're thinking juniors and seniors are too old to be excited about stickers, well, you would be wrong!

[possiblyunhinged]

Being autistic, mentally ill and poor is very not ideal right now when lefties on the internet turn into raging dickheads during an election campaign... And I am a lefty.

I don't think I've ever felt this negative about everything... and I was diagnosed with clinical depression when I was 6.

I AM A FUN LITTLE GUY, OKAY?!

I've been in a four-day funk where I literally can't cope with external stimuli. I'm a boring person. I spend far too much of my life reading up on stuff, and usually, I'd be all over the election coverage, but I'm just done with everything...

Not in a 2008 emo way, in an I'm autistic, and my brain feels like it's on fire right now kind of way.

There are many threads of injustice weaving through everything right now, that my silly little ND can't cope anymore. Which I know sounds deeply petulant. I am a BABY... but I think for me, if a problem isn't solvable in my brain, then it just kind of sets fire to it on the way out.

It's been in England right now when you're working class, especially over the past three or four years. I'm not talking about losing your annual holiday, the last time I went abroad was when I was 10 years old. I have never been able to justify a holiday nor save because just keeping my head above water financially has been a fucking ballache.

Knowing that over 4 million families are living in poverty right now and having the lived experience of how that experience obliterated my childhood and indoctrinated my brain with a shame that has never left me absolutely breaks my heart.

I don't even have a quip to follow that.

I can't cope with those in power's complete lack of regard for what they have done. And when these children need help, whether that's psychological or otherwise, the likelihood is they'll just be stuck on a fucking waiting list.

I don't have space for rhetoric that generally only exists in University lectures for a reason... because it doesn't translate into real life with all of its complexities.

Unless it's a tactical vote, you can shove your Green Party where the sun doesn't shine. A blessing is that Labour will push for proportional voting and before the LaBoUr HaVe BaCkPeDaLlEd On EvErYtHiNg... wait and see, hey?

Let people feel a modicum of fucking hope for one second, because guess what... being someone who deals with suicidal ideation in a world so desperate to destroy people's hope is sehr stressig.

Beyond being a wretched bitch, I've pretty much been sick most of my life. And I have never found it more difficult to live with my brain.

I've existed in poverty since the age of 8. I'm 28 now. I don't have savings. I haven't worked for years because I had a nervous breakdown when I was 24 after being sexually assaulted. I tried CBT, beta-blockers, and a myriad of anti-depressants, guzzling on mushroom powders, but ultimately, I very much became a homebound agoraphobic once more.

I was diagnosed first with agoraphobia when I was 14.

I swear, I'm not an absolutely miserable cunt...

Well, not fully anyway.

Being reliant on the NHS for help my whole life has been nothing but a fucking nightmare. CAHMS was a joke, and it's only in recent years I started looking into the amount of people who were abused in that system. People didn't know what to do with a hyper anxious girl who could not simply slot in to a system of which worked for the majority. I next exceeded 20% attendance in a school year, despite the very helpful threats from social services.

I struggle to see how things have changed, frankly.

And I mention all of that to say that I've never felt more shame about my situation. I've never felt more scared about my future, especially when I am so reliant on my Mum, who is ageing like milk that's been left out on a patio in Portugal, and I don't know how I'm going to be able to help her as she gets older. My friend's lives are all falling into place, and mine has never felt so glum.

I was just curious to see if anything had indeed changed from when I was a child, and I saw a statistic of how more children are being submitted to A&E with self-harm injuries. And I can't help but ponder how shoving them on a waiting list for years and offering 6 sessions of CBT is going to help. I mean, two people I love attempted to take their own life and were just told to go back to their GP.

I don't feel all that positive right now.

I don't know why the fuck I think writing this on the internet is a good idea. However, people who play politics for a personality don't get that they make people who are struggling feel like debate fodder.

People are really fucking struggling, and if they get fucking 2% better, I'm sure most would take it. This incessant need to shit on anything that resembles some kind of hope is actually gross. And in fact, I think it's cruel.

Is 2% better the dream? No, obviously fucking not.

But am I going to fucking bite at the next middle-class person who goes on the internet or pops up on a TV panel and tells people who are struggling what to think? Yes.

I'm sharpening my teeth with an emery board as we speak.

Now, while we all sit on NHS waiting lists trying to convince ourselves that life just might one day get better, it'd be nice if more lefties on the internet would stop being such insufferable cunts.

[hjohn3]

End of An Era

Toryism’s Existential Election

Source: Reddit

By Honest John

AND SO this is it. The end of an era: fourteen years of Conservative rule are, on 4th July 2024, likely to not just to fizzle out, but to result in an unprecedented wipe out of Conservative seats that will leave the Tory Party possibly with as few as 100 seats and without leadership, ideology, direction or purpose. The more extravagant polling models project, in terms of numbers of seats, that the Conservatives could even come behind the Liberal Democrats and be replaced as the main party of opposition to a Labour government presiding over a Parliamentary majority of 200 seats or more. Whereas it is hard to believe the Tory performance will in reality be that catastrophic, the fact that commentators now talk of the Conservative 1997 seat haul of 165 seats, when the Tories were demolished by Tony Blair’s New Labour, as being a good result on 4th July, indicates just how dire Conservative prospects are now considered to be.

This fatalism about the General Election’s result has palpably infected the Tory campaign itself. Rishi Sunak has cut an increasingly folorn figure, and his missteps and misfortune, from his drenched announcement of the date of the election outside Downing Street over a month ago, through his catastrophic decision to leave the D-Day 80th anniversary commemoration early, and culminating in the bizarre story of an insider betting ring within the Conservative campaign itself, seem to symbolise not just Sunak’s personal ineptness, but, ultimately the incompetence, arrogance and corruption that has been present throughout the various iterations of the Tory regime the country has had to endure since 2010. Rarely has an outgoing government been so thoroughly unloved, not just by the electorate as a whole, but also by swathes of its own former support. In numerous vox pops testing the opinion of the public over the last four weeks, the most frequent response from people when asked for whom they are going to vote for in the election is “not Tory”, even in the safest Conservative seats.

The term “end of an era” slips easily off the tongue. Often, despite a change of government, it is often no such thing. Whereas Tony Blair’s and Gordon Brown’s governments did much to improve the lot of ordinary people (notably the huge reduction in child poverty since reversed under the Tories), NHS improvements and inner city regeneration, New Labour nonetheless maintained much of Margaret Thatcher’s 1980s revolution intact. There was no reverse to deindustrialisation; no end to deregulation; no renationalisation of privatised industries and utilities; a continued ideological belief in the primacy of the free market over state intervention in the economy, and a restless and relentless attempt to “reform” public services from the right, introducing internal markets to essential services still in state hands and opening areas such as the probation service and community health services to the private sector. New Labour may have introduced, to a degree, a different set of priorities to Thatcherism, but in its essentials, the neoliberal settlement remained intact. In a different era, Harold Wilson’s incoming government, for all its talk of “technological revolution” remained attached to fiscal orthodoxy and it was its fatal decision to devalue sterling in 1967, that probably ultimately did for its impressive 1966 majority.

Given Keir Starmer’s excruciating caution and his blatant gaslighting when he and Rachel Reeves claim the British economy can be turned around and public services repaired by a combination of spontaneous growth and “reform”, it is perhaps hard to justify the end of era statement. The political philosopher John Gray once described Keir Starmer as a ‘faithful servant of the ancient regime’, referring to what he considers a redundant neoliberal settlement. Despite Labour’s quite radical policies on constitutional reform, workers’ rights and green energy and social democratic positions on economic strategy, housing and public ownership, this is not the Labour Party that has been allowed out on public display this election thanks to dead hand of Morgan McSweeney. This, along with Starmer’s and Reeves’ slightly odd emphasis on “stability” as their headline, gives credence to the Gray critique and perhaps, in his heart of hearts, the ever-opaque Starmer would quite like to administer a neoliberal regime quietly and efficiently with a few leftish tweaks along the way; his problem will be he won’t be allowed to because, quite simply, that settlement no longer exists.

The probable electoral collapse of the Conservative Party next month will simply be the end game of the final implosion of Thatcherism, that probably began as long ago as 2008, when the financial crash pumped toxic debt into the advanced economies, and caused the “globalist” market economy to retract in its very first iteration of sovereign currency and national industries protectionism. However, the so-called “social democratic” moment did not arrive and Brown’s neoliberal government slid from power as the Conservatives and Liberal Democrats combined to use the debt crisis as an excuse to inflict a hyper-Thatcherite assault on public services’ funding. This was the start of fourteen years of performative Thatcherism under the Tories - an exaggerated version of the Iron Lady’s creed that emphasised public spending cuts and tax cuts for the wealthy above all else, choking off growth to the British economy, stagnating living standards and fatally undermining the long term viability of public services. And of course it didn’t work. The whole austerity experiment, a bargain basement travesty of the original Thatcherite ethos, did nothing except provoke the revolt of its victims - principally the deindustrialised communities of the north and Midlands - that culminated in the Brexit vote. Despite Theresa May’s and Boris Johnson’s anti- austerity words, neither did anything to put right a decade of devastating cuts. Instead they contrived to ensure Britain’s exit from Europe was as hard as possible - under pressure from the peculiar nationalist-Thatcherites of the European Research Group, hoping to create a low-tax, deregulated hedge fund managers’ paradise on the Thames.

The economic illiterates of the ERG failed to appreciate that outside the neoliberal EU, Thatcherite ideology no longer made any sense. Outsourced services and foreign-owned British businesses could work within the risk-shared environment of the EU, but outside the Union, the need for an active state to manage and stimulate the British economy is essential - something that Johnson recognised with his “levelling up” agenda. And who put a stop to all Johnson’s half-hearted attempts to deliver on his promise to the first-time Tory voters of 2019? His Thatcherite Chancellor, one Rishi Sunak.

It is perhaps appropriate that the last hurrah of British neoliberalism had a clownish aspect. The crazed turbo-charged Chicago Economics of Liz Truss caused real damage and in many ways it was the culmination of an arrogant selfish ideology, posing as a means of growth, when its barely concealed real agenda was to make the very rich even richer. Trussonomics was Thatcherism as caricature and the electorate have never forgiven the Tories for Truss. Sunak’s attempt to pull the Conservatives back into the realm of serious politics was hobbled by his personal and his party’s continued adherence to this busted model. In the face of ever-growing NHS waiting lists, underinvestigated crimes, a social and long term care crisis and sewage in water, Sunak has no answer, because this societal breakdown is the logical extension of a small state, low tax model pushed to its extreme, and in which Sunak still believes.

And so the 2024 General Election is momentous for two reasons. One will be the redrawing of the political map across the United Kingdom and the vanishing of blue seats the length and breadth of the country. The other however is that, unusually in British elections, this changing of the political guard coincides with the collapse of the accepted economic ideology that has dominated the U.K. for at least 37 years. The task of an incoming Labour government, probably with a majority sufficiently large it will be in office for two, possibly three terms, will be to define a new modern version of a social democratic settlement that rebuilds public trust in the ability of politics to change people’s lives for the better; that restores a devastated public realm, and which guides Britain economically in a way that simultaneously repairs our trading relationship with Europe while at the same time seeing off far right populism.

Keir Starmer may appear to be an unlikely looking tribune to pull off the greatest political feat since his Labour predecessor Clement Attlee surveyed the wreckage of Britain in 1945. If he succeeds, he will go down in history as one of the great Prime Ministers in British history; if he fails, he may be midwife to a new and dark authoritarian populism that will shake British democracy to its foundations. As modern Toryism finally reaches its existential moment and the end of its guiding philosophy, can Starmer’s Labour create a reinvented era for British social democracy to replace Thatcherism? The stakes for the future of this country really are that high.

29th June 2024

[ukrfeminism]

3 minute read

Dozens of women suspected of having illegal abortions have faced criminal investigations from the police in recent years, new figures show.

Information obtained under freedom of information (FOI) laws reveal at least 36 women endured criminal investigations after being accused of having illegal abortions from April 2014 to December 2021.

The data, obtained by National World and based on responses from 35 police forces, looked at recorded crimes for the two charges of procuring an illegal abortion and the intentional destruction of a viable unborn child.

It comes after Carla Foster, 44, was sentenced to 28 months in jail earlier in the month, having obtained drugs to end her pregnancy at 32 to 34 weeks during lockdown.

Dr Jonathon Lord, who represented medical organisations in the case, told The Independent the sentencing of the mother-of-three “brought back the horrors of the 1960s”.

The consultant NHS gynaecologist at the Royal Cornwall Hospitals NHS Trust added: “The really big fear is that we know the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) are sitting on lots more cases - waiting to see whether this one would be jailed and thereby prove a public interest in prosecuting. 

“So we now expect anything between six to 40 proceeding - it is so hard to know numbers as it’s all so secretive. We don't know if these cases will be charged. Another issue is that patients are told to speak to nobody. So one woman had post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) for over six months before we heard she’d had a premature delivery that arose suspicion.”

Dr Lord explained the CPS evidence in the recent headline-grabbing case involving Foster included the fact she searched for ways to cause physical harm such as “Can being hit in the stomach cause a miscarriage?”, adding this demonstrates “she was so desperate she was even considering self-harm”.

Dr Lord noted she had been imprisoned under a law from 1861 - “an era when public hangings drew large crowds and 67 years before women were able to vote”.

The latest Home Office data show the number of Britons being investigated by police over suspected illegal abortions has more than tripled in the last decade.

Recorded crimes for abortions surged from eight in 2013/2014 to 27 cases in April to December 2022 so far.

This includes recorded crimes for three separate charges of procuring an illegal abortion, the intentional destruction of a viable unborn child and concealing an infant death pre-birth. While the first two charges are punishable by life imprisonment, the latter carries a three-year prison sentence.

Some of the cases included in the government data could relate to investigations into abusive partners forcing a woman into having an abortion, those who sell abortion pills, and individuals whose violence against a woman or person with a womb causes them to lose their pregnancy.

Earlier in the month, Stoke-on-Trent Crown Court heard Foster was between 32 to 34 weeks pregnant when she took the abortion pills – with Justice Pepperall saying she felt “very deep and genuine remorse”, was “racked with guilt” and still had nightmares over her actions.

Kate Osborne, a Labour MP who sits on the women and equalities committee, told The Independent the imprisonment of Foster was a “disgrace” and was “perverse” as she called for abortion care to be decriminalised.

“This case shows that the current legislation is unsafe for women and could potentially open the door for more prosecutions,” she added.

Labour MP Stella Creasy, an outspoken campaigner for abortion rights, noted “no other healthcare service sits on a criminal foundation” as warned “it’s time to treat all patients equally and introduce a proper medical framework to guide access rather than use the threat of prosecution to deter it.”

A spokesperson for the CPS said: “These exceptionally rare cases are complex and traumatic. Our prosecutors have a duty to ensure that laws set by parliament are properly considered and applied when making difficult charging decisions.”

[scotianostra]

On 26th March 2006 a ban came into place and Smoking was prohibited in all enclosed public spaces in Scotland.

Still controversial, I being a non smoker am in favour of the ban, not that it bothered me as such having people smoke around me, but it got into your clothing, your hair and skin and you could stench of nicotine yourself.

The ban was a watershed moment for anti-tobacco campaigners, many will still be happy with the ban, a certain element amongst the smokers will still curse the day they were banished to light up outside, mainly licensed premises.

The law means that it is an offence to smoke, or to permit smoking, in a place that is wholly or substantially enclosed, and which is either used as a workplace or is somewhere that the public or a section of the public has access to. No more smoking at work, even in a smoking room, not even out and about in the company van. Above all, no smoking in pubs – not even in private clubs where members could have been given a vote on whether to allow it, perhaps in separate smoking rooms, which I do think could have been a bit of a compromise.

The problem for anti-smoking campaigners had always been the harm principle – the idea that the state shouldn’t interfere if someone chooses to engage in an activity that is harmful only to themselves. By the turn of the century, there had been numerous measures to restrict cigarettes, particularly advertising bans, but actually banning smoking was still regarded as a big step. The main science behind the ban, passive smoking, is still argued about amongst smokers, but surely inhaling smoke, albeit as a by product is still risking someone’s health.

A recent poll commissioned for Forest, the smokers’ rights group, found that, even 16 years after the ban, a majority of Scots would still be willing to accept separate smoking rooms in pubs, this is okay if it’s a decent sized premises, but many of the bars I drink in only have the one room, the days of separate Lounge and Saloon Bar are long gone. So love it or hate it the smoking ban is here to stay. A YouGov poll for ASH shows that public support for the smoking ban continues to grow and that support among smokers has doubled since the ban came in.

The latest extension of anti smoking laws came in December 2015, when it became illegal to light up in a motor vehicle with children aboard.

The NHS say that smoking causes around 7 out of every 10 cases of lung cancer the World Health Organization say that in 2020, 22.3% of the global population used tobacco, 36.7% of all men and 7.8% of the world’s women, killing more than 8 million people a year, including around 1.2 million deaths from exposure to second-hand smoke

[huhnkie]

~~ a good news ~~

Hi Future Leaders Friends,

This is Huhnkie Lee  //:-)

I did more research on write in candidate rules. For independent candidates who want to appear on the ballot, states require supporters' signatures about 1% of voting population of that states, which I can't fulfill, as it would take too much time I would not be willing to spend and it would be a boring process for me.

But, fortunately, for write in candidates, states do not require thousands of supporters' signatures. States only require a "letter of intent" and filling out a registration form, which i am more than happy to do and will do so for our 2028 u.s. presidential election campaign. 

Currently, out of 51 states, including DC, 33 states require such registration for write in candidates, for the votes to be counted. 12 states do not even require write in candidate registration for the votes to be counted. 6 states do not allow write in candidates for u.s. presidential election. As You can see below, the trend is that more and more states allow write in presidential candidates with less and less registration requirements, which is a great news for all, as it is the right direction towards independent politics.

Cheers, Future Leaders  //:-)

-----

Registration required for write in candidates:

2020:

34 states: AK AZ CA CO CT FL GA ID IL IN  KS KY MN MD MA MI MN MO MT NE  NY NC ND OH PA RI TN TX UT VA WA DC WV WI

2024:

33 states: AK AZ CA CO CT DE FL GA ID IL IN  KY MN MD MA MI MN MO MT NE  NM NY NC ND OH TN TX UT VA WA DC WV WI

No registration required for write in candidates :

2020:

8 states: Alabama, Delaware, Iowa, New Hampshire, New Jersey, Oregon, Vermont, Wyoming

2024:

12 states: AL IA KS MS NH NJ OR PA RI SC VT WY 

Not allow write in candidates :

2020:

9 states: Arkansas, Hawaii, Louisiana, Mississippi, Nevada, New Mexico, Oklahoma, South Carolina, South Dakota

2024:

6 states: AR HI LA NV OK SD

Data from:

https://ballotpedia.org/Write-in_candidate for 2020

https://www.usa.gov/write-in-candidates for 2024