Esther McVey’s Ministry of Silly Wokes proves that common sense really has disappeared – how has it come to this?
OH how, in the ‘70s – when people wore brown and dreamt of flying cars – we chuckled at John Cleese’s Ministry Of Silly Walks.
A satire on governmental bureaucratic inefficiency, 50-odd years later here we are . . . with a former GMTV presenter fronting up a Ministry of Common Sense.
On Monday, Esther McVey launched her first goosestep against wokery, promising to “investigate” Whitehall’s madness, much of which comes at the expense of the taxpayer.
She’s promised to put an end to hare-brained schemes and end diversity for diversity’s sake.
Writing in The Daily Mail, she explained: “This work will be guided by my three Rs.
“The first R is ‘representation’ — making Government and our public institutions more representative of the public they serve.
“The second R is ‘responsive’ — how our public services respond to the real needs of taxpayers and their customers.
“The final R is ‘reassurance’ — giving the public peace of mind that we are spending their hard-earned money wisely.
“We are already making great progress on this.
“There’s far too much hand-wringing, where trained professionals are worrying ‘how’ they do their job, instead of just doing it, and petrified they will be left hanging out to dry if they make an honest mistake.”
Naturally she’s right.
But how has it come to this?
How are we paying a woman £118,000-a-year to ensure what should already be mandatory, is in place?
Common sense, after all, should be a modality available to every ministry.
Alas, no.
Instead we have an NHS so afraid of offending anyone, that women can no longer “breastfeed”; they must “chest-feed”.
My 75-year-old father — granted a more feasible 74-year-old child-rearer at the time — was asked if he was pregnant.
And “breast milk” is now referred to as “human milk”, lest we think a goat might start feeding one’s newborn.
Our schools are becoming just as ridiculous.
Nine year olds are being taught critical race theory, sports days are cancelled when it’s too hot, or schools closed if it’s too cold, and Mary, Joseph and Baby J are being replaced by celebrity figureheads so as not to offend non-Christians.
Last year, before he, too, became persona non grata, my friend’s son was cast as Phillip Snowfield in his nativity.
A disgruntled grandad, meanwhile, called into a local radio station to bemoan his grandson’s school casting Jesus’s mother as a “pregnant migrant woman crossing a border with her husband who isn’t even the dad”.
Which, I’m pretty sure, is not how things panned out.
Elsewhere, in “gender neutral” toilets across the country, women are made to use the mis-sprayed, wee-stained loos alongside burly rugby players.
People are decried as racists and bigots for wanting curbs on people coming into this country, and Gary Lineker is routinely shouted at for expressing an opinion on Twitter/X.
No one can win.
Of course, Ms McVey, might want to get her own house in order first.
One of her pledges is to examine the routine wastage of councils paying the heating bills of staff who can’t be arsed to go into the office. Ie. Being paid to stay at home and charging us for the privilege.
Unfortunate, then, that Whitehall is full of TWAT’s — Whitehall staff in the office Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays with WFH wrapped around the weekend.
And politicians with seats outside of London are allowed to put utility costs at “one of their homes” on expenses . . .
None of this is rocket science.
Yet what should be the easiest job in government, is probably the hardest of all.
Pageant coming up short
AHHHHHH, sweet.
Look at this absolute swamp donkey who’s just been crowned Miss France.
Eve Gilles has been labelled the first “androgynous” winner of the annual beauty pageant . . . because she has short hair.
(She’s also absolutely beautiful, plastered in make-up and not wearing v much.)
Apparently this is progressive.
*Insert eye roll emoji*
Must do better!
1978, maybe yes.
2023, absolutely no.
A solicitor has been suspended after slapping a female colleague on the bottom at the office Christmas party.
He also referred to his paralegal’s breasts as “two mountains on your chest”.
Guys, do better.
Pup-star
FASHION house Celine has just released a range for dogs.
Pieces include a £1,450 calf-skin carrier, £1,300 leopard-print water bowls and a £540 suede collar.
All very LOLS if you’re Paris Hilton, sure.
But when kennels are being overwhelmed with strays, and pups being dumped in a cost-of-living crisis, never has anything seemed quite so out of touch.
Willy Wonga night
ON Sunday night I went to see what all the fuss is about, re Hollywood’s man of the moment, Timothee Chalamet.
Well, boy, really.
Wonka, a prequel to Roald Dahl’s classic, was brilliant. (And I sort of get it now with TC).
But, two bog-standard seats at my local Odeon cost £32.
Plus a further tenner for some popcorn and a Diet Coke.
No wonder cinema is dying.
In the age of streaming, and 52in LED tellies, why would a struggling family of four bother?
Cherly not
CONGRATS to Cher who, aged 77, has just released that rare beast – a festive banger.
DJ Play A Christmas Song is an unlikely classic.
Lyrics include: “No one on the streets and the city is quiet, But I’m on my way out/And I’m gonna stay out/ I can feel the pulse as I walk through the door, take me through the crowd/To the middle of the floor”.
Tat’s a Tory’s treat
NEVER not funny.
Every year, the Conservative Party sends out a personalised email with the snappy header “Have you thought about stocking fillers?”
It contains the sweet festive message, “Give your loved ones a Christmas present they won’t find anywhere else”, and a link to some snazzy Tory-branded cufflinks, a Thatcher T-shirt and Winston Churchill-branded water bottle (a man, whom by all accounts never knowingly drank H20).
This is followed up a few days later with a slightly passive aggressive helpful reminder, entitled “get it sorted” . . . and another link.
Christmas sorted, then.
Feasts and fights
SUNDAY, Christmas Eve, marks the most frustrating day of the entire year.
A heaving fridge filled with festive delights, booze and an endless supply of Stilton . . . and Kremlin-like diktats not to touch a morsel.
So much as open the door, and you risk getting shot at.
(At least in my household).
Piers' party punch-up
A BIG thank you to Piers Morgan for hosting THE Christmas party of the season last Friday night.
And a big apology for being involved in the only showbiz fight of the night after a VERY heated exchange with a well-known TV presenter – from whom I had to be physically pulled apart – who shall, for now, remain nameless.
Sorry, Piers.
Nigella’s a forever foodie
NIGELLA Lawson sounds like my kind of woman.
She says: “I don’t feel comfortable leaving the house without food in case I get hungry.
“While I know that nothing terrible would happen, it doesn’t feel like that.”
Quite.
As someone who once got stop-searched going into London’s Shard and found to be carrying a contraband sausage roll – it was confiscated – I can relate.