Inhuman treatment of the Windrush generation Vs Swivel-eyed Jew-hating.
Or May Vs Corbyn.
Choices, choices.
It has been painful – no, excruciating – to watch the two both seeking the moral high ground, where the air is pure.
As moral guardians, they remind me of the farmer in one of those old-fashioned trains.
These were the trains which had no corridor, so that passengers were stuck in their compartment for as long as the train was in motion.
On the train in this story, a parson is travelling to see his sister, but he is not alone in the compartment.
Opposite him is a respectable-looking farmer in a tweed suit – but whose increasingly agitated manner is to be explained by the demands of nature.
When the train rattles on for another few miles, and shows no signs of stopping at a station where a lavatory might be available, the farmer gets up, pulls down his trousers, squats on the floor of the railway carriage and defecates.
With the messy task complete, he then stands up, pulls up his trousers and returns to his seat.
The smell, however, is over-powering, really quite nauseating, and so the parson, to at least mix up the odour, takes his pipe out of his pocket and begins to light it.
But at this point, the farmer, who has not spoken a word all journey, leans forward and censoriously taps a sign on the window which reads NO SMOKING.
‘There’s a good chap,’ he says. ‘Let’s keep the air clean.’
