With this does the Parliamentary Press Gallery welcome Emily Thornberry.
She is quite a bit older than I am, but in my childhood no one outside certain ecclesiastical circles (which were obscure even in the Eighties, but around which I did happen to grow up) would have had any idea what that flag was. The 1966 World Cup Final is probably on YouTube or something. Check which flag the English fans were waving. It was not that one.
This is done now, of course. But it was made up in the Nineties to sell bad beer to football's new middle-class audience, the only people who could still afford the tickets. Or the beer. Thornberry is hardly to blame for having missed all of that. Lucky her.
She is to be a platform speaker at next month's Durham Miners' Gala, the most "white working-class" event on the planet. A six figure crowd will give her a rapturous reception. So the public school Press Gallery can jog on.
They are having hissy fits over on Guido Fawkes as I point all of this out. "Thick Northerners," and all that. Such is the voice of the people who write The Sun, an upper-middle-class joke on its readers. Insofar as there still are any. One dying, almost entirely public school staffed newspaper that thinks that breasts are news is not the voice of anyone at all.
She is to be a platform speaker at next month's Durham Miners' Gala, the most "white working-class" event on the planet. A six figure crowd will give her a rapturous reception. So the public school Press Gallery can jog on.
They are having hissy fits over on Guido Fawkes as I point all of this out. "Thick Northerners," and all that. Such is the voice of the people who write The Sun, an upper-middle-class joke on its readers. Insofar as there still are any. One dying, almost entirely public school staffed newspaper that thinks that breasts are news is not the voice of anyone at all.
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