What a difference a day makes...

...24 little hours.  So sang Esther Phillips back in the early 80s.  How true her prophecy is.  Just 1 day after I posted my tirade against our political embezzlers, so David Cameron took the lead in telling his party to start paying back their "expenses" claims or face the sack as a Tory MP.  A brilliant political move, it set off a wave of MPs across the two main parties waving cheques at the camera that they had just written to "the British Taxpayer."  The most hypocritical of these hypocrites was Hazel Blears, the very woman who had laid into Brown's appearance on YouTube over the "expenses" issue, who told anyone that would listen that she was paying back the capital gains tax she had fiddled when selling a property.  

I can modestly claim that all of this occurred as a direct result of my blog appearing on the internet yesterday morning.  I can only assume that Cameron must have read the blog early yesterday, thought "oh poop," and set the wheels in motion to start paying the cash back to the humble tax payer.  You are welcome Britain, it was the least I could do.

However, none of this lessens the fact that we are seeing our politicians, from all the main parties, at their most sleazy, seedy, tawdry, slimy and nasty.  Even today, as MP after MP dragged whatever unsuspecting cameraman who happened to be passing into their offices and said, "Look, I'm writing a cheque!" one just couldn't help but be hit by the hypocrisy of the whole thing.  Get them out!  Still!

On a lighter note, I have been feeling particularly rotten today.  I may have forgotten to mention yesterday in my rush to berate our political system that I have been suffering from a number of medical conditions which warrant my spending a lot of the time in a great deal of pain throughout my once lithe body.  It's called Fibromyalgia, defined as pain in the fibrous or connective tissues of the body, or something like that.  Basically hurts all over.  Imagine being out on a Friday night in Swindon town centre and having the shit kicked out of you by a pack of thirty or so drunken youths, repeatedly kicking, punching, whacking with hard wood baseball bats, and you begin to get the rough idea.  Plus I suffer from the effects of the kind of depression that makes Leonard Cohen sound like Kylie.  Keeps me up at night, it does.