The public squares and digital arenas now reverberate with a singular, echoing discord; the tribal roar drowns out all measured dialogue. A single figure, a lone tax issue, becomes the battleground where allegiances are forged or shattered, rendering any form of temperate consideration utterly extinct. The binary of our political moment, you see, dictates a picking of sides with no space left for the quiet, dispassionate appraisal of facts. It's a curious devolution where professional failure, a genuine inability to fulfill a brief—to build homes, to heal a struggling health-service, or to manage migratory flows, often pales next to a private misstep. Our collective political heart has supplanted our head, and emotion now sits as the primary arbiter of public consequence.
This is not a song about Angela Rayner.
This is not a song about Angela Rayner.
There is a long, long line to politicians before her who should have done better.
Perhaps, we get the rulers we deserve.
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