What do a McDonald’s worker and Jeremy Corbyn have in common? Two E’s at A-Level. But more than that, in fact: as the hot potatoes of Brexit and immigration policy sizzled unattended in the frying pan of politics, Jez chose to begin PMQs with an ardent defence of Britain’s burger flippers. Why?
Because Jeremy Corbyn feels a natural affinity with the fast food operative; he is no less than the patron saint of sausage shufflers. Jez is deeply aware that nothing more should have become of him in this life, he should have been that unwillingly-uniformed delinquent stood behind the McDonald’s counter, red-hatted and forever destined to fill paper cartons full of soggy fries. In fact, Jez single-handedly undermines the message of McStrike. Jeremy Corbyn is exactly what happens when you pay a McDonald’s one-star worker more than £100,000 a year: you get a woefully over-promoted half-wit unable to correctly follow orders, their salary entirely out of step with their abilities and performance. Then again Vegan Jez wouldn’t fit in at McDonald’s…
Tom Watson would be on the burger station, wouldn’t he? Slipping one out of every two beef patties slyly into his capacious gob, chucking the odd one into the mouth of Emily Thornberry, poised on the other side of the grill. It’d be like feeding one of those plastic bins made to look like an animal. Don’t put Laura Pidcock on the tills for God’s sake; she won’t talk to any of the customers. Come to think of it, could any of these jokers make an even half-arsed attempt at running an average fast food outlet? Extrapolate further and you see the whole thing is little more than McPMQs: the same old diet of junk is still constantly served up, the quality improves not a bit. At least a McDonald’s is over quickly…
And like turning a burger, Jez flips from the private to public sector: for him they are two sides of the same steak, both equally deserving to be thrown on the fire. “Warm words don’t pay food bills. Pay rises will help to do that. She must end the pay cap.” Almost immediately, the PM drops the entire dinner on the floor, saying he wants “money for this, that and the other”. Like a group of hoodlums gathered at midnight in the upstairs of a Maccy D’s in the rough part of town, Labour MPs whooped and hollered. She was doing passably well, but as usual impaled herself with one of her own attack lines, coming out like a kebab on a skewer.
No mention of Jacob Rees-Mogg; well, you wouldn’t catch him dead under the Golden Arches. The only actual news to come out of PMQs was a plea for an ancient driving law to be changed. It’s the first PMQs of the new parliamentary year, and that’s the top line. It’s almost like “nothing has changed”: every week, the menu is entirely the same, and, just like a McDonald’s, it literally ends up down the toilet…
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