The best lack all conviction, the worst are full of passionate intensity.
WB Yeates epic poem “The Second Coming” was all I could think of as I watched the second coming of Tony Blair this weekend.
Eyes ablaze and face hardened by calamity, he entered the lists against Brexit with all the passionate intensity with which he led us into the quicksands of Iraq.
Careless of the fact that he is more hated than any political leader alive, utterly convinced not only of his cause but of himself as the only man who can cause it to prevail, Tony Blair is a clear and present danger to the country.
Though he is jointly responsible for the murder of millions and the mayhem unleashed by the inferno he lit which burns from Mindanao to Manchester, from Timbuktu to Toronto, he is still sure, quite sure.
“Get thee to a Nunnery” would have been the best advice for him when he made his blood spattered exit from power almost a decade ago. Or just make millions and count them in Mustique with your friends.
But though now clad in lay vestments of piety and royal purple and as rich as Croesus, Blair has taken neither path. He has chosen once more to unleash the dogs of war, crying havoc as he strides from studio to studio.
If Blair was striding Oxford St bedecked in placards declaring The End is Nigh we could laugh at his ridiculousness. But this man commands the media platforms owned by those who always did wait upon his every word.
They have decided that the best of the rest lack all conviction and that a weapon of mass destruction full of passionate intensity is their last hope of thwarting the popular will to leave the EU. And so, he’s back.
Expect now to crystallise a War Party around Brexit fuelled by Blair’s millions and the millionaires he’s tied to. Expect those whose expertise we roundly rejected a year ago to take the field with him.
Expect the fake news media to echo every false witness they bear and to treat their every utterance as new, and news. Expect The City, big business, the deep state, the civil service the BBC, the liberal Chatterati, the Guardian-classes to now form themselves into a hydra-headed monster, with no St George no lance ready or able to run it through. Our country is about to be betrayed.
A beast, its hour come at last, slouches toward Bethlehem to be born…