A few thoughts on mental health and politics

Lots to discuss, but perhaps a bit about my mental health first. Today, now, as I sit here at 2058hrs on a Monday evening, I feel good - good enough to write something - I feel okay and by that I mean I don't have bouts of butterflies in my stomach or that awful feeling that something terrible might be happening, commonly known, I'm told, as a panic attack, something I've been subjected to ever since my sister passed away, or rather while she was in the process of passing away. I remember clearly, on the day she died, on 2nd December 2023, leaving the hospital with my niece and my brother and almost finding it impossible to drive them round to mum's. Seriously, it wasn't good, but it subsided and then it would return or it might not return until the following day but it was always around. I had it yesterday for a short while and it was such that I said no, I wasn't up to driving somewhere (Forest Row near East Grinstead) only to discover a few moments later that, actually, I was alright, and then off we went and I never had any problems. So, anyway, here I am, in fine fettle, just had a chat with the illustrious illustrator (my pal Geoff) about politics and guitars and, well, the conversation ended up with a chat about IZAL medicated toilet paper (I brought it up) and that came about because Geoff was talking about how Jimmy Hendrix, on Crosstown Traffic, used a comb and some tracing paper, which makes a sound similar to a gazoo, to achieve a certain sound. We'd been talking about Duane Eddy's Peter Gunne and, well, either way we ended up talking about bog roll, mainly because I remember, as a kid, using a comb and some IZAL medicated toilet paper to make the sound of a gazoo. In my school days, if you needed a poo you'd have the indignity of using IZAL medicated toilet paper and let's just say that it wasn't a very pleasant experience. It seems to have disappeared off the face of the planet and replaced by something a little more comfortable.

So, yes, the conversation nose-dived from politics and talking about James O'Brien's book How They Broke Britain to discussing the awfulness of IZAL medicated toilet paper.

But getting back to my mental state (which is fine). I just seem be having these weird panic attacks which date back to my sister's untimely and tragic death just before Christmas last year and now, of course, my mum having all these falls in her house, which have led to the attacks continuing. I'm fine when I'm on the bike, I'm fine at work or on the train to and from work and I'm fine now, at home, at 2109hrs. My question is this: how come I'm okay now, but I wasn't okay for a lot of yesterday? What have I done today that I hadn't done yesterday, what had I been eating yesterday that I've avoided today? Well, cake springs to mind. Perhaps it's got something to do with sugar, I don't know. I even had a cappuccino on Saturday, that's always a no-no for me. Coffee often makes me feel a little weird. But earlier I said I didn't experience any panic attacks whilst on the bike on Sunday (yesterday) but I was getting it slightly in Sheree's for some reason. It's a very odd thing. Perhaps today I've tried to steer clear of subjects that are stressful, like my mum, but let's leave it there as I don't want to start feeling strange again. Right now, I'm fine, and that's the main thing.

So what else? Politics, of course. For a start, I'm glad the Tories were absolutely trounced on Thursday last week. Labour is now in power under the leadership of Sir Keir Starmer, and all I can say about the Tories is good riddance. We had 14 years of crap from the Tories from David Cameron onwards. In fact, Cameron set the ball in motion for Brexit and then, once achieved, he resigned and the country was subjected to a load of disgusting and incompetent Tory Leaders: Theresa May (she wasn't too bad) Boris Johnson, Liz Truss and, of course, Rishi Sunak. But how awful have the Tories been? Extremely awful. Austerity under Cameron and Osborne, Theresa May's awful premiership, which involved the whole 'hostile environment' strategy, and then, of course, Bojo, Boris Johnson and the Partygate scandal and other disgusting activities, all the corruption, the row about his wallpaper, the sleaze, I can't remember half of what he got up to, but we all know that he was an out and out liar and eventually he had to go. But then came Liz Truss, who messed up the economy with her mini-budget, which led to her being the prime minister who reigned for the shortest ever time, I think it was 47 days or something absolutely ridiculous. Lastly, Sunak, a multi-millionaire, actually, make that billionaire, a man so out of touch with the people he's supposed to be governing it beggars belief. Well, he's gone, they've all gone, and thank the Lord for that. We've all been waiting ages for the general election and we all voted with our feet when it came. The Labour Party has a stonking majority, the country went from blue to red overnight and many people have been sighing a huge sigh of relief at the thought that they've gone. 

I was glad to see the back of Jacob Rees-Mogg, Grant Schapps, Liz Truss, the list goes on and on and on, but they've gone! The public has spoken and that's what's great about living in a democracy and not a dictatorship. They've gone! But there's more to the politics of stupidity than the Tory party. Take a wider view, there's so much wrong with our political classes, they're just not that good. I've said before that we need "proper politicians" and they're out there, believe me. 

Unfortunately for me, I live in a staunch Tory constituency so my vote for Labour was well and truly wasted, although I shouldn't really think that way, but it's true. To be fair, I suppose that if everybody switched and voted Labour then Chris Philp would be out of the picture, but he's still here as my local MP and he has a position in the shadow cabinet too, and I suppose you have to ask why. Well, in my case it's, as I say, because I live in a staunch Tory constituency and there are people who would vote Tory whatever happened, but there are other situations where it's the individual who carries the weight and not, if you like, the politics. Take, for example, Jeremy Corbyn. Now I know he's not everybody's cup of tea and that he's pretty extreme left wing (which a lot of people don't like) but ultimately the people of Islington North voted for him as an independent candidate because it was him they trusted to do their bidding in Parliament. In short, whatever you think of Corbyn (I like him) he is a proper politican, not a career politican (of which there were many in the Tory Party since 2010) but a genuine individual who the voters want be they Labour or Independent. I'm sure there are Tories who garner the same kind of admiration, because not all Tories are bad people in the same way that not all Labour or Green or Lib-Dem politicians are not worth voting for. I'm sure there are Tory MPs out there who are respected because of who they are and what they have done for their constituents, which makes it all the worse for them when the greater party (the likes of Johnson and Truss and Sunak and others) let the side down and ruin it for genuinely decent people. It's a shame we can bring together the best politicians, the proper politicians and make up a party that serves all, has left and right leanings and compromises where compromise is needed.

Listen, let's talk about stupidity. I'll admit that I'm fairly left leaning in my politics (that's not the stupid bit). But the last thing I want is to have Donald Trump in the White House at the end of the year, with people like Nigel Farage fawning over him like he did the last time. The last thing I want is for that idiot with a daft haircut to throw Ukraine under the bus and side with the Russians and the awful Victor Orban of Hungary. I wish, as I'm sure you'll imagine, that Putin would get the hell out of Ukraine. But it's looking as if the Democrats are going to shoot themselves in the foot by keeping Joe Biden in the job when it's clear that he's going to be regarded by the American public as somebody not up to the job and that means another term for the fucking Donald, the last thing the world needs. So I'd say sort it out now, not later, get somebody else in place and don't let that idiot Trump come back into power again, the man is an imbecile of the highest order. But no, rather than see the threat for what it is, Biden is "not going anywhere" and, therefore, is putting himself over the interests of the American people. What is wrong with him?

The weather in the UK has been atrocious. Really piss poor. Rain, cloud, not nice and it's affected the riding. I didn't go out Saturday morning because it was raining. Fortunately the weather was fine for Sunday so I met Andy as planned at Sheree's. I've been alternating my rides (not deliberately) but in line with the weather. One minute two rides over a weekend, the next just one ride. It's not been good and now I'm definitely going to get swimming sorted out. I know I keep saying I will, but, yeah, in fact, let's not say anything, it's safer.

In Brussels...for one night and a day

I travelled on the 1258 Eurostar - a recently refurbished E300, said the guard over the intercom - and all was well. Fortunately, I had lunch at the Station Pantry having cleared security, so there was no need to trampse up and down the train with hot tea and extortionate snacks. Instead I just sat there playing with my iphone. We stopped at Ebbsfleet around 10 minutes after leaving St. Pancras and then I think Calais Frethun followed by Lille and then Brussels Midi. I took a taxi through the congested streets of the city and now I sit in the NH Hotel Brussels Grand Place Arenberg, which would have taken me around half an hour to walk. To be honest, I don't have my trainers otherwise I probably would have hoofed it over here. I'm only in town for one night and then I'm heading home so there's no room for walking shoes.

Room 610 NH Hotels Brussels Grand Place

In fact, talking of walking, I need to really get my act together - along with my colleague Paul in the office - and start up our round-the-town treks. We've given in a little bit to the caff and it's not the way to go.

Anyway, back to Brussels. I'm sitting here at the desk of room 610, a fairly pleasant room with two single beds, a decent-looking bathroom and a minibar stacked with various things, including a tiny Toblerone, which I've eaten. I know, I shouldn't have stayed well clear, and let's face it, I'm not a great fan of the triangular chocolate, but I figured that I was in Belgium so I might as well eat one. Furthermore, there's no restaurant here in the hotel so I'll have to go out later in search of somewhere to eat dinner. There's also no iron or ironing board so I've had to hang a shirt on one of the hangers provided and hope it loses the creases developed while stuffed in my tiny one-night-away suitcase, which is little more than a glorified laptop case. Still, it does the trick. What's the point of a huge piece of luggage for one change of clothes? None at all.

The room is rather cosy and it's got a lot to do with the lighting, which is pleasantly dim and perfect for this time of year. Although the room is fairly modern in terms of furnishings, a smouldering log or coal fire would add to the ambience. There's a flat-screen television on the wall opposite the bed and an office block across the street and because they're still working here in Brussels, I've had to draw the curtains as I don't want nosey office working spying on me.

About to leave St. Pancras Intl...

I'm going to take a wander around, although I know roughly where I am as I've been to Brussels many times before. I'm close to the Grand Place, that's for sure, I mean the hotel has the words Grand Place in its name so it can't be far, but where to eat? There's a great Indian restaurant around here somewhere, called the Spicy Grill, I've written about it before, or rather I've raved about it before and now I might have to seek it out (and risk bad breath in the morning). Which reminds me, I need toothpaste. I always need something. If it's not toothpaste, it's a razor or shaving foam, there's always something missing and it's very annoying as I don't have time to faff around on this trip, it's a whistle-stop visit, one night, a meeting and then home again. I might have a couple of hours tomorrow to do a bit of mooching around, but I don't have the footwear for any serious walking.

When I left the hotel in search of the Grand Place, it was dark. A lot of shops were still open but mostly only those selling fridge magnets, bobble hats and scarves, plus one or two waffle houses with, it has to be said, some pretty imaginative waffles on display. Unfortunately, I'm not a big fan so I passed them by, although I did stop off at the Hard Rock to buy a fridge magnet, adding to my collection of two from Tokyo and Pittsburgh. I wandered into a Swatch retailer and saw the perfect watch for yours truly. It had a blue dial and a brown leather strap and I want it so badly. Don't get me wrong, it's not expensive, not like that Rolex I used to own but was forced to sell to pay off a debt. In fairness, I never wore it and it gained time so it was always, in my opinion, a bit pointless. But that doesn't mean I don't want a decent watch to wear. I looked at it for a long time, prompting the saleswoman to try her luck, but I wasn't buying, not right then at any rate, although buying it in Brussels would give it a back story that it wouldn't possess if I purchased it online. "I bought this in a little shop off the Grand Place in Brussels, you know!" I might say if asked.

I needed to find somewhere to stop and eat dinner and chose Bocconi, a fantastic Italian restaurant where I have been a customer on two previous occasions. It's a very, very nice restaurant, it never ever lets me down and it's worth every penny. I skipped dessert and I don't drink so the bill was a modest 57 Euros and now I'm back in the hotel and will probably go to bed with my book by Laurie Lee. Yes, I'm still reading it, mainly because I don't tend to get a lot of time to sit and read and by the time I get home most nights I'm too tired and there's always something good on the box. Not tonight. Or perhaps there will be something good on, who knows? I'll check it out.

Awaiting dinner in Bocconi, Brussels...

A general election looms back home in the UK and I find myself wondering about all the political parties and how I don't really feel comfortable voting for any of them. Boris Johnson? Well, no, he's a buffoon and a liar and a pompous git and a Tory and they've messed the country up enough and certainly need some time out of power. Jeremy Corbyn? I'd like to vote him, but can I really be so stupid? The bastard wants to tax my back garden, for heaven's sake, and he's keen on letting all and sundry into the country when there's already too many people. Then there's Jo Swinson. She's more like a primary school teacher than the leader of a political party and no, I can't vote for her either. I think the problem is that none of our political leaders have any gravitas, they're not what I would call 'proper politicians' and, therefore, there's nobody worth voting for. I need to sit down and think long and hard about what I want before 12 December, the day of the proposed election, two days after my birthday.

Subterranean Homesick Blues
It's around 0300hrs on the morning of Halloween, when I wake up in the pitch dark and look around. Nothing much is happening, there's the occasional sounds of people talking as my room is right opposite the elevators so when people get back late from some party or other they stand around talking before heading to their rooms. I'm not saying I was woken up by the noise, I just woke up and tried to get back to sleep. But then, for some reason, I started thinking about Bob Dylan's Subterranean Homesick Blues and found it on Spotify, I simply had to play it, even through the tinny little speaker on my iphone.

Johnny's in the basement

Mixing up the medicine

I'm on the pavement

Thinking 'bout the government

I don't really want to think about the government, not at 0300hrs, but I still listen to the track twice, it's that good, and then I try to sleep, but it's impossible. I got out of bed around five minutes ago and it's now 0511hrs, a great time to sit around writing something - anything for that matter. It's a long way to breakfast, that's all I can say. I'm looking forward to breakfast, there's nothing better than a hotel breakfast and that's for sure, although the restaurant is a bit of goldfish bowl down on the ground floor with windows looking out on the street. Is it worth going back to bed, resetting the alarm to 0630hrs and at least getting around an hour's sleep? Probably not. I can sleep on the Eurostar home.

View from a taxi window in Brussels...

Did I mention that I don't have toothpaste or a razor? I think I did. Oddly, I have a toothbrush and shaving foam so perhaps I should clean my teeth with soap and shave with my toothbrush, although somehow I don't think it'll work. Did I also mention that my room has two single beds pushed together? I might have done. Anyway, I fell between the two while watching the news. They must be on casters and as I was lying across both of them, trying to make myself comfortable, the beds simply went their own way and I ended up between them. Luckily, there was nobody around to witness the spectacle. In fact, talking of spectacle, room 610, and I'm sure other rooms in this hotel, has a toilet observation window, albeit frosted. This is very annoying because normally when I stay in a hotel I leave the light in the bathroom on and the door closed except for a small slit of light, but with an observation window this practice is impossible as the light floods through the glass and on to the bed. That's why I woke up in the dark.

In Scunthorpe... it's a bit like In Bruges, but not as good...

I wouldn't say Virgin Trains were tasty...

You know what? Jeremy Corbyn is right and I reckon he's there for the man in the street. Alright, if you're Richard fucking Branson, pretending to be the friendly face of capitalism, Corbyn's not for you; for heaven's sake, if Corbyn has his way, the trains will be nationalised and why not? The other day when everybody was having a go at Jezza for his ride on one of Branson's Virgin Trains, I for one, stood up for the Jezzmeister. Why? Because I've experienced exactly what he experienced on Virgin Trains. In fact, it's happened many times. Once I remember taking a Virgin train to Liverpool. It cost me over £200 (and this was a long time ago) and I had to stand all the way.

Today, similar, but let's talk first about the fare. Can you believe that it costs something like £150 to go to Doncaster? It does. I was issued a ticket by a dopey cow on my local station – a Super Off Peak Return – and, later, when I was standing in the aisle of a stationary Virgin train carriage on King's Cross station looking, like Jezza must have, at all the little white tickets sticking out of the seats before me, I knew that I'd be 'doing a Jezza' and sitting on the floor somewhere. Already people were settling in for a long journey on the floor, put it that way.

My ticket cost £90, but it was while aboard the 1535 Glasgow train that I heard the conductor say that Super Off Peak Return tickets were not being accepted – until AFTER 7pm. I couldn't wait that long so I jumped off, at the very last minute, having discovered that it was going to cost me an additional £60. I had to check out whether this was true or not and I was not surprised to discover that it was true. The other day I flew easyJet to Vienna (and back) for £179 and I'm being expected to pay £150 to go to Doncaster. It's beardy's fault. He's so greedy he has to fleece the public. My view: nationalise the railways.

It all got a bit depressing on the Doncaster to Scunthorpe train...

I jumped off through the guard's door, which had yet to be closed. All the other doors had shut automatically and while the guard said I couldn't get off, I did. I then stood around on the concourse for a while and considered my options. Yes, I could sit around in assorted coffee shops for the rest of the day, awaiting the 1903 train that would eventually take me to sunny Doncaster (and then a local train to Scunthorpe) or I could just jump on the 1608 Leeds train, pay the extra money (which was looking inevitable) and get to my destination at a civilised hour. This I did and then I was pleasantly surprised to note that nobody checked my ticket. Yes, they said it would cost me more money over the intercom, but nobody bothered checking so I hopped off at Doncaster having paid an off-peak fare for what I'm guessing was an on-peak journey. Since when has the peak fare period started at 3pm? It's beardy again being greedy.

Not that I was bothered, I'd managed not to give him any extra cash, but then I found myself on Doncaster station faced with a criminal's dilemma. If I boarded (as I was intending to do) the 1830hrs train to Scunthorpe, perhaps the guard would notice that it was not yet 1900hrs and I was travelling with a Super Saver Off Peak Return – don't forget, folks, all I'd asked for when I bought the ticket was a return to Scunthorpe. So I thought I'd play 'the man' at his own game. I'd buy a single to Scunthorpe and not show my ticket from London. No problem. Now all I've got to do is make sure I get on a train to London before 3pm tomorrow afternoon, although I could always hide in the toilet if I see the guard coming my way.

The local train to Scunthorpe weaved its way towards its final destination and I was feeling distinctly depressed. Even up north, I noticed, pubs are being turned into restaurants. My train passed The Shapla, an Indian restaurant in a building that was clearly once a pub close to Thorne South station.

My fellow passengers looked as pissed off as I was, their faces either pensive, apprehensive or fretful. We stopped at Crowle, pronounced 'Croll' and then on toward Althorpe and over the River Trent.

Room 301, Premier Inn, Scunthorpe, UK...

By the time we reached Scunthorpe it was dark. I took a taxi to my hotel and after checking in went straight down for dinner. I found myself in a Beefeater restaurant and, well, it wasn't brilliant. For a start I was alone and bored – not their fault, to be fair – then there was the food, which was the usual pubby grubby affair. I ordered a prawn cocktail, which consisted of about six small prawns on a bed of salad smothered in a Mary Celeste sauce. There was more salad than prawns, but the sauce, oddly enough, made the bland lettuce just about edible. I forced myself to eat the salad out of sheer boredom. Oh, for a newspaper!

For main course, I ordered sea bass, 'gently steamed in a paper pouch' – they couldn't bring themselves to state 'en papillote' –  easily the best dish on the menu, as I felt there was no way it could be mass-produced. I supposed they might have employed cloning, who knows? But it was a fish and I figured it had to be just that, an individual fish. Everything else, almost everything else, might well have been manufactured in Basingstoke and shipped around Beefeater's national estate in frozen food lorries.

A glass of red wine and a bottle of still mineral water...

I ordered a large glass of red wine (Campo Viejo Tempranillo Rioja) and a small bottle of still mineral water and spent the entire meal time messing around with my phone. There was little else to do, other than people watch, but with some of the clientele, including the waitress, sporting tattoos, I thought it best not to stare too much. Perhaps they should ban people with visible tattoos from restaurants, that's what they were discussing on LBC the other day. Stick them outside with the smokers and 'vapers' and those with body piercings. Vaping is even worse than smoking in my opinion, that awful sweet stench exhaled from people's mouths is enough to make any sane person vomit. Mind you, I'm amazed that Branson hasn't cashed in on it.

In the end boredom beat me so I skipped dessert and asked for the bill. That said, why would I even dream of having dessert? Everything seemed incredibly unhealthy: not just a nice apple crumble and custard, which I would have ordered, but a "Salted Toffee Apple Crumble". How awful! Or a warm chocolate brownie or a baked cheesecake or a Banoffee Pie, a Mississippi Mud Pie, a Trio of Sponges (not just one, but a trio), Black Forest Gateau and, one nod towards healthy eating, a fruit salad with lemon curd sorbet. And let's not forget the range of heart-stopping sundaes. 'Nil by mouth' I thought as I waltzed back to my room. Alright, I skulked back.

View from Room 301, Premier Inn Scunthorpe.

Now I'm in my rather dreary hotel room, with its purple curtains, its 'tea and coffee-making facilities' – but no biscuits – and it's unruly coathangers, not forgetting the black Samsung television, the cheesy hotel art and the extra pillow stuffed at the top of the 'wardrobe' without doors. I almost forgot the bible 'placed by the Gideons' no doubt. I would love to enter a hotel room and catch a Gideon in the act of placing a bible in the bedside cabinet. Equally, it might be a worthy excuse for a criminal if caught in the act of trying to steal valuables from hotel guests.

"Oi! Who are you?"
"Me? Why, I'm a Gideon and I've just placed a bible in your bedside cabinet."
"Yeah, right! I'm calling the police."
"God bless you, son."

At least there's WiFi, but I can't be bothered with it, I'm THAT bored!

I'm looking forward to breakfast, though, as I know that this particular hotel chain excels with the most important meal of the day. I think the best Premier Inns are the ones not attached to a Whitbread pub brand. I prefer an integral restaurant, which, like most hotels, doubles as the breakfast room in the morning. Tomorrow morning, however, I'll have to nip outside, cross the road and make my way around to the Beefeater before I'll see any Coco Pops or buttered toast.

It goes without saying that there's no minibar here – perhaps they don't trust their guests – and, worse still, I can't really go for a walk as there's nowhere to go. The hotel is part of a complex of garages, fast food joints, a Morrisons supermarket and residential housing. Yes, housing, it's like being in the middle of a northern housing estate. No quaint little squares, no shop windows, nothing of merit, and the last thing I want is to be accosted by a tattooed, hooded 'youth' with a knife asking me for money, which I don't have. It happens, believe me.

So it's a night in front of the box, perhaps a bit of reading and then a bit of shut-eye. I'm reading Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, a great book, it has to be said.

Corbyn wins so cut the negative crap and let him get on with it!

Earlier this morning I penned a post about the imminent Labour leadership contest and how I felt that having Jeremy Corbyn as the new leader of the Labour Party would be a good thing, mainly because he brings a different kind of politics to a jaded electorate fed up with the 'spin' and general insincerity dispensed by the sort of politicians we all know and (ahem) love.

Who needs designer labels? Not Corbyn. Expect great things.

What I find scandalous is the way that those very same spin-obssessed, insincere, right-leaning Labour politicians are now moaning about what they believe a Corbyn victory will mean for the party. They are almost on the same platform as the Tories!

I like Michael Fallon – he looks like a politician and he's the perfect 'Minister of Defence' – but he was basically saying this afternoon that Corbyn's victory spelt disaster for the country's security and economic prosperity. But then that's his right, he's a Tory. However, what I find even more irksome is that members of the Labour Party share Fallon's views! I can't believe the doom and gloom surrounding this momentus occasion for the Labour Party.

Everyone forgets that Corbyn is a different animal – and thank the Lord for that! For a start he's sincere. He believes passionately in what he says, he's not what is known as a 'career politician' – he's NEVER held the post of 'advisor' but has, instead, been a strong and long-term supporter of the trades union movement. Look, he's absolutely the right man for the job of leader of the Labour Party. No question! And he should be allowed to get on with the job of 'doing it his way'.

One thing Jeremy Corbyn has done is motivate the younger generation to take an interest in politics and now that he's in charge he should be allowed to get on with the job without members of his own party trying to thwart his ambitions.

It's not Jeremy Corbyn who will damage the Labour Party's ambitions, it's those within his party who believe that he is not the right man for the job. He is the right man for the job. He's honest, he means what he says and says what he means. Give him a chance, for heaven's sake. What the hell is the alternative? Just imagine if it was Liz Kendall or Yvette Cooper. Andy Burnham, well, fine, and commiserations to him, but Corbyn, come on, he's the man. He's so uncool, he's cool: vests, bicycles, vegetarianism, temperance, he's brilliant.

And why is Tristram Hunt looking so down in the dumps? I've recently finished reading Tressell's Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, an edition carrying an introduction by Mr Hunt who is clearly a fan of the book. Well, so is Jeremy Corbyn and I can understand 100% why that novel captured Corbyn's imagination and propelled him along a road that embraced socialism and doing the right thing where the workers are concerned. I challenge anybody to read that book and not want to do something, however small, to sort out the inequalities that exist here and now for ordinary people trying to etch a living in a society dominated by unfairness, greed and selfishness.

Here's to a better future.

Can Corbyn win the Labour leadership contest? We'll know today...

0721hrs, Saturday 12 September 2015: It's going to be quite an exciting weekend on the political front. By around 11am today (Saturday) we should hear who has won the Labour Party Leadership contest and the firm favourite is left winger Jeremy Corbyn. Many say that if he wins, Labour will be unelectable as it will, in a sense, 'revert to type' and take the party back to the dark days of the early eighties when Michael Foot was the leader, followed by Neil Kinnock and the so-called 'loony left' and hangers-on like Derek Hatton, head of Liverpool Council back in the day.

Jeremy Corbyn. Pic from The Guardian

That, of course, remains to be seen and let's not forget that there's over four years before the next general election.

Ever since Corbyn signed up for the contest, the dominant right wing media has spent an inordinate amount of time and energy 'Corbyn bashing' and deliberately mis-quoting or taking out of context his various remarks about different aspects of his policies and his world view. Implicit in everything the right wing media says about Corbyn is the notion that he will be bad for Britain. And it's not just the right wing media. The Labour Party itself has nailed its colours to the mast and said virtually the same things about Corbyn. In fact, the kiss of death for those who don't want Corbyn in charge of the party was Tony Blair's intervention.

Blair is widely criticised internationally by those who feel his actions were responsible for the current chaos in the Middle East. Some have branded him a war criminal. And while Blair is really the only leader of the party who has experienced resounding success with the electorate – he stormed to victory in 1997 and was effectively the political poster boy for 'cool Brittania' – he's also been pilloried for essentially adopting Tory policies to get into power.

For many of his supporters, Corbyn is a clean slate, a breath of fresh air and a move away from the run-of-the-mill politics we're all used to; for a start he's left wing – providing, perhaps, 'proper' opposition for a change. He's radical and, as somebody in the media commented recently, at least he's got ideas and is, if you like, a thought-provoking politician.

People say that Corbyn spells the end of the Labour Party, but I tend to disagree. I can't see either Liz Kendall or Yvette Cooper ever being Prime Minister; they're not statesman-like enough. Liz Kendall comes across as the mildy unscrupulous female boss of an SME on an industrial estate who everybody talks about behind her back. Yvette Cooper has that insincere smile when she talks to journalists, so for me, the only really credible alternative to Corbyn is Andy Burnham who has held the lofty role of shadow health secretary and has a down-to-earth Liverpudlian air about him that might win through.

Personally, I hope Corbyn does win as I believe he'll breathe fresh air into a stale political arena and put some interesting alternative points of view to the electorate – for better or for worse. He'll certainly brighten up televised political debate in this country and give David Cameron more than a run for his money at Prime Minister's Question Time. And if, over the next four years or so, he manages to endear himself to the electorate – with his sartorial elegance and liberal studies teacher chic – we might wake up one morning to Prime Minister Corbyn – unless, of course, he's assassinated by MI5.