Dodo in the Doo-doo ?

Father Christmas and eagle.jpg

Father Christmas/Cllr Jones : What would you like for Christmas annwyl Ms.Eagle : A united and electable Labour Party  Cllr Jones : Wouldn’t you like a pony instead?

It’s strange and disturbing how Wirral, more accurately Wallasey, has been the focus of local and national media attention for a whole week. There are swarms of unknown, meddling metropolitan journalists walking up and down the promenade, microphone in hand … yet not so much as a murmur has arisen from the televisual backdrop of Wallasey Town Hall, slap bang in the middle of it all.

So in the absence of a press release or some sort of official statement on’s so-called ‘news’ page, we’re left wondering … who do members support?

Are they backing Jezza Corbyn ?  Or do they favour Our Ange?  And if it’s the latter – because word on the street is at least three quarters of Labour members do back Ange? then what’s keeping them? .  You’d think they’d be proud to sing their support from the rooftops for a local lass made mediocre – recently and memorably described as “the lesser of two Eagles” – or failing that to go negative and further undermine the democratically-elected Labour leader.

After all, 600+ Labour councillors from up and down the country have already done that, going onto the record to say Corbyn needs to go:

…and as they don’t state in their letter who should replace Jezza, they must be desperate for anybody, so we’ll assume the Wallasey MP fits the bill as ‘anybody’, despite, or maybe because of her consistent right wing voting record.

The only Wirral councillors brave or stupid enough to add their names to this list are:

  • Matron Moira McLaughlin, Rock Ferry’s answer to Nurse Ratched
  • Denise Roberts (See Wirral Leaks passim for her dubious manoeuverings)
  • Phillip “Brightboy” Brightmore

Labour party members in Wallasey however are overwhelmingly supporting Corbyn, and nominated him for leader and Angela Eagle for deputy last summer.  That position stands to this day.  Awkward.  So perhaps most Labour councillors will be clocking Angela Eagle’s movements and thinking, hmmm, how will all this affect me if and when she stands, and should I wait ‘til then to decide whether to jump off the fence?

We understand that on June 30 ‘somebody’ (not announcing who they were) was ringing around Labour party members in Wallasey asking who they’ll be supporting.  And while this was underway, Angela Eagle announced she’d be delaying her decision to stand for the leadership.

Fascinating from our perspective  but we wonder who could have been behind these anonymous, underhand soundings?  If it was Eagle’s office, Jezza’s approval rating means it certainly wouldn’t have gone as planned! .

As we know to our cost, Wirral is not your average grey and tedious borough, there simply to collect your bins and switch off your street lights.  It’s colourful bordering on the mindbendingly psychedelic.  There’s a long history of back-stabbing, or even in yer face front-stabbing that’s gone on ever since London-born Frank Field landed in Birkenhead way back in the late 70s.  Even before he’d packed away his parachute, he was busy sharpening his knife and hitting the ground running.  There was competition for candidacy at the next election, but voting rules were mangled left, right and centre to suit Frank.  A legal challenge was forming, but the local Constituency Labour Party found itself suspended, with a ‘militant’ label firmly attached to the popular people’s candidate at the time.  All done to facilitate a Frankenfield victory.  37 years later, Birkenhead (or Beirut, as Frank likes to call it) is still licking its wounds.

Our Ange was a more recent arrival in 1992, but similar antics unfolded when it came to choosing a suitable election candidate.  There were more individual suspensions, another CLP suspension and when her successful candidacy was announced, a shroud of secrecy quickly descended over the internal workings of how such an unpredictable result had been arrived at in what was supposed to be a ‘democratic election’.  Once again, the ‘Wirral Way’ had come to the fore, Ange’s career was set into motion, and here she is now, on the very brink of the leadership. However it remains to be seen whether she will she be flying as high as an eagle or will she be as dead as a dodo ?.

We at Leaky Towers think the people of Wirral deserve a public statement NOW from Town Hall ditherers or they awaiting instructions from their very own chosen ‘leader’ as Frankenfield does his usual act of setting off the hares , sitting back and watching the hounds tear his chosen quarry to shreds?.



10 thoughts on “Dodo in the Doo-doo ?

  1. And if only Angela would shift herself to her political left and our humanistic right that supports Jeremy, we’d all be able to see whether or not The Leaks have it right and she is about to become an extinct force for Labour.
    Depends doesn’t it. My guess is the vowel, the letter ‘O’ is present, it follows the consonant letter ‘D’ and if she’d only been dragged to her left and our right by the bearded fella, we’d all be able to see the word Dodo!

    • G’day Bobby

      As always a pleasure to read you.

      That bearded fella is the lowest of the low clowncillors “The Pretend Friend” he that stabbed his mate “Highbrow” in the back pretending for five years he was on his side over Wirral “Funny” Bizz.

      The old goat led “Highbrow” up the garden path to Wilkie, Norman, Tour, Davies and even recommended a thick solicitor to help his so called friend with his tribunal.

      The man can not be trusted with his wink and smile before he penetrates you with his dagger boyo.



      To add insult to injury boyo the buffoon is the thicker than the chair, Chair of the Fudge It and Risk It Mis-Management Committee.

      Luv you nearly as much as Leaky Bobby

  2. I see James. I didn’t realise that this was the fella who betrayed Nigel. Mind, having had a good look at his photographic image it’s not hard to see the oily, sneaky, Doctor Crippen and Harold Shipman gaze that can seduce a good man such as Hobro and make him feel that ‘I’ve found a friend. A buddy I can trust and tell all to’.
    This is the trouble nowadays. In days gone by if some narcissistic sort tipped up at your threshold with a harelip, a clubbed foot and a dreadful speech impediment and the look of a stinker, a big ninny and a bloody rotter of a slime ball that you’d best avoid, you’d tell him straight away, ‘clear off and don’t come back. I’m busy recycling my rubbish and I don’t like the look of you’. These days, in these modern enlightened times, looks are very deceiving and I can completely understand Nigel Hobro believing that he’d found his ‘bestest Saturday night drinking buddy’. An easy trap to fall into James.
    Course, if you spend as much time as me zooming in, out, up and down studying the face of the one you’re concerned about, you can spot things that can quickly alert one to be on their guard.
    Had I been with Nigel and he’d asked me to have a butchers at the fella before he’d chosen to empty his trust id have told him, ‘wait here Nigel whilst I sneak up behind him and study his face and his other body parts’.
    And, after giving this fella the once over I’d have sat Nigel down and told him, ‘Nigel, before my Granny slid down the banks of the Wye after carrying out a crazed and demented attack, clubbing to death an innocent eel, she entered the water, took her last drag on her hand rolled cigarette, and before being consumed by the deluge, she howled, ‘I hate the bloody Council and never show trust to a man with extremely small, fat and stubby fingers’.
    She was a wise woman and a whore to at least a thousand men but she knew what she was talking about, albeit she often had to be restrained whilst saying whatever it was she was trying to say whilst badly affected by diazepam, lithium and many other prescription only drugs she’d dishonestly acquired after the most recent chemist burglary.
    And it’s not just his hands and fingers I don’t like. It’s his head. The whole of the head. There’s something about this fellas head that I don’t like and if I don’t like something then I don’t like it and no amount of torture or physical punishment will ever make me say, ‘I like his head’.
    Mind, I’m not an unreasonable man. Whilst I don’t like his head or his fat, stubby fingers that are attached to his hands, I’ve nothing against the rest of him. It’s just the head mostly. In fact, just to demonstrate a measure of fairness and balance to this whole pointless piece of tripe, as soon as I looked at the fellas photographic image, whilst taking an immediate dislike to his head and his hands and fingers, I did mutter to myself, ‘that’s a fine neck and trunk. There’s nothing wrong with anything below the head,’ accept his fingers,’ that I don’t like’.
    So, I ain’t saying I don’t like everything. I like the legs, I like the abdomen and the chest and the neck. It’s just the head. That’s all it is. The bloody head and all its bits and pieces attached to it that suggest to me Nigel was foolish to trust this fella.

    • Bobby, he’s my councillor and after the May council elections, he did tip up on my threshold in Seacombe. This day he was keen to post ‘thank you’ leaflets to the hordes who’d never even seen or heard of him, but had been religiously returning him (and his wife) to their positions of power every few years because they remember Harold Wilson with fondness and wonder if he might still be Prime Minister.

      Anyway, he hadn’t done his research on who lives where. And what sensible Labour councillor would go within 100 yards of my house just after an election that Wirral Labour had won?

      When he turned up, I happened to be outside on the pavement. I said hello. He recognised me, lurched straight onto the defensive, and began barking at me, accusing me of ‘not letting him speak’ when I’d had a conversation with him on the phone (probably about two years previously). So it ended up as a kind of tit-for-tat, “no I didn’t”, “yes you did” for a couple of minutes before he strode off.

      He’d expertly deluded himself by characterising this phone call as a case of me shouting at him incessantly and not letting him get a word in – while he must have backed up against his living room wall, slid down and slumped into the corner.

      The truth of it was the call was pretty mundane and he finished it by inviting me to a club he frequents (Parkside Social Club) which is a short walk through the park. I’ve never taken him up on this offer because I know in some detail what he did to Nigel and I choose not to mix socially with people who engage in duplicitous acts. I did my usual self-recrimination after he’d gone, chiding myself that I didn’t bring up this subject.

      I find it staggering that people exist in this world who can be so loyal to broken, corporate abusers that they feign friendship with an honest person only to carefully strip them of their valuable information, then feed it upwards to their controllers. It’s hideous, quite despicable conduct and flies in the face of all that is good, honest and decent – and shame on them and all that they pretend to stand for.

      Who’s seen the film “Flight of the Phoenix”? A plane crashes in the desert. A dozen or so brave men have an extremely limited amount of water to keep them alive as they wait in vain to be spotted and rescued. The water slowly runs out. They believe they’re all going to die.

      If I remember rightly there was a character in this who was obviously a psychopath, didn’t connect with his fellows in their shared suffering, and stole the water for himself.

      I swear that this kind of character populates the committee meetings and the chamber at CH44 7AD, shovels all the benefits it can lay its hands on into its greedy, gaping maw, all at the expense of us, has done for many long years, and will do for many more – and all because the public don’t know what the hell they’re letting themselves in for when they put an ‘x’ in a box.

      • That’s all very well and good Cardin. There’s no doubt your writing style and the points you’ve raised are as always excellent, but your missing the issue here old friend. What about his head?

    • Well done Bobster

      Totally accurate.

      You summed him up perfectly without even seeing his sly friendly welsh wink and smile boyo.



      I think Bobbly that this scum bag has been “Dunny Chain Wearer” on more than one occasion.

      He must have done a lot of stabbing.

      I wonder if anyone has seen her since the photo Frankenstein might have employed the hit man?

      luv ya Bobs X

      • James, after reflecting upon my irrational outburst regarding this fella’s head, I’ve now realised why I’ve taken against him and his huge cranium.
        He reminds me of The Colonel. Colonel bloody Saunders! Oh how I hate the Colonel. Those squinting glaring wee beady eyes that peer at me from KFC after I’ve left the Ale House, blasted out of me mind and howling at the moon that glare hypnotically at me chanting, ‘come and try my chicken that once consumed makes you crave it thrice fortnightly.’
        The bastard! What sort of man invents a savoury batter, fries it around chicken, becomes a Councillor and then betrays Nigel Hobro. Only the bloody Colonel who’s alive and well and settled upon The Wirral.

    • G’day Paul

      Australia in the Euro’s.



      I would like a recount in that one too Paul. he he

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