I try, wherever possible, to avoid Julia Hartley-Brewer. Dubbed the Waitrose Katie Hopkins by Stevie Chick, she – like Andrew Pierce – arouses in me a disgust and loathing that is nothing less than pathological.
I recall watching her on Sky News, discussing Trump and Jerusalem last December. The woman’s grasp of the complexities, her insight into the motivations of the key players and her understanding of the historical processes didn’t even rise to the status of non-existent.
A vacuous posho with the requisite fake expression of concern, she couldn’t disguise the gaping chasm where empathy should live. If a genuinely perceptive thought ever found its way into the limitless abyss between her ears, it’d die of fucking loneliness.
Then there was the time she compared the liberal left’s Milky Bar Kid, Owen Jones, to Islamic State.
And so to her latest noxious emission, on Talk Radio, where she blames parents for child poverty. “There are millions of people living on very low incomes and we haven’t got millions of children going hungry without proper shoes or uniform and the like, does it not suggest this is more a failure of parenting? If you’ve got two families both on the same low income… if one family has managed to send their child to school with a bowl of cereal or piece of toast in them and in clean laundered clothes and the other family isn’t, it can’t be about the money can it?”
Julia, you privileged pontificator, you are so far removed from the grinding misery and shame of poverty-blighted parents you can afford to sneer in their faces from the comfort of your media platform. Millions of working-class women who, overwhelmingly, bear the brunt of the Tories’ vicious class spite, are making themselves ill; physically and mentally, to shield their children from the deprivation thrust upon them. You are unfit to even speak of these heroic, determined and infinitely selfless women. They are amongst the best humankind has to offer. You, by contrast, are devoid of all moral worth.
You are reduced to excusing a vicious anti-working class government. Your contempt, your disdain, your utter disinterest where the victims of your beloved Tories are concerned is nauseating. Thick and pitiless; a combo as dangerous as it is contemptible.
If I were you, I’d tell your mam you’re the piano player in a brothel; it’s an occupation with more dignity, more integrity and certainly more humanity than being Julia Hartley-Brewer.