Money, Money, Money!

Want to get riled up a bit?

Imagine one single penny of Captain Tom Moore's £20 million going towards the £66,928-a-year pay-packet of a Diversity Officer. Or a £500,000 Banksy. Or to Richard Branson. Or to PFI Shareholders.

The one thing it won't do is bolster the wages of the superhereos working on the coal-face or deep in the trenches - you know the ones everyone claps for at 8pm every Thursday - or buy PPE.

Instead, it'll help pay for the latest Muswell Hill investment mortage of the non-medical capos and some 'consultants' previously fired from one NHS Trust, quickly to be snapped up by a different Trust, or even the same Trust they were fired from! Something not vastly different from foreign aid in the hands of third world dictators.

And of course, while these apparatchiks baste their veal steaks in hard-won funds from the people like Captain Tom Moore and taxes extracted from shop assistants and cleaners; teachers and nurses, coppers and waiters; entrepreneurs and shopkeepers under pain of imprisonment, they'll whine and moan to the Left wing press and Sky TV and the BBC about how the NHS has no money and how the bloody Tories need to hand over moar moolah.

The NHS always needs money. It needs more money. It needs ALL the money. When it's had that, it needs some more. Since Tony Blair, the NHS has always been 3 days, 10 days, two weeks, one month, 2 months away from utter collapse and financial ruin, depending on which Trotksyesque-porn rag you read.

Sadly, a lot people buy into the NHS sob story. These will of course mostly be the same ungrateful wretches that wished the likes of Captain Moore, the likes of who while still in their teens, stormed a hostile beach under heavy shelling and gunfire so they could plant the trees of freedom they knew they might never sleep under the shade of, dead; because they voted to leave the European Union.

All over my social media timelines, I see self-aggrandisingly lurid videos of these Bollingers Bolshivek 'officers' clapping outside their 5-bedroom bungalows with a jacuzzi in their back gardens, and a Range Rover out front in the leafy outer London commuter-belt suburbs. Paid for, of course, by you and me.

It sounds like hyenas cackling over the corpse of a dead zebra.