Welcome to the latest edition of the incredible disappearing
blog, which has developed a habit of spewing a bunch of joke-laden paragraphs
into the atmosphere every few weeks before vanishing faster than Volkswagen’s
credibility. Wish I could work out why
that keeps happening, and I’m in charge of the bloody thing. If the Chilcot Enquiry were ever looking for
a typist with strong experience in making intricate paper-clip shapes and staring
glaikitly out of the window, I’d be a shoo-in.
Oh well, at least I don’t crowd-fund or solicit donations, so
I needn’t contemplate a visit from the Fraud Squad. It’s only reputational damage I’ll suffer, and
what better time to bury the bad news of my own snivelling shortcomings than now, after a week when the nation’s been forced to widen its definition of “pork
scratching” to include “occupational hazard for priapic posh boys”?
It’s difficult to comment intelligently on Dave’s alleged
choice of willy-warmer, except that the mouth of a live piranha might have been
more beneficial for the gene pool. And I
suppose Ashcroft and Cameron’s subsequent face-slapping fandango did offer high
blood pressure sufferers a nice relaxing belly-laugh. Otherwise, the whole
thing was an unedifying spat between an unelected tax exile who believes he should
stroll into a juicy government job and an over-privileged, two-faced nyaff whose
toolkit for humanitarian issues is a calculator and ten miles of barbed wire. That, laydeez an’ gennelmen, is the pinnacle
of public life in present-day Yew Kay.
Thanks for voting, suckers.
Lurid snippets such as the Call Me Dave piggery-jokery are often a distraction from some
darker sleight-of-hand, but the UK Government already has Jeremy Corbyn for
that purpose, so this looks like a genuine elbow in the kidneys for Cameron. With the Tories starting to get itchycoos in
their Y-fronts about the EU referendum, it may just be the opening salvo in an
eye-gouging, feather-spitting leadership rammy.
So let’s see: which nasty-party
luminary enjoyed a suspiciously high-profile week, with the added benefit of
being miles away from the mayhem?
Step forward, George Osborne, who spent the week noisily sooking
up to the Chinese government and looking as smug as he possibly could without
his head melting, revelling in the frisson
of rubbing shoulders with truly world-class human rights abusers. “We’re both big countries,” he said, as his incredulous
hosts checked down the back of the sofa to see where we’d hidden the other 1.3
billion people.
It transpired that China’s reward for meeting George’s exacting
standards of corporate bastardy was to be given the keys to Hinkley Point, the
UK’s white elephant Chernobyl tribute act, at a price so sweet it would vaporise
granite. As George knew, this was tantamount
to burning £20 notes in front of folk who’d just had their renewals subsidies yanked
away, but in his world of quantitative sleazing that was simply icing on the
cake. In similar vein, following his
pimping of track-laying contracts for HS2, Scottish taxpayers will be able to
send personal cheques directly to Beijing in return for commemorative gift
boxes filled with thin air.
All of this gave Jeremy Corbyn some pre-conference respite
from public scrutiny, although the term “respite” is only relative. That he was
able to select a Shadow Cabinet at all was a surprise, with so many candidates suddenly
realising the need to spend the next four-and-a-half years with their families,
consultancy work, neocon think tanks or a giant sick bag. In the end he assembled a team noted for its convictions,
which is why it contains not only tax-raisers, but several eyebrow-raisers and,
in one bizarre case, a fire-raiser.
Team Corbyn might have gone down a storm on Tales of the Unexpected, but in the
walnut-hearted world of BBC News its reception was considerably harsher. Not a politics show went by without some nondescript
Labour figure being asked, “Can you really see indiscreet, innumerate
terrorism-supporting Maoist John McDonnell as Chancellor?” or “Is the vegan
shadow DEFRA minister who thinks meat eaters should be strung up by their
goolies insane, incompetent or both?”
Strangely, Labour Spin Central didn’t appear to have prepared
any of the interviewees for these questions, or perhaps – more worryingly for
the bearded wonder – they’d actually
prepared them very well indeed. The
standard response seemed to be a puzzled expression, followed by a pause of
exactly the right length to indicate “God, what can I say that isn’t embarrassing?”,
and finally a smiley, Gallic-shruggy variation on the theme of “Well, that’s what
Jeremy’s decided, so screw hi…. er, I mean, there it is.”
Jeremy’s now also had bags of undisturbed time to memorise Queen’s Greatest Hits before prostrating
himself abjectly in front of his monarch as a prerequisite of joining the Privy
Council, which normal practice demands he’s invited to do despite being the
greatest danger to national security since the Napoleonic Wars. If he goes ahead with the ceremony, no doubt
he’ll be pilloried for the seeming collapse of his principles, but why single
him out? Nicola’s done it, Eck’s done
it, and Angus Robertson looks set to do it, because that’s the way things work
here in Ruritania.
It’s anachronistic and humiliating, but you’ve got to look
at the big picture, haven’t you? On the
plus side, you get the key to the Establishment washroom, where Cabinet
ministers bottle the smell of their farts as eau de Cologne. And you never know,
you may get advance notice of GCHQ’s latest hand-me-down Marvel Comics fantasy bulletins
from the CIA, and understand just why extra-judicial killing of our citizens is
essential to the fabric of civilisation and a totally groovy idea.
On the negative side, it may involve a lot of listening to
Her Majesty sitting there purring while your dreams are squashed like grapes,
because they’re not how we do things, old chap.
And, let’s face it, allegiance to the Crown is one thing, but outright
obeisance is a bit of a blank cheque. While
you’re on your knees burbling eternal fealty, she could command you to do
anything, and you’d have to go along with it or look a right plonker, wouldn’t
you? What if she suddenly brought out a dead pig’s
head and threw you a knowing glance?
You may think the Piers Gaveston Society is a shower of debauched
upper-class yobs, but it turns out they’re a secret training camp for getting on in the Establishment. I bet it’s only a matter of time before Dave’s
preaching to us all on the telly, swearing that shagging dead porkers is The
Right Thing To Do.
