I caught some of that programme on the Tories last night which I watched as lazily as possible in order to prevent an aneurysm. Obviously I had to switch off when Michael Howard appeared, I actually found it hard to type his name just then and not calmly approach a colleague and furiously urinate in his/her face and if Kenneth Baker (FUCKING CUNT) was depicted in anyway shape or form the part of my brain that deals with shock ushered the image/mention of his Most Disgustingness into a small cerebral room where upon it was shot in the back of the head with a Browning 9mm pistol.
It was a nasty show but a timely reminder of how this current government came to be after Thatcher and how the Tories subsequently (mercifully) lost their way, especially tactically in terms of leadership in the face of the fledgling New Labour government. From William Hague hilariously claiming to drink 14 pints a day (actual quote: “I was the driver’s mate, delivering the bottles and beer around South Yorkshire. We used to have a pint at every stop – well the driver’s mate did, not the driver, thankfully – and we used to have about 10 stops in a day. You worked so hard you didn’t feel you’d drunk 10 pints by four o’clock, you used to sweat so much. But then you had to lift all the empties off the lorry. It’s probably horrifying but we used to do that then go home for tea and then go out in the evening to the pub.” What a fucking lying turd) to whispering buffoon Duncan wotsisface and finally their ridiculous current Fuhrer, David Cameron, the bumbling dough-faced Hooray Henry with aspirations of genocide.
But I have to be fair here and mention (old) Labour in less than glowing circles. Neil Kinnock’s dreadful performance at the 1992 Labour Party Rally in Sheffield lost them the general election (attended by 10,000 people, costing £100,000 to stage, Kinnock was flown in by helicopter where upon he actually bounded up to the podium and said ‘well alright, well aright’ (in an American accent I hasten to add) and then ‘we better get some serious talking done here’ after being paraded from the back of the venue to the front frenetically shaking hands, hugging, and kissing babies and women etc., the ginger Welsh prick, sorry) and, lets be frank here, I’m sure Old Labour Party are single handedly responsible for causing men of a certain class to dress like their sons, there was some footage of the Labour cabinet circa 1975 enjoying a few ales, not one of them looked under 70 for fucks sake yet none of them were a day over 30 -I’ve seen more style growing out of potato.
Still, give me Old Labour any day…
Yesterday was a slog in the office; my email buddy has been away so I’ve been left to my own devices, it’s utterly dull. Last night was very nice though, met up with Frank for a few ales prior to making Nigel Slater’s Chickpea and Spinach Gratin that I lifted out of Sunday’s Food Monthly supplement in The Observer. It was, as one would expect, a taste sensation though Myfwt said I’d over-cheesed the top, I agreed verbally but within I knew I’d done good.
This song appeared in the background in last night’s Tory documentary, not my usual fare but I like it enough to put it on here, right now.