Have been on suicide watch all day since Hazel rang in tears, saying she couldn't go on. She might have said she wouldn't go on, and to tell that fat freak she'd chew his knackers off and use them to make little fluffy pillows for her nest, but it was a very bad line and Dolly had turned up with his temperance band. I could hardly hear myself think over the bashing of tambourines and suggestions that I might like to make a donation. I had to explain that is not the way the money goes in my world; it travels towards me, not away.
Briefly considered trying to get Liam Donaldson to declare the House of Commons shut due to Swine Flu so everyone could get under their duvets and have a good old weep and scare off the journalists - they run at the slightest sniffle - but Alan Johnson looked at me leeringly and wouldn't play along. Can't risk him turning up at the House and having a clear run at the leadership. Besides, Caroline Flint would put on her starched apron and stockings, and explain that everyone else had manflu.
Gordon was difficult to reach. I'm not surprised he's hiding. On Monday on the Today programme he called me a press officer. Yes he did, in the 08:10 interview, at 10:48 seconds in. Oh, he corrected himself, but it was still there, the old jibe. He's the Fabians' anointed one and I'm the grammar school oik. The best years of my life I've given that man; if it wasn't for me he'd have taken a drubbing in 1994 and never even made it to Chancellor, never mind having two years as PM.
I'd have preferred to cancel everything, but unfortunately the meeting with a Singaporean minister had been scheduled long ago. Little Ollie B the journalist was there with his microphone, so I explained that there was a crisis of politics in this country, but not to panic, I was dealing with it. Then Ollie asked Minister Mentorn what he thought, and the minister kindly reminded everyone that I had already resigned twice. Thanks a bunch.
I then had to try to fit my working day in between umpteen interviews to counteract the effect of crowd of ingrates who were running round saying the government was finished. There are times when I wish I was like Ali Campbell and could just threaten to kneecap the scribblers, or like Ed Balls who used to set Damien McBride on them. But that is so hasty; so lacking in refinement, although with a certain crude charm. Gordon seems determined to give that wielder of crude charm and thugs a run at the Treasury, though. It will be like having the young Oliver Reed in his Women in Love role in No. 11. It will save a fortune in cutlery; Ed eats with his fingers.
Crossing the courtyard, a cheeky monkey from the BBC yelled "Mr Mandelson, Mr Mandelson". I kept right on walking until he finally realized that you have to shout "Lord Mandelson, LORD Mandelson". Then I turned and acknowledged him. I know who he is.
Author: Woman on a Raft
3 comments:
Was the diary found hidden inside a stuffed Brazilian at the end of his bed?
Many a true word written in jest!
thanks for the mention mandy. 'little ollie b' eh? i quite like it.
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