Monday, 27 September 2010

Bedtime Stories With the Milibands

The scene starts in a leafy, well-to-do street in the fashionable part of Primrose Hill.  It is early evening and inside a large house, Ma Miliband (known as Marion Kozak in her local progressive Marxist cooperative collective) is reading a bedtime story.

The sound of a child's music box can be heard playing some dissonant, atonal, Marxist-inspired "tune" and two earnest boys are in bed listening attentively to their mother ...

... and the peoples' warrior Gordon-the-Brown did bravely battle the big bad many-headed democratic monster but he was slain in a cowardly way by the nasty, capitalist, racist quislings.

There was great sorrow in La-La-Lab-Land and the good people of the Socialist tribe and the Tradunion tribe and the Internationalprogressivemarxist tribe and the Beebeecee tribe did rent their clothes and gnash their teeth at such terrible news ...

Oh Mummeeee, Mummeee, that is a very sad story, it reminds me of that tale you told us about poor old peoples' hero Pol Pot. But please Mummee, I must know, do you still love me?

Oh, my little bananakin, you are Mummy's special little banana and I shall always consider you in a special way. Here's a kiss from Mummy.

[sloppy wet kissing sound]

Mummee, Mummee you still love me don't you? I am the new gang leader now, so you must love me more than David.

Aaah, my little Red-Edikins. You are my favourite little progressive Marxist Leninist social democrat. Here let me give you a hug.

Mummee, Mummee it's not fair! Today, Ed's friends, those stupid fat bullies Derek Simpson and Charlie Whelan rigged the Labour gang election at school and ... and (sob) ... and ... he got them to beat me up. Boo hoo waaaahh. It's really unfair, I want to own a left of centre progressive Marxist gang.

Oh my poor little Bananakins don't cry. You must realise that there is no such thing as ownership but only responsible social democratic collective decision making and management by the workers' representatives. No-one "owns" a gang.

Now Redikins, say sorry to Bananakins for not following the agreed progressive social democratic procedures for the selection of the peoples' representatives.

Oh, all right then, I hereby agree to issue a clarification statement which will comply with the recommendations of the workers' remediation committee in order to convey ...

Oh how sweet my little Redikins, you can't even say a simple sorry in less than a thousand words. Daddy would be so proud of you.

Mummee, Mummeee am I still a brilliant progressive Marxist? Do you love me more than Bananakins?

Mummee, Mummee, that's not fair. You should love me more!

Oh my little liebkins, don't fret so. Do you remember when we went with Daddy on those Workers' Revolutionary Party family picnics to Karl Marx's grave? Do you remember the long drawn out monologues he and Uncle Laski would deliver to us on modern Marxist Leninist progressivism?

Well during one of those afternoons he explained to us that there is no such thing as love in a progressive egalitarian society which is organised along Marxist Leninist principles. "Love" is just a nasty bourgeois capitalist concept that causes inequality, exploitation of the workers, poverty and war.

Mummee! You used that nasty bourgeois word "family". Surely you mean "proletarian social unit"?

Er .. Mummee, will you have a word with those nasty boys in the Blair gang, they've been telling stories about how I'm geeky and too old to be living at home with you Mummee.

Oh don't be so silly Redikins, you're only 40 and Bananakins is only 45, you both need your Mummee to look after you.

Anyway it is time for sleepy time so I shall just turn the light out and say good night.

Mummee, can I have my fluffy stuffed Lenin to hug in bed please?

Yes my little darling ...

Mummee, can I have my bedtime banana please?

... and so we leave the Miliband household to a peaceful night's sleep.

NEXT WEEK: we listen in to the bedtime goings on in a windswept, bare, grey house in the Scottish Lowlands in Fife as the carer Sarah Brown takes the hand of her Gordon and helps him waddle up the stairs to his cot, changes his nappy and makes sure he takes his medication before singing him to sleep.

Wednesday, 1 September 2010

Those Tony Blair Memoirs


In an exclusive deal with Daedalus Parrot Publishing Inc., the long awaited memoirs of Anthony Blair, "Why I Was Right", will be serialised in this column over the next few minutes.

In this first instalment, Anthony describes how right he was.

Thank You

Before we proceed, some thanks are in order. I know, wise reader, you gave thanks to me in the past for all of the wonderful things I brought into this world. It is of course, as one of my key workers Alleystare Camp-Bell pointed out to me, very likely that you are one of the 100 million people who thanked me by voting for me in the United Britain election of 1997 and you are probably one of the billions of wonderful people on this planet who want me to be the World President.

So, as we embark on this account of my fantastic journey, I would like to take this opportunity to allow you to thank me again. And Cherry says don't forget to buy another copy of my book to give to a loved one.

In The Beginning

Beginnings are delicate things, many potentially great events founder on the slightest mishap at inception. Well you can thank The Lord himself that my beginning was so perfect. I came from an impeccable Noo Labor background, my mother was the daughter of a Glaswegian butcher and my father, the illegitimate offspring of English actors, was a peripatetic law lecturer. We lived 5 children to a room (or was it 5 rooms to each child) in a Georgian mansion in the cathedral precinct of Durham.

As a child I was a precocious, helpful young person who would always be ready to offer words of advice. I would often demonstrate my compassionate idealism by telling my mother how she could do the cleaning in a new third way. My father always showed an intense and emotional expression of surprise on his lined face when I would advise him about my human rights.

My parents loved me so dearly that they would often exclaim loudly to the heavens how much they couldn't stand how "full of it" I was. Such endearments only gave me more encouragement to tread the path that has led to this captivating book you are reading.

After an incident at Durham Cathedral's Choristers' School, my parents insisted I spend the rest of my impoverished upbringing at expensive boarding schools. This reinforced my compassionate idealism and sense of self-admiration.

My parents often remarked how glad they were that I was at boarding school and were only too happy to scrimp and save to pay for me to stay at school over the holidays.

The many school friends, that I think I had, would often stay away from me and never speak to me, if only to make it easier for them to stand back in awe at my demigod like looks and achievements.

My personal biographer, John Rentoul, remarked how much I was missed when I left school. "All the teachers I spoke to when researching the book said he was a complete pain in the backside, and they were very glad to see the back of him."

In my mind I know God intended me to be the remarkably wonderful World Leader that I am today. So it was only natural that I should have started my adulthood by creating the world's most fantastic boy band at school. I named the band the "Furtive Gropings". In the three and a half long arduous days of our existence, we did sellout tours of Acton and Neasden and went to number one in the pop charts at the Goldhawk Road secondhand record shop.

Legal Eagle

After these heady days came to an end, I started on my career as a World Leader by becoming a renowned lawyer. Derry Irvine, who ran our chambers was a wonderful mentor, he would often tell me how he feared the day I stepped into a courtroom. He said that as I was so "full of it" he would prolong my traineeship to defer my first case, "for the sake of the justice system".

He once shouted that I was so "horse-copulatingly awe full" that he would look forward to the day I started a career outside law. Readers should know that this legal jargon is the highest praise a world renowned lawyer can receive.

Compassionate Love

As I was having my lunchtime gaze into the mirror yesterday, I wondered about the other love of my life and recalled how Cherry and I met.

Just before Derry Irvine asked me to leave his law firm, he pointed out, in his own unique way, how much he admired me and asked me to do him just one favour before we parted. He told me of a "ferocious, foul-mouthed, useless, bolshy bint" who had just started working for him and who was causing untold problems in the office. Derry was of the opinion that she was a "frustrated harridan" who neeeded a "damned good seeing to and that this is the only way to calm down uppity slappers like her." These technical legal expresisons were actually affectionate words of praise for none other than my own dear, sweet Cherry.

This was the first I had heard of this wonderful woman and thereafter I would often hear similar energetic expressions of her startling abilities. As Derry suggested, we did go courting and we embarked on what the world now regards as the most intense, loving and respectful people's partnership ever seen.

Humble Birth of a Political Giant

The world can also thank dear, dear Derry for encouraging me to join the compassionate and idealistic world of politics. "Tony, you preening queer." he told me once, "Since you are such an elephant's appendage of a prima donna, why doncha join that bunch of pansies in the Tory party?"

When I tried to join my father's local Tory Association, their Chairperson very astutely noticed how talented I was. He kindly suggested that my talents would be wasted on the Tories and that as I "was so full of it" I should "join that shower down in the Labour Club.".

I joined the local Labour party and told them how I loved Karl Marx's Mein Kampf. They were very impressed and gave me the key role of clearing the empty glasses on Friday evenings.

Later on, I impressed both my colleagues and opponents when I single handledly almost won the 1982 bye-election in Beaconsfield. My Labour colleagues passionately congratulated me by way of the traditional Labour gesture of throwing tomatoes at me. They said that I was so good that I had even "lost the deposit" and halved my vote. This is, apparently, a great political achievement that very few Labour or Tory politicians have accomplished.

From then on, it was an effortless path to greatness as I smarmed, bitched and backbited my way to the leadership of Noo Labor.

I was also helped by my fragrant friend Petey Mandelslime, who I rather think fancied my handsome looks.

Why I Was Right About Gordon Brown

Look, I'm a compassionate kinda guy, you don't just chuck a mentally disturbed scottish psychopath and his carer wife out onto the streets where he won't be protected by MP expenses or attack-dog spin assassins. It isn't the Noo Labor way. It is common knowledge that I was right to show Christian charidee and give a token job to Gordon and his carer wife. The alternative would have been to witness them plunging into a life of normal work and living slightly luxurious life-styles.

Hence I gave them the insignificant job of Chancellor, which as anyone knows, is an undemanding job that requires making the occasional decision about petty cash.

Just to remind my dear reader (you are a very intelligent and lovely person for buying my book by the way, all proceeds go to my fantastic wife Cherry's favourite charidee), just to remind my really excellent readers, the real power is with the PM (that was me!) who makes all of the major war policies and who strides the global stage like a leviathan and always has at least 10 police outriders wherever he travels.

The trivial, unimportant decisions about petty cash, housing, public staff, etc. were left to someone who, well let's be frank here, I really love Gordon and his carer wife whats-her-name, but to be absolutely honest with ourselves in that sincere Noo Labor way, these kind of menial jobs, where no real harm can be done are best left to people like Gordon and his carer wife.

Why I Was Right About the Global Credit Warming Crunch

Gordon and his lovely carer wife were the people's house-keepers. And we all loved them dearly for it, what a fantastic job they did too: keeping the poor dependent on more and more benefits; putting more unfortunate unemployable misfits on the public payroll; giving away the national gold reserves at ridiculous prices to rich bankers; borrowing trillions; forcing northern banks to lend, lend, lend; viciously smearing and attacking any opponent. The deeply passionate Christian side of me looked on and wept at these magnificently generous acts of charidee. Gordon and his carer wife truly deserved a place in heaven, as soon as possible.

Sadly though, and I can't go into it in detail, but it was documented in a secret dossier, sadly, Gordon and his carer wife ignored my economic advice and decided to start the Global Credit Warming Crunch.

Unfortunately for the world, I was distracted at that time bestriding the global lecture stages, trying to save the world and bring democracee and lucrative speeches to the ears and minds of the generous after dinner circuits of the US of A. As you will see in the secret dossiers that will be made public in 100 years time, I told Gordon and good ol' George W Bush (my ardent admirer and the best US president ever) that the only way to stop the Global Credit Warming Crunch was to borrow more money. Sadly they ignored my advice, even though I was saving Western Civilisation at the time. And we now witness the mess we are in because my advice was ignored.

Of course I'm a decent kinda guy, I don't harbour any lasting grudge towards Gordon and his carer wife, they are after all only human and we must indulge them.

Why I am Not Inhuman

Many confused, and let's be quite frank here, many nasty conservative people accused me of war crimes. Yes it's kinda hard to believe in this age of fantastic education, education, education, but those poor deluded people actually thought my military actions of salvation in Iraq and Afghanistan were wrong.

Even my dear, dear friends in MI5 said I was right, I even knighted one of them, lovely John Starlett, for writing a groveling document to say I was right.

So, now everyone knows I was right about the war on terror. I should add that if I had still decided to stay in power, we would now also be at war with Iran, Syria, North Korea, Pakistan and Canada, helping to spread democracee.

Just think of the unprecedented amounts of happiness and the staggering democracee we could have spread in such wars, think of the Global Credit Warming Crunches that would not have happened, think of the scottish psychopaths that would never have been over promoted.

But we are forgiving, we know you are all only too human, the time will come when you beg us to come back to save you. Perhaps some of you could sign this petition to put me in my proper place:

The Nightmare for Britain as I had to Resign

Just as Christ, lovely guy by the way, I've read all his books, just as He had to face his Calvary, so too did I have to face my own Pharisees who gave their 40 pieces of silver to crucify Me the only saviour of the World.

Yes, even though the whole nation loved me as their people's Prime Minister, I had to leave. For reasons of security, you must trust me on this , for reasons of serious national security I cannot reveal why I was wonderful and why I left so suddenly and why I should have stayed in power for life, but let's just say this: I should not have left but I did.

Yes, this tragedy, in an all too biblical way, saw me being denied the chance to profit from more years of leading the free world (and freebies for Cherry!). So sadly we had to downgrade to a little multi-million dollar mansion in the Arabian quarter of London and live our modest lives.

My Enduring Legacee

Historians will write of my leadership as being fantastically better than Churchill's but they will only do this when they read the secret dossiers that Alleystare Campbell wrote and which, for national security reasons, will only be revealed in 100 years time.

Another part of my legacy to you wonderful discerning people is this, and I can't emphasise it more strongly, it is this: I Was Right, I Was Wonderful and I Will be Missed.

This has been Anthony Blair writing to you, you have been a lovely reader, you deserve the best, buy more copies of my book for your other houses. All proceeds go to mine and Cherry's favourite charidees. Some proceeds may go to families of soldiers I helped kill but Cherry is still making up her wonderful mind on that. She is a loving, selfless human being and she will do for the soldiers what I did for the Unided Kingderm. Mwah, luv ya, byeee.