Monday, March 14, 2005

Falling in love with Tony again

Terrible week. The feel good factor from the holiday melted as the Whips got on the phone to BBM and asked him tenderly if he had enjoyed his break. Of course he said yes. Of course they said "Well, take another one this week!" They were desperate to get rid of as many potential rebels as possible. BBM always a difficult sod, insisted on floating round London for a couple of days looking like he might vote against the Government and then he gave in. We went back to the constituency to create what used to be called an Election Address and these days is a phoney newspaper called the Rose. You get on to a private web site and there it is all laid out for you on a pdf. Candidates insert the names of their constituencies and other local references. Eight photographs can be chosen and distributed throughout the piece. Photos have to be emailed in, copy uploaded. It's a new piece of kit, and someone has presumably conned the Labour party into paying thousands to be the first to use it. Of course it doesn't work properly. Actually it doesn't seem to work at all. Eventually I rang the help line where a bloke in a call center told me that they'd had to bring in dozens of people to sort out the problems. Not much luck so far. All photos for all Labour candidates were supposed to be in a couple of weeks ago, but because the machinery doesn't work and we all know MPs are hopeless with computers I predict an electoral disaster. Labour candidates sans literature posters and stickers. They may have to go back to megaphones to get their messages across.

Sunday morning I went off for the papers. BBM languishing in bed "worrying" he said!

Mail on Sunday reports mayhem during the all night session. Peterborough and Reading East are portrayed as sex godesses propositioned by a quiet bloke who seems to have been pissed. Well, he'd have to be pissed. Peterborough and Reading East are famous for getting the wrong end of the stick about everything. I once asked RE how P and her husband were getting on. Friendly chat like. Before you could say "thisisoneseatweareboundtolosethistimeround" P is on the phone leaving hysterical messages about how she's going to sue me. Five pages of handwritten abuse are hand delivered as back up. So I'm a bit sympathetic to this poor MP who might have been the worse for wear. Highlight of the fracas seems to have been the appearance of a whipclad only in tight white underwear to referee. Sadly it wasn't Hilary Armstrong.

Watched the PM on the telly. The Jonathan Dimbleby Programme. I thought he was lovely. Almost crying as he begged the women in the audience over and over again to trust him. He'd never lie to them. He'd never let them down. Just like that damp handed boy you rejected at college but convincing. Very convincing and made even more so by the great Dimbebore who kept interrupting and trying to ask insane questions of an intellectual nature which had nothing to do with the discussion. Blair was cool, but you could see he was irritated with Dimblebore. He kept turning away from him and back to the women. It must have been an Alistair Campblell masterstroke because it was the first time I have felt on the same side as Tony for about two years.

Only Saturday when I'd seen Michael and Sandra Howard with their lovely children and grandchildren I'd been wondering whether I should vote Tory just to teach Tone a lesson. But then I got worried. After all it's my old man that I have to vote for locally, and if I don't then the polling booth will probably explode or somethingand I'll be found lying naked outside a SureStart centre.

This is the week of my great court appearance. A letter has arrived from the court warning me that I have to turn up. I could be arrested and put in prison if I don't. Crikey! But I am allowed to say a few words about why I should not be banned. Everyone keeps warning me that I have got to be HUMBLE and apologise to the court and promise never to be naughty again if I want to keep my license for the election campaign. What an absolute disaster.


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