What is it about Wales? Every time they have a light six-month deluge (twice a year on average) the jaundiced John Hutton frogmarches me out of DRIP to spearhead the relief effort, airlifting leeks and Welsh rarebit to the Taffs.
I wouldn’t have minded so much but it kept me away from the TUC Revolutionary Council in Brighton, where Stuart Rose’s spooks were having their cover comprehensively blown by an ashen-faced IT geek. It should really come as no surprise that ‘S’ – to use his new codename – was (allegedly, m’lud) trying to deprive former employees of their wretched few shekels of redundancy money, but the force with which the dark side were summoned up to rebut the accusations took everyone by surprise. Cheap-suited spin doctors were spotted everywhere from Wapping to the West End, sidling up to dishevelled hacks and dishing the dirt. Mr Putin could have learnt a thing or two, I reckon.
Anyway, what’s the big deal? Someone has to cover the cost of refurbishing the Rosenbunker, and Rosie hasn’t chosen the décor from Tesco Direct. The poor boy’s got so deluded that he sits at his bomb-proof desk behind a pair of Ray-Bans, burbling half-remembered John le Carré. Soon he’ll start thinking he’s Chairman. In fact I was quite pleased to be away from civilisation, what with the halo effect just possibly beginning to fade from HMG. I can reveal, gentle readers, that Gordo has quietly been questioning the efficacy of DRIP in keeping a lid on prices. It seems that every time some dimwit journo finds the instruction manual for the calculator and works out that Ovaltine is now Jolly Dear compared with this time last year, supermarket ‘profiteering’ comes to top of the political agenda.
If you can think of a better smokescreen then you’re a better man than I. It will take a lot of (Jolly Dear) Ovaltine to help some of our illustrious supermarket CEOs sleep ahead of the interims.
I wouldn’t have minded so much but it kept me away from the TUC Revolutionary Council in Brighton, where Stuart Rose’s spooks were having their cover comprehensively blown by an ashen-faced IT geek. It should really come as no surprise that ‘S’ – to use his new codename – was (allegedly, m’lud) trying to deprive former employees of their wretched few shekels of redundancy money, but the force with which the dark side were summoned up to rebut the accusations took everyone by surprise. Cheap-suited spin doctors were spotted everywhere from Wapping to the West End, sidling up to dishevelled hacks and dishing the dirt. Mr Putin could have learnt a thing or two, I reckon.
Anyway, what’s the big deal? Someone has to cover the cost of refurbishing the Rosenbunker, and Rosie hasn’t chosen the décor from Tesco Direct. The poor boy’s got so deluded that he sits at his bomb-proof desk behind a pair of Ray-Bans, burbling half-remembered John le Carré. Soon he’ll start thinking he’s Chairman. In fact I was quite pleased to be away from civilisation, what with the halo effect just possibly beginning to fade from HMG. I can reveal, gentle readers, that Gordo has quietly been questioning the efficacy of DRIP in keeping a lid on prices. It seems that every time some dimwit journo finds the instruction manual for the calculator and works out that Ovaltine is now Jolly Dear compared with this time last year, supermarket ‘profiteering’ comes to top of the political agenda.
If you can think of a better smokescreen then you’re a better man than I. It will take a lot of (Jolly Dear) Ovaltine to help some of our illustrious supermarket CEOs sleep ahead of the interims.
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