Countdown to the election

That blithering idiot Blair calls in on his way back from holiday.

He likes these what he refers to as “surprise visits”. I would rather entertain the grim reaper or Cilla Black (I assume they are not one and the same?) anyday. It is bad enough having the world’s press camped on one’s doorstep at the best of times, but when Tone turns up with his entourage of secretaries, advisors (sic) and security staff, the whole road starts to look as residential as Red Square on May 1^st.

He is one of the most insecure people I have ever met, not without cause, I need not add. He is still under the impression that I will lend my influence to his idiotic policies. Quite why no one has told him that I burnt my honorary party membership card when they flung out Mikey Foot for not wearing a tie I will never understand. Unlike Mr Corleone, Mr Blair insists on never being told bad news.

Underlying all of this is his fear that I might back the Tories, so someone must have whispered something to him. His worries are groundless. Cameron has been badgering me, to the extent that my only option was complete honesty. “Fuck off, Dave”, I told him, quite sternly, “I would not back your lot even if you renamed Milton Keynes Milton Guevara, had the royal family shot, appointed Bozza to be Foreign Secretary, introduced an environment tax and declared Britain to be a People’s Republic. If you were to arrange the public execution of Thatcher I might remain neutral, but it will never get better than that.” I suspect that he is incapable of taking no for an answer, and have arranged with BT to have any calls from him to be diverted to the Uri Geller Fanclub hotline.

I am not sure what will happen if and when Blair hands over to Brown. He seems to have a good mind, but is very dull company. No wonder that Tone has kept him in charge of the accounts department all of these years. Brown is a little suspicious of me, stemming from an incident where he blames me for arranging for him to sit next to a very flatulent diplomat from the Philippines at a function some years back.

I sit back and try to concentrate on a repeat of Dallas on the television while Blair attempts to ingratiate himself. By this time, I am hoping that the emetic that I slipped into his Lapsang Souchong is one with a delayed reaction. He asks if I can keep an eye on Denis Healey at the party conference. Den is threatening to sing the Red Flag very loudly throughout Tony’s speech. I say that I will do it, but, of course, will not be party to any such silliness. Watch out for the octogenarian ex-deputy leader being carried out shoulder high by the security staff. You read it here first. I later call Denis, and tell him to hire a small brass band to accompany him, for maximum effect.