29 December 2006

Best Quotes of 2006 (Part 1 - Tossers)

To a discerning reader, it will come as no surprise that one does not spend every waking minute sitting in front of a monitor, constantly devising new schemes and stratagems for global domination using a bloguette.

Perhaps one ought emphasise that point… after all, my calling cards have not yet revealed whether or not any of you are discerning.

Suffice to say that one is perfectly accustomed to moving in much higher society. At this time of year, one glances back in a wayward fashion upon conversations engaged in- not mention will be made of the conversations accidentally overheard- recalling memorable words of those who try a little bit too hard to appear important in the eyes of the world. It delighted many to find their words quoted by the national media who have put together a synopsis of this years events… however, while some of these supposedly great men prefer to forget what I had to say, I have every intention of reminding them, by sharing my little pearls of wisdom among my most beloved swine.


To start, let me state for the record that I do everything within my power to avoid being in the same room as a certain man one would prefer to remain nameless and unknown in some godforsaken place like Texas.

Unhappily, given that one moves in abundantly high society, I have occasion to brush against Ms George W. Bush… always doing one’s best to spill his drink. On the most recent occasion, he happened to be responding to media speculation that American forces could be called back from Iraq, and delivering one of his typically insightful remarks on the dreadful situation in the country.

"This business about graceful exit just simply has no realism to it at all," he drawled.

“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t have gone dicking around over there in the first place,” I hissed, brushing past - roughly- on my way to the lavatory.

As it happened, the Lord Chancellor of the United Kingdom also attended the function; later that same evening, I was not the only great man trying to give a little offence. His Lordship waited until he knew Ms Bush had run out of ridiculous things to say, and then artfully brought the conversation around to Guantanamo Bay, declaring that it was "a shocking affront to the principles of democracy"

“Hear, hear!” I cried, and at this stage one ought mention that it had been a long day with a free bar. “Which explains why one day, it will be a perfect location for the George W. Bush memorial. Where else might one honour of the first unelected President of the United States? Besides, they’ll have to stick his memorial somewhere that no one wants to go, otherwise visitors will continually deface it… even the Republican ones!”

One cannot quite remember leaving that party… I vaguely recall being manhandled by some rather attractive security men, but it might have been another evening.

All of the above is not to suggest that I am often to be found on the East Coast… heavens, no! And one certainly won’t be returning to the West Coast for a long while, after a dull, dull, dull evening to celebrate Ms A Schwarzenegger’s re-election as Governor of California… no free bar.

"What a fantastic evening; I love doing sequels," he said, liking his own quip so much he repeated it… again and again.

“Bully for you!” I yawned. “Like your movies, that ‘line’ wasn’t so good first time around, and it might have had better delivery from one of your stand-ins. Go back to doing whatever you’re best at, Arnie… something that doesn’t involve thinking.”

Another hasty departure, which I most certainly do recall!

It may seem that one constantly talks about alcohol, however one doesn’t want my gentle readers to think that I have a drinking problem, unlike some of those who used to be involved in political circles… former Liberal Democrat leader Charles Kennedy for instance.

"Over the last 18 months, I have been coming to terms with and seeking to cope with a drink problem," he declared at a Whitehall function I attended, earlier this year… in rather slurred tones, it must be said.

Coming to terms? Seeking to cope? But doing nothing whatsoever about it!” I scolded. “That approach may be satisfactory in your personal life, but your successor might want to consider a different approach to politics when revising the Liberal Democrat manifesto… then they might get into power someday!”

If I’m not mistaken, it was at the same function that I engaged in a heated discussion about the Tory party's new advertising campaign, which features a man called Mr Tosser.

"I always thought that the party was full of them," said Mr John Prescott, with one of his characteristic belly-laughs.

“There is nothing wrong with being a Tosser, Mr Prescott,” I said cuttingly. “If you had tossed a little more often, instead of sharing love-juice with a tittle-tattle secretary, we would all have been spared some unpleasant headlines. I found it quite distressing, having to imagine you both at it! It almost put me off my food! Speaking of which-”

"If you're giving your kids fizzy drinks, then you're a tosser," someone cut in… who else but Ms J Oliver who can’t seem to keep away from these functions; is he angling for catering contracts, one wonders?

“Don’t talk such rubbish!” I told him. “Middle-class parents wouldn’t dream of giving their little darlings anything fizzier than a Harry Potter book! They certainly don’t need a lower class kitchen hand like yourself telling them how to raise their children! It’s the working classes who suffer most from obese children, Ms Oliver… and we know perfectly well that if those daddies had been tossers, most of those children wouldn’t be here today.”

A smug-faced pillock from the Tory party happened to be listening to all of this, much to my annoyance. How he delighted to find that one publicly disagreed with one of the Labour party’s closest advisors and associates. Knowing what a publicity slut that man is- why, he makes Victoria Beckham look like a publicity virgin- and fearing that he would dare to circulate rumours that I was sympathetic to his own party, I quickly said;

“I, for one, am quite proud to toss occasionally; I’d certainly rather be a Tosser than a Tory.”

For several minutes, Mr David Came-wrong… oh, of course, it’s Mr David Cameron… tried to convince me that his party was better than others one could mention.

"UKIP is a bunch of fruit cakes and loonies and closet racists mostly," he said.

“Tell us something we don’t know, David,” I responded. “Like what distinguishes them from the Tories?”

That shut Mr David Come-ere-moron up… and I noticed that Mr Prescott was grinning smugly, until I looked in his direction upon which he immediately became a little hot under the collar, worried no doubt that I was going to tell him what I thought of the New Labour party.

"I don't like fancy food,” he flustered, grabbing a fistful of hors d’oeuvres from a passing tray. “It's difficult in China because you don't know what's in the bloody dish."

“You’re trying to change the subject, aren’t you, John?” I said at once. “Do you really expect us to believe there’re anything you don’t like eating? Because if that’s the case, when next demoted I’d ask to be made Ambassador to China for a few months, if I were you!”

At that point, I heard a familiar loud voice over at the bar - that old lush Ken Livingston, no longer a man to be kept at arms length- and so one hurried over. What a relief to escape!

You can always depend on Ken for a good line and a laugh. In no time, we were reminiscing about the good old days, recalling how he embraced the gay league before it was fashionable for politicians to do so, while of course constantly quipping at one another, knocking back the shots.

"It would be quite nice if the American ambassador in Britain could pay the congestion charges that everybody else is paying and not try and evade it like some chiselling little crook," he said at one point, hoping to be overheard by the American ambassador, on his way to the lavatory.

“What do you expect, Ken?” said I, pouring another stiff gin. “He was appointed by George W. Bush! Obligations to the rest of the planet… Kyoto… hello?”

Matching one another drink for drink proved not to be such a good idea: Ken can’t hold his liquor like he used to, and before long he was revealing… normally, one has no objection to hearing all kinds of intimate details, however the most exciting thing Ken revealed was that he and his family do not flush the toilet if they have only had a small pee… imagine my expression when I found myself listening to this:

"The experiment in my home, which is now into its second year, has been a success,” he said, pouring himself another. “We continued with it right through the summer and never once did a great bluebottle come into the bathroom. After all, why would a bluebottle wish to slurp up a little bit of nitrogenous waste? It has no nutritional value at all! It's just that people have a perception that their urine is some sort of liquid form of their excreta."

“Fascinating, Ken!” I interjected. “In fact, quite inspiring… so much so that I’m off to produce a little nitrogenous waste myself! Probably won’t see you until next year, I expect… enjoy the rest of your night!”

Of course, by that time of the evening, especially with a free bar, there’s always a queue for the toilet. I found myself standing alongside General Sir Michael Rose –how ought one address the man? I confessed myself to be at a loss!- who was understandably delighted to see me, hoping for some advice on matters of state.

"Blair should be impeached," he said, with an authoritative tone.

Hearing this remark, I insisted upon the General waiting after we’d both finished in the bathroom – he went first, and suffice to say that he doesn’t aim with military precision after he’s had a few drinks- and then we took a little turn about the room.

“It is perfectly obvious,” I explained in a hushed tone, “that what you propose is counter-productive, for Mr Blair is concerned with one thing only: going down in history. He is not content with becoming Britain’s youngest Prime Minister, or leading Labour to victory for three consecutive terms; therefore, by making him the first Prime Minister in history to be impeached you will be playing right into his hands.”

“But we must do something about the little… toad!” said the General.

“To be sure, Your General Lordship! Here is what I propose. Since Mr Blair remains quite determined to stay in office for longer than Thatcher, let us make sure that he does not. This will be easy to achieve. He is generally disliked by the British public – which we all know makes little difference to longevity; after all, look at the Beckhams- but he is also generally disliked within the party, which of course makes a world of difference. There’s as much chance of him lasting another year as there is of Prescott walking to the nearest chippie.

“But let us not spend too much time gloating over his departure, because we will have work to do. Let us do everything in our power to ensure Mr Gordon Brown is his successor.”

His General Lordship seemed to think it would be difficult.

“This is quite possible, let me assure you! Who else is there?” I pointed out. “Mr Brown’s succession will certainly punish Mr Blair, yet it will not be enough to truly humiliate and crush him, which is what the man deserves; why, remember how he courted the gay league’s support throughout his rise to power, yet avoiding the issue of same-sex partnership throughout his first two terms in office?. And then he sat on Ms G. W. Bush’s lap- imagining we wouldn’t notice!- and if all that wasn’t offensive enough, then he flagrantly disregarded our public’s opposition to the war in Iraq. So we must go further, and that is what I anticipate will be tricky… yet we must try to keep Mr Brown in office longer than Mr Blair; this will be essential if we are to drive Mr Blair more insane with jealousy than he already is.”

His General Lordship admitted all of this made perfect sense, and greatly appreciated my insightful and sage advice, nevertheless he felt it might stretch our abilities.

“But look at the state of the opposition!” I said, pointing across the room to where Kennedy had passed out under the tree, with Mr David Come-on trying to impress one of the Whitehall secretaries by explaining that there was nothing bad about eating a little piece of dark-coloured fruit cake for Christmas, but not too much… and hadn’t she noticed how it tasted much better with a nice sugary-white icing?

“Remember, all that really matters to the British public is that the economy booms,” I whispered to my companion, who I felt was not only coming around to my view, but succumbing to my obvious charms. “These are people watch public television and listen to Robbie Williams whenever they want to stimulate their minds; nothing politicians say makes any difference to them whatsoever! It’s all about the economy, and there Mr Brown has proven credentials. All we must do is ensure Mr Brown keeps at a safe distance from tyrannical dictators- since he has years of experience of working with one, he’s alert to this danger- and make sure that he doesn’t get involved in any more wars… oh, and remember those wonderful children of his! Why, we can encourage the tabloids to play on the public’s sympathy… and voila! In the circumstances, we can make an uncharismatic figure of a man likeable, perhaps even popular!”

At this point, my companion almost choked on his drink.

“Forgive me, your General Lordship, I don’t deny it will be exceedingly difficult, but it is not impossible; after all, look at James Blunt … bad example, let’s go with Noel Edmonds.”

“You truly think it’s possible, Ms Quisp?” said His General Lordship, who was no longer making any secret of his admiration.

“Call me Cuentin, please,” I replied, leaning in a little.

“In that case, please call me something a little less formal!”

“Believe me, Mickey; between us we can do this,” I said, fluttering my eyelashes and hastily refilling his whiskey glass. “Think of the… pleasure… we will share, should this come to –ahem!- pass.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said the General Lordship, who was becoming a little too excitedly familiar.

“Remember,” I said, digging an elbow in his ribs to keep him at arms length so that my message was quite clear, “only if we ensure that Mr Brown is better liked than Mr Black… I mean, Mr Blair… If that happens, but only if… because only then will our revenge be complete.”

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