No, you cheeky gits, I will not re-name this column ‘Two Shags’. Not only is it vulgarity worthy of the gutter, but my ghost writer is just not prepared to go there. It prompted a noise from the direction of the toilet bowl that sounded like ‘Blair’. Pronounced “Blai-ai-urr-uugh”.
This year is the 40th anniversary of the seafarers’ strike, giving me the chance to remind people of my working-class roots and pretend they still mean anything to me. Everyone seems to assume I was involved in the strike, so let’s hope no trouble-making bloody socialists spill the beans that I was at college and at the start of my long road to becoming a fully-fledged class traitor.
Who’d have thought then that I’d end up playing croquet on the lawn of my own personal mansion, paid for by you suckers? Or jetting round the world making furtive approaches to dodgy billionaires, er, I mean making personal acquaintances and promoting British interests.
At least I haven’t had my collar felt, unlike old Levy, eh? It’s not fair, that. I mean, selling peerages - that’s not a crime, is it? OK yeah, technically it is a crime. But raising squillions from perfectly pleasant rich chaps so you don’t have to rely on trade union donations so you can get away with attacking workers - that’s definitely not a crime. That’s politics.
And if you reckon there’s a better way of doing it - did someone say “socialism”? - then I’ll chin yer.