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Jerry Hayes

After a screeching publication that makes the Andes Air Crash Cook Book look a model of taste & decency, Mandelson has gone stark staring bonkers

July 18th, 2010 by Jerry Hayes

I suppose it had to happen. After a week of ferocious, feline, biting, scratching and mauling of all he screamed to the world was nearest and dearest to him. After a screeching publication that made the Andes Air Crash Cook Book look a model of taste and decency, Peter Mandelson, political cannibal, has gone stark staring bonkers. A few moments ago, sitting on Andrew Marr’s sofa, next to a Russian ballet dancer so pretty that Mandelson would have to have been crowbared off of him as the credits rolled, he, after recoiling with horror at the thought of writing a cheque for his party, uttered these immortal words. “I will be working hard. Working hard, with all my twenty years of knowledge and experience to reinvent the Labour Party for a new generation.”  Does the poor, deluded, treacherous fool, think a nation will be sighing with relief ? Does this crazed loon, intoxicated with power and self importance, really think the Labour party, whose political coffin he has just measured with the skill and enthusiasm of a wild west undertaker, will welcome him back with open arms?  Well, there maybe some open arms, but those of a rabid  lynch mob, who will be scrambling  to get their fingers round his scrawny little neck.  Mandelson proclaimed to the world that the purpose of this fetid little book was for lessons to be learned. Well matey, we’ve learned them. Never elect within an inch of office  those who have the morals of an Algerian crack whore, the scruples of a merchant banker and the instincts of Al Capone’s tax accountant. Oh, and if you notice strange interference on your PC or Apple Mac, don’t worry, it’s only Harold Wilson spinning in his grave. Remember him?  The fellow who said that the Labour is nothing if it is not a moral crusade.

I suppose I should be weeping with hysterical laughter, but I’m not. Throughout the land, thousands of decent, and hardworking party workers have been betrayed. These men and women who gave up their free time to canvass, to raise money, to put across a message that they fervently believed, in have been taken for a very unpleasant ride. They have been used and abused so that their political masters could enjoy the luxuries of  office and the plump, but rotten,  fruits of retirement.

But if Mandelson’s book reveals a government chasing headlines and mesmerised by focus groups, it shows a stark contrast to the Coalition, which seems, at the moment, to be comfortable in it’s own skin. Contrast the difference in approach to the Burka.  As soon as France banned the wearing of the Burka, a Brown Number 10 would have been briefing what an utter disgrace the decision was. Until they saw that 67% of the electorate agreed with the French. Then there would be a massive rowing back. Conflicting briefings and evasive answers from ministers, who wouldn’t have a clue what the line was, because there wouldn’t be  one. Then, after a couple weeks, a commission would be set up and Vivienne Westwood would be appointed “Clothing Tsarina” , to see what lessons could be learned from the French experience. Contrast this to the way it has been handled by Cameron. No fuss, no hysterics, just send out that cuddly old teddy bear, Damien Green, to tell the Sunday Telegraph that we will not be banning the Burka because it’s not the way we do things in Britain. The , “it’s very un British”,  is just the right tone. The Civil liberty brigade have no cause to jump up and down and extremist Muslims have no excuse to take to the streets. And, apart from a few of the usual headbangers of the right, end of story. It is all delightfully linen suited and Pimms; so reassuring. With, of course, the subliminal message that we Brits are rather more civilised that the ghastly, garlic smelling, Xenophobic and over excitable,  French.

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Mandelson and Blair are acting with the dignity of Punjabi whoremasters in their race to get their memoirs on the shelves.

July 10th, 2010 by Jerry Hayes

I really can’t understand why I am seething with anger. I’m not a member of the Labour Party and never will be. As a Cameroon I should be dancing a jig at the  merest chance their being thrown to the wolves and ripped from limb to limb by a salivating electorate, hell bent on revenge. But what makes me spit blood, is the patronising contempt being shown to their hardworking members by the political classes. The spectacle of Mandelson and Blair biting and scratching like crack addled ferrets in a sack, not to save the reputation of a party that gave them their life chances to fame and fortune, but to haggle with the dignity of Punjabi whoremasters over which tasty pieces of fetid character assassination hits the bookstands first, is sickening. And please, Peter bloody Mandelson, don’t tell us how the Labour Party courses through your veins, when you’ve crawled over the bludgeoned corpses of those politicians and journalists who’ve dared try and thwart your march to power glory and wealth. “But I did it for the party!”, he will squeal with faux indignation; a bloodied stiletto in one hand and twenty five pieces of silver in the other. Only one word for you old son. Bollocks. And if you try creeping round Cameron for a job, as you will, let me assure you that you will be as welcome as Benjamin Netanyahu in a Tehran mosque.

But are the leadership aspirants much better? It didn’t take the Milibands too long to sink their milk fangs into the rotting remains of Gordon Brown. It’s like murder on the Orient Express without the mystery. And what about that poisonous little toad, Balls?  He owes everything to Brown, but now the little reptile is rewriting history. There he stands atop the Lenin mausoleum saluting invisible tractors,  whilst inconvenient people and policies are daily  airbrushed out of history. It is as if him and Brown had never met, let alone been joined at the hip. No wonder the poor loon is howling at the moon in his bunker in darkest Scotland with not a single official to Nokia.

But the ghastly Balls has not just directed his poisoned darts at Brown. The generous soul has been kneecapping the Milibands whilst dripping venom in the ear of Gonzo journalists about dear little Andy Burnam. I hear from those who know him well, that he was genuinely shocked when he opened the newspapers and saw the vitriol about him. Burnham seems a genuinely nice guy who is not afraid to talk about, “aspirational Socialism”. The S word may just have a resonance with the grass roots who are desperately need of direction and belief. Burnham’s  manifesto will be published in a couple of weeks and I am told by a senior aide that he has written it all himself. Now that is either a bold act of political genius or a suicide note that will make dear old Footie’s 1983 manifesto look like the Gettysburg Address. I really hope it is the former, as he seems the genuine article.

The only person who will come out well of any of these dreadful self serving, vomit inducing memoirs, is Prezza. Now I know the media like to sneer at his grammatical terrorism, but he courageously kept the Blair/ Brown show on the road. And during the election he toured the land in his minibus, with old fashioned stump oratory.  And it worked. He really did make a difference. I doubt if Phil Woolas would have kept his seat if it wasn’t for the old boy. Ok, he did thump me once for taking the piss out of him on the the today programme. “Hi John, just a bit of a laugh matey!”  ”Really? take that ya Tory cunt!”  But I’ve dined out on it for years. Anyway, I was once kneed in the groin by Gweneth Dunwoody. Both are forgiven. I can be very irritating. Prezza will be a formidable force in the Lords, where he was welcomed with genuine affection and respect.

I suppose politicians were best summed up by my old friend, now sadly dead, Lord Bruce of Donnington. He was Nye Bevan’s PPS in 1945 and an endless source of high grade gossip. I once asked him what he thought of our present politicians, as they must look like pygmies compared to Churchill and Lloyd George, whom he knew well. Pipe in one hand pint in another he, looked at the the silly boy who had asked him such a stupid question. “Dear boy,” he twinkled, “when you have been here a few more years you will appreciate that all our greatest leaders are fucking wankers”. Bless.

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Hello (This is my first post so go easy on me)

May 26th, 2010 by Jerry Hayes

Jerry HayesSome of you will have heard of me, others not. From 1983-1997 I was the Tory MP for Harlow, until the New Labour Tsunami swept me aside. Luckily I had a life raft, namely writing, broadcasting and the criminal bar. But best of all, I was helped by some really great journo mates. Some may remember me on the James Whale Show, others as political editor of PUNCH. Sadly, Al Fayed pulled the plug. Now I’m full time at the bar, but really miss my column. So cases permitting, I’m going to have a crack at blogging. For anyone that’s mildly interested I’m on the independent left of the Conservative Party. During the Thatcher years I was regarded as a rebel. Heaven knows why, I just believed in social justice and pragmatism. But in those days that was about as popular as a rat sandwich. On one occasion I reduced our majority from 140 to 4. I was not always popular with the right.

So here it goes.

The fellow who advised David Cameron to take on the 1922 Committee without bothering to read the rules should be easy to spot. He’d be the one hobbling from the Cabinet Office back door with a one way ticket and unlikely to make a donation to the National Sperm Bank for a considerable time. Backbenchers should be hugged close. Clegg and Cameron should learn from the mistakes of Blair, Brown and Heath who treated them with barely concealed contempt. They must wander the bars, the Tea room and the lobbies pressing the flesh. Peter Walker once persuaded Ted Heath to chat to some of the boys in the Smoking room. “You remember Reggie”, said Walker, “made a speech yesterday”. Dear Reggie, a knight of the Shires, a face carved from Spam and whose gene pool you would not drown, leaned forward for a compliment. “Yes”, said Ted “and bloody awful it was too”. Heath was never invited to press the parliamentary flesh again. In politics bullshit only works when you lay it on with at trowel. Cameron and Clegg ooze with charm and bonhomie. There won’t be a dry gusset in the tea room The guys will love it.

An early lesson Cameron must learn is that the right take no prisoners. The corpse may twitch, but it can come to life and bite you in the leg when you least expect it. When John Major was first installed in Downing Street he received a visit from George Gardner, the leader of the powerful 92 group. “Prime Minister if you do things our way your life will be so much easier”. “Thank you George” said an ever polite Major “now kindly fuck off”. The rest is history.

No matter how well this coalition does, the right will feel betrayed and use any excuse to cause trouble. Like the left they need a totem pole to dance round. They need certainty, they need blind faith and most important of all, a craven image to worship. They had all that in Thatcher and their bereavement at her political death still runs deep. So don’t wage war on them, there is no need as the coalition has a good working majority. And don’t treat them like Mrs Duffy. Their views may seem strange, provincial and sometimes bigoted, but quite a lot of the grass roots share them. It’s difficult to teach an old dogma new tricks. But with tender loving care it can be done.

And finally, three words of warning for the twelve newbies who some might say, have had the arrogance and mind blowing stupidity to put themselves up for election to the 22 executive. “You’re being used”. Forget all this nonsense that you are there to be independent minded. That’s Hattie’s line and she is up to mischief. The Whips only want you for your bodies, not your views. They need to get government business through and not be messed around by the kindergarten. My advice to them is if they want to rebel chose the issue carefully, be sure of your facts and consult with everyone, particularly the old hands. If not glittering careers will transform into parliamentary road kill very quickly indeed.