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Jerry Hayes

The day Blair out Mandelsoned Mandelson.

August 17th, 2010 by Jerry Hayes

Deep in a gilded bunker, somewhere fashionable, but not quite elite,  a frenzied dagger tears into a grinning, but masterful face. The canvas has become a gaping wound. “Damn you Blair!” Screams Peter Mandelson, his exquisitely hand painted kimono steaming with the hot lemon juice and water that had exploded from the delicate bone china cup when a beautifully manicured hand smashed it against a freshly ironed Guardian. “You bastard. Without me you were nothing and this is how you repay me”, he sobs onto a rare handwoven rug, picked by the arthritic hands of blind children in an Afghan sweat shop. For this is the day that the battered reputation of the architect of New Labour, the creator of all things Blair, the slayer of enemies, the burier of Brown, finally descended into the furnaces of that great political crematorium.

In a brilliant piece of footwork, Tony Blair detoxified his brand and stunned his enemies. To donate all the proceeds of his autobiography to charity is amazing in itself. To donate it to the Royal British Legion specifically for the rehabilitation of the maimed and wounded, is an act of genius. The sneerers  will snarl that this is chickenfeed and is merely an act of penance and self flagellation for a wicked war that he bitterly regrets. Nonsense. Blair is as convinced now as he was then, that the invasion of Iraq was the right thing to do. And chicken feed? Four million is a hefty chunk from a man dependent on public appearances.

So far, the press have been uncommonly generous, mainly because they were so taken by surprise, as to be totally open mouthed. Even Diane Abbott, with the eloquence of Satan denouncing sin, was the first of  the Labour leadership Oompa Loompas to heap praise upon Blair.

But it does show the difference between gold and mere glitter. Mandelson’s squalid little tome of bitchiness and bile was lauded by the press as a masterstroke for beating Blair to the book stands. And, as always , he reveled in this notoriety. For every character that he assassinated, Brown, Blair, Campbell, anyone who got in his way, interviewers were met with quizzical astonishment. “Moi?  But I say more good things about these people than bad! ” he would charm. For Mandelson it is the death of credibility. There was always a hint that  as Blair’s creator and mentor, he was always the silent, but guiding hand. Well that hand have been severed with the skill and efficiency of an Iranian executioner. The eminence grease is no more. Mandelson has been out Mandelsoned. Stuck in the twilight limbo of loathing and distrust, he will never be a welcome figure in the Labour party. Lower that ermine.  How tragic that the man who said that The Project would never be completed until Labour learns to love Peter Mandelson has been responsible for both to whither and die. But spare a thought for George W Bush and every other former leader on the make. Bit of a moral dilemma here.

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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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Be afraid, be very afraid, Mandelson is publishing his diaries

June 5th, 2010 by Jerry Hayes

Be afraid, be very afraid, Peter Mandelson is publishing his diaries. But what is so cheering is that the puffs, which are appearing in newspapers with the speed and dexterity of a flasher’s mac, promise that they will be, ” Frank honest and revealing”. Perhaps, not the three words all of us would associate with the great man.

But what is intriguing, is why he has refused to allow his old friend Hannah Rothschild  to screen the fly on the wall documentary, “the real PM: portrait of the real Peter Mandelson”, at the Hay Festival. According to this morning’s Independent, it was pulled at the last moment at, “Lord Mandelson’s request.

Mandelson does everything for a purpose. He is so cautious that he would take Exlax with his All Bran. He would know that having a camera follow him for the last few months under the editorial control of an old friend, is not going to be a hatchet job. And he is certainly not going to upset a Rothschild, the gateway, to glitter, yachts, country house weekends and his obsession to become filthy rich.

I suspect that it is no coincidence that he is in the middle of a publishing war with his old foe, Alastair Campbell, whom he never forgave for his last sacking, whose diaries, the sexed up version, are to be published shortly.Prepare, preferably with a clove of garlic and a wooden stake, for Mandelson’s weapons of mass distraction to be unleashed.

If ever there is an enigma within a riddle, it is Mandelson. He delights in cloak and dagger mystery and relishes in his title of Prince of Darkness. But forget at your peril the warning of Max Hastings recently in the Mail, “he is a bad, bad, bad man.” His enemies might just see a flash of cloak, but they will never notice the knife, poisoned with malice, slip quietly into their backs. He is a dangerous and unforgiving foe. George Osborne still bears the scars of reporting a private conversation in a Taverna in Corfu. A conversation about Brown and the cabinet laced with carefully placed venom. What Osborne didn’t appreciate was that this was Mandelson’s way of giving baubles to the savages in the hope of some future opportunity if the Tories won. This, “betrayal” of a confidence very nearly destroyed Osborne. Hell was unleashed. Never go tiger shooting with Mandelson, he’d have done a deal with the tiger by teatime.

But he has considerable charm, immense ability and connections that start with Prince Charles. I have never met a senior civil servant who hasn’t said that he was a first class minister, on top of his brief. His skills as a manipulator are legendary. I was reporting the famous Tribune rally where Tony Banks, as minister, made a speech which brought the hall to its feet. “I don’t want to hear a word about Peter Mandelson, I want the the whole bloody library”. You never saw that in mainstream print. It was the story, and a good one. What appeared in the press was Banks’s comment that he thought that the leader of the opposition, William Hague, looked like a foetus. That barely raised a laugh in the hall, but Mandelson’s, threats, charm and promises to the press, turned a  rant against him into an attack on the Tories. Utterly brilliant.

So don’t be surprised that there will be endless press speculation about his motives for pulling the film, nor that it will be screened on the BBC just as the books hit the shelves, which will send Mandelson laughing to the bank and Campbell crying into his smoothie. Oh, and don’t be amazed if he takes over the job of Chairing BP.  Before we know it oil stricken birds will be soaring heavenwards and the coast of Florida a paradise on earth. I recently suggested to an old Labour hand that Mandelson was fast becoming a national treasure. “Quite right, he grunted, “and the evil bastard should be well and truly buried”.

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