Aggregated UK political opinion content, stakeholder research and policy consultations.
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.

Comments [ 11 ]

Leave your comment

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.

Comments [ 6 ]

Leave your comment