"Fuck me, it's Tessa Jowell!"
I had expected, living in a marginal constituency in this election, that the great and good would be beating a path to my door, clamouring for my vote. Have they arses. We got a UKIP chap who didn’t even get a chance to speak, and that was it.
All the grown-ups from the cabinet coming down to Weymouth to give embattled Labour MP Jim Knight a bit of moral support, have turned up, posed for the cameras, then fled before the great unwashed voters realised the illuminati were in town and have a chance to get a real baying hate mob together.
So, it came as some surprise, nursing the migraine from hell, that I should open the door to Tessa Jowell, rat-faced midget in charge of the Department of Culture, Media and Sport.
The napleonette in charge of the disembowelling of the BBC. The harpie presiding over a Murdoch monopoly in satellite broadcasting. The one person who could impose decent standards on the press, yet chooses not to. In short, my mortal enemy.
I could tell it was her because of the punkah wallah holding a large sign bearing the words "Tessa Jowell IS HERE". He had the sharp suit of the true New Labour acolyte, and a glazed look that betrayed the fact that he was deeply in love with her. Or Tony. Or both.
I looked at her in my unshaven , pyjama-ed state and gave her both barrels: “Lib Dem. Postal vote.”
That told her.
In fact, if any of you have a sensible question for Ms Jowell, I’ve got her tied up with gaffer tape under my stairs, feeding her live rodents and hoping she doesn‘t shed her skin too soon. It’s for the good of the nation.