It’s nice to see the Tories being shown up for the bunch of over privileged toffs that they are, and it’s nice to see that the press can occasionally have a go at them. There was a telling piece in the Guardian today relaying an encounter that a holiday maker had enjoyed with George Osborn on a Greek beach in the summer. As Osborn strides forth, having disturbed the ambience of the beach, with his enormous great boat, his family troop behind, while the nanny struggles behind with the bags. That’s the kind of man he is, absolutely accustomed to blithe displays of arrogance while a minion does the donkey work. And the Tory party is full of his ilk.
While George was swanning around Greece, his leader and fellow Old Etonian was accepting free flights from Rupert Murdoch. These were not Easyjet deals, these were flights on private jets and were worth in themselves something like £34,000. No doubt it was all legal, above board and scrupulously ethical, but it does demonstrate that these Tories live on a plane (no pun intended) so far removed from the rest of that they may as well be professional footballers.
Meanwhile, down to earth hockey mom and political outsider
High flying Wolves went to Norwich, who hadn’t managed to get a single point for three games and got hammered, while we beat Crystal Palace who had been unbeaten in three with a lat minute winner. So, we go back to the top of the table, despite not really putting in a single decisive performance all season, and certainly without having managed to thrill the crowd. It’s all very prosaic and I will say, yet again, this league is crap, any half decent team should get promotion very easily. We may not be playing particularly consistently, but we are picking up points consistently and I think we will comfortably finish on top. Even though it is obvious that we aren’t very good.
While we are on the subject of football, Joey Barton seems to be genuinely contrite, but then he has seemed genuinely contrite before. At least he recognises his demons and is trying to address them, and he recognises that it is a long process. However bad his behaviour is, or has been, he has learnt it over a lifetime, and he is now trying to unlearn it. I wish him luck, but I fear for him.
I popped into the local library on the way home from work to pick up the Booker winner. While I was there, I looked on the ”returned today shelves" and there, winking at me, was the new(ish) Don Winslow, as bright and as fresh as babys smile. Despite the fact that there was not another soul in the library, I snatched it from the shelf as quickly as I could, fearful that some other scoundrel would appear, and deprive me of it. As I grabbed it, I noticed that next to it, also in pristine condition was the new Ken Bruen, (I didn’t even know there was a new Ken Bruen) and next to that was the new James Lee Burke and, fuck me, sitting next to that was the new Pelecanos. I didn’t dream it, it actually happened and all the books are now sat in an impatient pile next to my bed. I can’t begin to tell you how deeply in love I am with Cwmbran library.