Down by the Seaside...
Well, the absence from our television screens of any flavour of politician, for one. Indeed, for a couple of blissful months, the only media coverage of the political arena concerned the undignified internecine squabbling of the Labour Party, which should in any case have been rescheduled as 'Light Entertainment'.
Now, as we enter the 'season of mists and mellow fruitfulness', the presenters, pundits and ponces (and Peter Snow) begin again to work themselves into a state of furious excitement over the 'Conference Season', which simply enables large numbers of disparate individuals to coalesce, argue furiously and get pissed!
We start in Glasgow, where anonymous, sheepish types sporting beards, anoraks and sandals can occasionally be spotted putting down motions asserting that the world is flat; right is wrong; and men should be forced by law to menstruate. Welcome to the wacky world of the 'Lib-Dems', where, due to a shortfall in funds, the conference this year is being held in a small potting shed off Pollok Park. This has drawbacks. The auditorium has to be swept twice a day to avoid the delegates sprouting roots; the publicans have never heard of Creme de Menthe; and the locals are definitely not interested in 'gender issues'.
Continuing our journey of enlightenment, our next port of call is the smorgasbord of fun and frolics that is the Labour Party Conference in Brighton. Here, earnest characters of no fixed haircut parade along the promenade screeching unintelligible platitudes, adorned with a plethora of little stickers bearing his, her or its allegiance to the 'Socialist Workers' Party', 'Troops Out' campaign and Morissey. Hours of TV coverage juxtapose the bluff, "trooble-at-t'mill" Yorkshireman, extolling the virtues of the steam engine (see Grey Fox ), with the spotty student who claims to "wanna talk 'bout ishoos!".
Everyone is frightfully serious, although the lasting image of Labour Party Conferences at Brighton remains Neil 'Votes, votes!' Kinnock falling gracelessly into the English Channel, to the delight of every agency photographer within a half mile radius. The ebullient Clare Short, who is to politics what Jo Brand is to a delicate sofa, will tell all of the wonderful time she had in China; Glenda Jackson will glower menacingly amidst her coterie of Hampstead harpies; and the Shadow Cabinet will studiously avoid insulting one another, despite the gnawing hatred that can be felt almost palpably whenever two or more are gathered together.
Finally, ending on a note of utter bathos, we take in the delights of the Conservative Party jamboree in beautiful, balmy Blackpool! It is unfortunate that this great event occurs before the start of the traditional 'Pantomine Season', as the two are virtually synonymous. Across the ocean of blue rinse that comprises 'the floor', nameless party workers from 'the Shires' shall speak, "intoxicated by the exuberance of their own verbosity" and generally 'full of s***'! John Redwood will smirk from the sidelines, glad to be disassociated from the rabble on display.
The same old faces will appear on the rostrum for the benefit of the punters: 'Slimy Mike' Portillo, 'The P*** Artist Formally Known As Deputy Prime Minister', and last, and almost certainly least, 'Dear John' himself. And we listen to this bunch of pathetic inadequates, masquerading as the 'Ruling Class', in the vainglorious hope that, between the waffle, lies and soundbites, a member of the Government might actually say something that both (a) makes sense to Joe Public; and (b) has some prospect of being carried out.
But we delude ourselves! All we really need at any 'conference' is Johnny Rotten slumped drunkenly at the front of the stage enquiring "D'you ever get the feelin' you're being cheated?"
Hard on the heels of the latest example of bureaucratic interference from 'our masters' in Brussels, namely that a Belgian footballer (surprise, surprise!), so crap that he played for a Fourth Division Club (equivalent to the Beazer Homes League in the UK), is enabled to single-handedly destroy the entire transfer system of European football, comes the wonderful news that tinkers, gypsies and itinerant Irishmen whose vocabularly is limited to "begorrah" and "top o' the mornin'" can now set up home wherever they please, without the time-wasting shenanigans of planning permission or such-like.
According to the European Court of Human Rights, another assembly that exists simply to pass irritating judgements that noone asked for in the first place, planning laws deny gypsies and the like the right to 'a traditional lifestyle'. The poor dears!
So the next time you awake of a morning to find New Age travellers crapping in your hedge, and discover there's absolutely nothing you can do about it, you know where to place the blame.
Our wonderful European partners!
fragrant Trevor Newton, charming M.D. of Yorkshire Water, whose novel solution to his company's inability to supply water, that has leaked away through its rotting pipes, is simple: go without a bath or shower for 3 months!
As the accompanying picture demonstrates, Trevor has fallen prey to that most distressing of male habits - "brushing over" - which further damages his 'street credibility'. Anyone attending dinner parties chez Trev is strongly advised to take along incense sticks, RightGuard and assorted toiletries.
Incidentally, Mr. Newton (51) is paid ú127,000.00 a year.
Nominations for æ***t of the WeekÆ to: WASP@londonmall.co.uk
In our search for the vanished stars of yesteryear, we pose this crucial question:
Whatever happened to pop megastars Peters & Lee?
Last week's most plausible suggestion, relating to the disappearance of Ted Rogers (& Dusty Bin): "...spontaneous combustion".
Suggestions to: WASP@londonmall.co.uk
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