Much as I enjoy pointless cruelty, the sight of the Prime Minister, Mr Blair, struggling to resist retirement, has been a painful one. When he doesn't resemble the bronchial Thames whale, being coaxed into open water by a caravanserai of insincere well-wishers, he is like King Lear pondering his departure from the stage. I picture him at breakfastin Number 10 Downing Street, tormented by his diminishing power, and seeking solace in the company of a Fool, or Mr David Miliband. "O, let me not be mad," he will be telling Mr Miliband (dressed, as usual in jester's hat), "not mad, sweet heaven. Keep me in temper: I would not be mad!"
At which point, from stage left, enter Mr Brown. "How now!" Mr Blair exclaims wanly, smashing the top of his boiled egg. "Are the horses ready?"
2 comments:
Thank you for the best laugh I have had in a while, such biting satire is to be applauded; I bow to the master...
Thank you, Mr Bondbloke. You are, as ever, too kind.
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