I was, I admit, somewhat miffed to find the commissioned 700 swashbuckling words (written whilst on holiday in Mallorca, he said, playing the sympathy card) devoid of either swash or buckle and cut to 400...so here's the original, if anyone's interested:
What’s it all about, Alfeeee? Oh, how the foghorn tones of Cilla Black, a veteran of celebrity Toryism, would have added to Sir Michael Caine’s appearance with a suspiciously pallid-of-cheek David Cameron (can you get coloured botox?) , for the announcement of the Tories’ proposed National Citizens’ Scheme.
Instead, it was left to 77-year-old Muppet Movie star Sir Michael, to speak for yoof. He had been brought up, he pointed out, in the Elephant and Castle, and run with his homies in a gang so ferocious its habit of ringing doorbells and scarpering was legendary throughout London. Cor. Blimey. Luv a duckhouse. Meanwhile, his Etonian pal was hoping that his plan to make all 16-year olds wear khaki shorts and help old people like Sir Mike across the road would ‘do more than blow the bloody doors off’. A quote from Caine movie The Italian Job. As opposed to the much more popular Cider House Rules, that glorious anthem of praise to Frosty Jack consumption by the under-12s.
Back in Scotland, Alex Salmond was unimpressed. No, Scotland would not be having any truck with teenage Tory marching organisations. What was the point, when the Orange Lodge was doing such a fine job? And besides, wasn’t the SNP setting up its own paramilitary youth wing, the Young Sturgeons, featuring glossy uniforms, flags and armbands and special sporrans designed by respected Christmas card designer Gerry Burns? No? Oh well.
Jings, whit’s going on here? Swooping down from the skies in his private jet comes Nick Clegg, dropping in on Scotland to view the Libocrat troops, and looking like David Cameron’s less carefully coiffed wee brother. Would he be forcibly enlisted in Cameron’s classless Eton Rifles? Or join a coalition? Or say something in Spanish for the weans at home, where it’s apparently the language of Clegg family life? No, there’s time only for a swift cerveza and shouts of ‘don’t let your wife cut your hair like that again, shagboy!’ Slept with 30 women? Fair enough, but did the Libocrat hierarchy have to get t-shirts printed to that effect? Still, 30 votes is 30 votes. Onto that aeroplane and away south, son. Flying’s the green option. Petrol’s dirt cheap this week.
Deception! Deception! Gordon’s clunky prose and lumbering enunciation, his jaw moving like that of a masticating wildebeeste, sends accusations at the business leaders supporting the Conservative line on National Insurance (deceived), and at the Cameronians themselves (deceivers). The Tories have worked up their economic policy on the back of an envelope, he claims, failing to realise that envelopes are so last century. Half a Blackberry, a sliver of Apple iPhone, and Adam Smith’s your uncle. There’s even a spellchecker so you can be sure you get ‘Welth of Nashuns’ right. That’s spellchecker, Gordon. s-p-e....oh, never mind. Next you’ll be saying you’ve never heard of Twitter.
Ah well, it’s Friday and ye ken noo. Step forward, Stuart MacLennan, hitherto ignored no-hoper Labour candidate for Moray, the seat that used to sport more Ewings than Dallas in its heyday. For 16 months, longer than most Labour cabinet ministers knew its existed, online microblogging service Twitter has seen mucho activity by young Maclennan, who has been slagging off Moray folk as teuchters (so wrong: teuchters only exist west of Forres, not including Findhornians, who are from California, Venus and Tharg) Labour codgers as ‘coffin dodgers’ and worst of all, decrying the whisky industry. Sitting Moray MP Angus Robertson, SNP, while endeavouring to keep the smirk off his face, fulminates fulsomely: “This litany of abuse...language unacceptable in any company...very disturbing...shocked...” Yeah, right, Angus. Just listen to Jim Murphy, asked why it took so long for Labour to condemn, then sack MacLennan. “You must understand that we in the Labour Party had not heard of this...Tweeter until mere minutes ago. A statement is being telexed to you as we speak. Or faxed. Or if we can find a pigeon, posted. Unless JK Rowling can supply us with one of her owls.”
There’s no time to mention Boris Johnson’s New Model National Citizens’ Scheme, the version with swords and sidearms, or Charlie Kennedy’s ginger gravitas. Now he really IS a teuchter.