The phone rang last night, it was Jaffa Miliband calling from overseas. Probably from Roland Rudd’s yacht. “Hi David, I was wondering when you would call.” “Oh, hello Ed, errm, is Yvette there?” I didn’t respond, my jaw had just dropped too far for verbal interaction to take place, my blink rate went dangerously high. Yvette somehow knew and strutted over as fast as her knee high boots could carry her, taking the phone from my limp hand.
“David, yes of course, it is the most logical thing to do. No I don’t think it will be a problem with either of the Eds. Excellent.” She handed the phone back to me. I put it back on the receiver and sat down in the armchair. She strutted away as fast as she had strutted over without saying a word.
My campaign is f****d. Even my wife is cutting a deal. Whelan is off fishing. When I called Maguire for advice he said “Ahhm a bit busy like, we’re just off to Emma’s favourite place in the Sowth of France, why don’t you try oor Damian?”
Alex has come up with a last throw of the dice: a 10 clause “Contract with the Labour Party”. When I said it was “a bit Newt Gingrich 1994 isn’t it?”, he said it was actually “a bit Tony Benn 1984”‘ and he cribbed most of it from one of his “Manifesto for a Democratic Socialist Party”. “It makes me sound more left-wing than Diane Abbott” I protested. “Exactly”, retorted Alex, “and it is the only way we are going to stop you coming last. You know you are favourite at the bookies to be eliminated in the first round?”
So now I’m to be the bolshie candidate comrades. Wonder if Ed Miliband will call?
