A rather hefty pat on the back is in order for to the Blair media
machine. You are doing your jobs quite excellently. I sincerely hope
the big wigs have given you at least a bottle of bubbly, although a
week in media detox, mainlining horse sedative is probably a more
befitting antidote for all the work you must have put in over the last
few months.
I mean, we’d almost forgotten that Old Tony had even existed,
almost forgotten that HE thought Gordon was a knob too, almost
forgotten borderline lezzer life coach Carole Caplin, almost
forgotten his scandalous up-chucking kiddie winks. Tony of the past
was not without scandal- both politically and personally. To be fair
to the man, I’d probably be in a right state too if I’d asked God
what to do about Iraq and he told me, ‘get on in there and bugger it
up old chap’. Confusing signals from one so preoccupied with peace
and love and stuff. (Clearly this is a very VERY tender subject, one I
am not even going to attempt to tackle sensibly- on a religious or
political level. No, no, I am quite content to stick to unsavoury
witticisms instead. So there- go read the Independent’s blog or
something if you’re after serious political journalism [nb. this statement is wholly endorsed by the poxymash editorial team]).
Personally, I’d mentally pigeonholed Tony in to an eternity spent in
Sardinia, saying nothing but the word education, nodding his head like
he had a medical condition and trying to dodge Cherie’s protruding
teeth (those things are a health hazard to anyone in the immediate
area).
Alas, I have now had to shift the paradigm. And what a whopping great
shift it’s been too. Gone are the days when Mr Blair was predictably
dressed in a full buttoned up suit, so eager to please that acceptance
and understanding seemed to seep from his very pores. His nose would
inevitably be found several feet up George Bush’s behind, his heart
in New Labour, and spare time spent sexing up dossiers.
But new age Blair- I may call this new persona Mr T, fool! – is
dressed in, brace yourselves, an unbuttoned shirt (gasp! how casually
trendy you are Mr T), the smell of alcohol seeping from his very pores
(the result of a heavy night drinking two whole glasses of wine and
possibly a cheeky scotch. Someone book this man in to the Priory
immediately and introduce him to Amy Winehouse’s magic hands man.)
His nose is found several feet up the media’s behind, his heart in,
well, nobody’s sure really… he’s as politically confused as the
rest of the country, and his spare time spent sexing up Cherie
apparently. Devouring her to be precise.
The media has gone mad for new Tony, and you can understand why. He’s
doing the David Cameron media courtship dance- the I’m such a normal
guy slide, a shimmy to the political right, side step round
inconvenient truths and finish in a fashionably uncompromising
position (drink problem, spliff smoking, either will do). Even the
title, ‘A Journey’ sounds like it should belong on the cover of an
autobiography by an ex Big Brother contestant, or someone ravaged by
abuse/eating disorders/any other form of unjust hardship in childhood.
In fact, I think he should get in touch with Sapphire, author of the
now infamous “abuse AND eating problems AND general hardship in
childhood” novel entitled Push, and do a swap. More apt in both
directions methinks.
I’m beginning to wonder whether anyone’s actually read the thing. I
know it’s the fastest selling autobiography since records began (in
1998 for your information, so not such a ginormous feat, but congrats
nonetheless Tony, I mean, you’re not exactly the most rivetingly
interesting person I could think of so… snaps for your effort.) but
we’ve had so many graphic details relayed time and time again, I’m
wondering whether anyone actually NEEDS to read it anymore. Switching
on prime time TV is like having the Sparks notes to Mr T’s biog. And
everyone knows, if you’ve got the Sparks notes, there’s no effing
way you’re actually reading the book... although it ranks higher on my list than, say, a Katie Price ‘novel’ (why are people not marketing that tat at teens? or animals? or perhaps people in need of recyclable paper?).
I don’t think I’ll be dipping in to Tony’s pièce de resistance. It just whiffs a bit too much of desperation. the general public have been too easily shocked this time round in my humble opinion. All Tony and team have done is reveal a marginally more human gooey centre behind all that political machinery. Back to Sardinia with you I say- come back when you’re an alcohol riddled sex addict with a pasta belly and mafia connections. Then I’ll buy your autobiography.
[charlotte skeoch]
machine. You are doing your jobs quite excellently. I sincerely hope
the big wigs have given you at least a bottle of bubbly, although a
week in media detox, mainlining horse sedative is probably a more
befitting antidote for all the work you must have put in over the last
few months.
I mean, we’d almost forgotten that Old Tony had even existed,
almost forgotten that HE thought Gordon was a knob too, almost
forgotten borderline lezzer life coach Carole Caplin, almost
forgotten his scandalous up-chucking kiddie winks. Tony of the past
was not without scandal- both politically and personally. To be fair
to the man, I’d probably be in a right state too if I’d asked God
what to do about Iraq and he told me, ‘get on in there and bugger it
up old chap’. Confusing signals from one so preoccupied with peace
and love and stuff. (Clearly this is a very VERY tender subject, one I
am not even going to attempt to tackle sensibly- on a religious or
political level. No, no, I am quite content to stick to unsavoury
witticisms instead. So there- go read the Independent’s blog or
something if you’re after serious political journalism [nb. this statement is wholly endorsed by the poxymash editorial team]).
Personally, I’d mentally pigeonholed Tony in to an eternity spent in
Sardinia, saying nothing but the word education, nodding his head like
he had a medical condition and trying to dodge Cherie’s protruding
teeth (those things are a health hazard to anyone in the immediate
area).
Alas, I have now had to shift the paradigm. And what a whopping great
shift it’s been too. Gone are the days when Mr Blair was predictably
dressed in a full buttoned up suit, so eager to please that acceptance
and understanding seemed to seep from his very pores. His nose would
inevitably be found several feet up George Bush’s behind, his heart
in New Labour, and spare time spent sexing up dossiers.
But new age Blair- I may call this new persona Mr T, fool! – is
dressed in, brace yourselves, an unbuttoned shirt (gasp! how casually
trendy you are Mr T), the smell of alcohol seeping from his very pores
(the result of a heavy night drinking two whole glasses of wine and
possibly a cheeky scotch. Someone book this man in to the Priory
immediately and introduce him to Amy Winehouse’s magic hands man.)
His nose is found several feet up the media’s behind, his heart in,
well, nobody’s sure really… he’s as politically confused as the
rest of the country, and his spare time spent sexing up Cherie
apparently. Devouring her to be precise.
The media has gone mad for new Tony, and you can understand why. He’s
doing the David Cameron media courtship dance- the I’m such a normal
guy slide, a shimmy to the political right, side step round
inconvenient truths and finish in a fashionably uncompromising
position (drink problem, spliff smoking, either will do). Even the
title, ‘A Journey’ sounds like it should belong on the cover of an
autobiography by an ex Big Brother contestant, or someone ravaged by
abuse/eating disorders/any other form of unjust hardship in childhood.
In fact, I think he should get in touch with Sapphire, author of the
now infamous “abuse AND eating problems AND general hardship in
childhood” novel entitled Push, and do a swap. More apt in both
directions methinks.
I’m beginning to wonder whether anyone’s actually read the thing. I
know it’s the fastest selling autobiography since records began (in
1998 for your information, so not such a ginormous feat, but congrats
nonetheless Tony, I mean, you’re not exactly the most rivetingly
interesting person I could think of so… snaps for your effort.) but
we’ve had so many graphic details relayed time and time again, I’m
wondering whether anyone actually NEEDS to read it anymore. Switching
on prime time TV is like having the Sparks notes to Mr T’s biog. And
everyone knows, if you’ve got the Sparks notes, there’s no effing
way you’re actually reading the book... although it ranks higher on my list than, say, a Katie Price ‘novel’ (why are people not marketing that tat at teens? or animals? or perhaps people in need of recyclable paper?).
I don’t think I’ll be dipping in to Tony’s pièce de resistance. It just whiffs a bit too much of desperation. the general public have been too easily shocked this time round in my humble opinion. All Tony and team have done is reveal a marginally more human gooey centre behind all that political machinery. Back to Sardinia with you I say- come back when you’re an alcohol riddled sex addict with a pasta belly and mafia connections. Then I’ll buy your autobiography.
[charlotte skeoch]
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