I was going to write some scintillatingly witty critique of the New Labour spin machine’s bullying of the anti-bullying woman, and Krishnan Guru-Murthy, and Five Live presenters, and probably some guy off Sky News. John Prescott gets everywhere on days like this, you know – brandishing his shouting and allegations and rattling off the slurs like he’s got a chronic form of libel Tourettes.
But I’m scared. I know what happens if you write anything about Gordon Brown that’s perceived to be bad. Your life gets dissected like you’re a sprat who’s checking in on the junior science lesson, and I don’t know if I can take it. I don’t want the world to know about the time I nicked a penny chew and ate it in front of the shopkeeper when I was five years old. I don’t want it all over the papers that I occasionally wear blue shirts, which clearly makes me a Tory stooge. I don’t want some apparatchik looking through my bins (it’s too easy, they’re only collected once a fortnight). Writing about how everyone in the Westminster Village knows that Andrew Rawnsley’s tales are probably true and… no, I can’t. I nearly started doing it again, then. I’ve got to stop myself. Who knows what might happen to me?
All I want is a quiet life. So I’ll just let the politicians get on with it, and I absolutely will not (will not) point and laugh. Just in case.