as a ‘man much damn’d in a poisonous wife’.
Thursday may well see McStalin with nothing more to do than contemplate his ‘legacy’. Smuggo had the best part of six months to prance around furiously daubing everything he could with ‘Brasso’ in a vain effort to polish his, at considerable expense to the Taxpayer. Now McStalin will have two years to try and buff his legacy up. Expect it to cost us a lot more.
This ‘legacy’ thing is a latecomer onto our political landscape. It is essentially the construct of little men: Margaret Thatcher had no need to worry about her ‘legacy’. ‘Si monumentem requiris, circumspice’, she might say, in echo of Sir Christopher’s Wren’s epitaph in St. Paul’s Cathedral, if you wish to see her legacy, all you have to do is look about yourself.
John Major was in no position to worry about his. His legacy to us was to create the circumstances in which the clock could be turned back for us to have yet another defining (and horribly extended) experience of 1960s & 1970s Socialism, the fruits of which the British Body Politic is about to pass into the sewers of history. He will be remembered for little more than handing over huge swathes of power to the EU without the whole-hearted consent of the British people, presiding over a poorish collection of Tory MPs of whom a fair few proved to be personally flawed and for his hypocritical affair with, of all people, the appalling Edwina Currie.
When it came, however, to Smuggo and his ghastly wife (and just how ghastly she is the woman herself has been demonstrating on a daily basis this week with her ‘penny dreadful’ account of what she is pleased to dignify as her ‘memoirs’), their last six months or so at the pinnacle of British political life were marked by his making an imperial progress around this land and abroad. His thought was to leave in place his ‘legacy’ and to do so he believed he could emulate Churchill who is reputed to have observed “History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it.”.
In the event it has turned out that his true legacy to us is Gordon Brown and his ten years of fiscal mismanagement in the Treasury. Almost on a daily basis now do the pigeons created by this latest dose of ‘tax & spend’ socialism come home to roost, so much so that we are now so broke that the electoral bribes can no longer be paid for by the immediate dreaming up of yet another stealth tax but has to be found out of borrowing a huge sum of money which merely represents a ‘poison pill’ of a tax rise for the next Conservative Government.
Some legacy! Alhough Blair must daily thank his lucky stars that he got out whilst the going was still apparently good (and doubtless his bank manager offers up a similar prayer every time the Blair Cash Register goes ‘kerching!’), he must get frightfully cross every time he contemplates just how quickly McStalin has utterly trashed the reputation of the ‘New’ Labour project, mostly by making us realise that, in reality, it was actually ‘Old’ Labour mutton dressed up as ‘New’ Labour lamb.
The problem for Blair is that it will in future be impossible to separate the ‘Blair’ legacy from the ‘Brown’ legacy. For ten years they were essentially joined at the hip. Blair let Brown loose, free to prey on the hard-won earnings and savings of the British people and, as long as the money kept coming in to keep the bailiffs of economic reality from the door, Blair let him do much as he pleased. John Prescott says he tried to persuade Blair to give Brown the boot. Blair could have done so whenever he wished but opted to keep this master of ‘tax, tax, tax, spend, spend, spend’ in office until his last moment as ‘First Lord of the Treasury’ and thus is implicated in the Socialist excesses of the last ten years not as a mere aider and abettor but as a principal in the first degree.
Thus it is left to Mrs. Blair to serve as the dregs of her weaselly husband’s tine of ‘Brasso’. Indeed the name ‘Brasso’ seems so very apt for this deeply unlovely woman and her grasping ways. We should be grateful for her recollections of her husband’s days in office. Not only have they helped, albeit modestly, to reinforce the public’s perception of Gordon Brown as a thoroughly nasty bit of work but they have laid bare the shallowness of the Blair story and the degree to which chippiness, cant, envy and hypocrisy were her guiding lights all these years.
You will, I am sure, remember her visit to His Holiness The Pope when she wore, as if she were Doña Cherie, the wife of a very grand Spanish Grandee, a fine black lace mantilla, parading herself as being at the very least, as Roman as the Pontiff himself. Yet we now know that all the time she was in serious breach of Rule 43 of the Catholic Criminal Code: she and her closet-Catholic husband were using contraception. This we know because of the unhelpful revelation that the most recent Blairette was caused by leaving her means of contraception at home for a visit to Balmoral because she was too po-faced to risk any of the staff seeing it. She says out was out of embarrassment. I doubt it.
More likely she did not want to risk a leak to a Tabloid by an unsympathetic Royal servant which would have revealed then and there what a dreadful hypocrite she was. The only suprising thing is that we are not told whether the offending item was a pack of The Pill, a diaphragm or merely a pack of five Mates for His Smugness. Ribbed? Vanilla & Blueberry flavoured? Easy Fit? I think we should be told.
As for that Blair legacy, well, ‘Si monumentum requiris, circumspice’.
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