The Lynx Effect

I reckon Millipede has changed his aftershave. Not only is Trixy wearing moistened knickers for the boy David, but you can now smell the gussetwaft from Tuscany as Polly Toynbee suddenly develops a rush of blood to the loins for him:

Suddenly everything changed. The burst of optimism was so startling it dazzled those too long trapped deep in a dungeon. In that one moment it was all over for the old leader who had plunged them into these depths. Suddenly here was the chance of escape everyone was waiting for.

She's a fickle one, that Polly. After a decade of doing a Monica to Tony Bliar's Bill, she started to lust after a dark, brooding Viking:

As for poor Pol, where to start? Imagine the despair, so raw you can almost taste it. Imagine the sense of crushing disappointment. For years now, she has waited for her prince to come - her dashing Norse warrior, who will sweep away all the effete detritus of the Blair years and unload a torrent of resources into child poverty and public services. Night after night she has left the red light on for him; lying in the bed in her Agent Provocateur lingerie, maybe some crotchless pants and a peephole bra, striking an uncomfortable pose lest he come charging through the door at any moment to sweep her up in his powerful arms.

And then, after what seemed like years, suddenly there he is; his chunky body framed by the doorwell, his Presbyterian profile silhouetted in the crimson glow. Here, she thinks, is her Viking! Quickly, silently, she enfolds him, gorging on his lengthy pledges, swallowing his promises, almost gagging on the heady, musky scent of true, bestial socialism unleashed after so long under wraps. There doesn't seem to be quite as much as he had promised, sure, but no matter; isn't there plenty of goodness in those heavy, swinging sacs of his, so engorged with cash that they seem about to burst? It's not all about presentation, you know. Never mind the quality; feel the width.

And now, at last, her hero is ready to spend, and spend big. The signs are unmistakeable; the guttural Scottish grunts, the trademark reddening of the face, the famous dropped jaw working overtime. Gordon shuts his one good eye and starts bellowing that, after so many years, he is ready to deliver. "Yes!" mumbles Polly through a mouthful (or perhaps half-mouthful) of Fife cock. "Deliver, as you have promised for so long that you would! Spend! Spend on me as if it's someone else's to pay for!"

And she waits and waits, expecting at any moment the jet of warm public spending to hit the back of her throat in a salty gush; and still it doesn't come. No, she thinks, this can't be right; all he needs is to be emboldened and empurplened further. And so she redoubles her efforts, sucking hungrily on his red-veined Havana like a desperate asthmatic wheezing on a Ventolin; and still he can't deliver, and she can see his good eye misting over with rage and disappointment, and now she can feel the tears in her eyes too; and still she refuses to give up, but he's growing limp and soft now, and she realises that the critics were right; that he was not the man she thought he was, but the man we thought he was; that he is a political soft-cock, who talks credulous believers like you into the boudoir and then, at the moment of maximum opportunity, cannot deliver, because he is a miserable failure who cannot even fulfil the basic functions expected of him by those who put their laughably misplaced faith in him for all those years.

And now that's suddenly over, as she spots evidence of the Millipede's millipede, as it were.

David Miliband stepped up as the man with a plan to take the fight to the Tories, the man to free the party from the bondage of disastrous leadership. With the deftest of brush strokes in his Guardian article, he painted the policies of optimism. Any gleam of hope looks like a blinding revelation to a party stuck at a terrifying 25% in the polls. But here was a sketched outline of radical policies. Judging from an avalanche of emails pouring in, out there Labour people are ready to return if the party offers something better.

Radical policies? Come on Polly, the Tuscan sunshine is starting to turn your brains to mush, even for an idiot Champagne socialist. I read his article very carefully, and I couldn't find any idea in there that might have constituted a policy, let alone a radical one: "Go green. Embrace the EU. Cut down knife crime. Or talk about it, anyway." The man is the very epitome of a Blairite.

The most insulting observation was David Millipede saying that David Cameron was an empty vessel. Well, he is, but Christ, the chutzpah of the very acme of of New Labour apparatchiks to say so. Yea, verily: "David the pot, meet David the kettle." Milibland has the following CV:

1. Policy wonk for a bunch of non-entity think-tanks.
2. Nominally working on things that were actually Prescott's job, so a title to justify him sitting next to Tony and sticking his nose into everything.
3. Replace the great caravanner at Environment, Food and Rural Affairs and made a complete fuckup of it.
4. Foreign Affairs, where he managed not to do anything at all, which was a huge improvement on his previous position.

And on the strength of this, after a decade of hallowed privilege and non-achievement, he wants to run the country?

Mr Millipede, do us all a favour: go stick your cock down Polly's throat and do something useful for a change. Shut the stupid bitch up for five minutes.

Update: Guido reckons Polly's turning into a bit of a slapper in her old age...

Update 2: Another old slapper joins the moist-gusseted queue. I reckon there's a whiff of power that has come to Milibland and it's driving the old dears (and Trixy) up the wall.