Calling Hazel Blears

Went down to that London again today, to do some more recording for the forthcoming Radio Four programme ‘On The Top Deck’. We went to interview a senior Labour MP in his office, who, discretion being the better part of valour, I’d best not name. Bix Biederbecke was playing on his office stereo as we arrived.  He was very much in his anecdotage, and went so far, entirely unprompted, as to confirm the truth of both the Mark Oaten glass-topped coffee table story and the Mandelson mushy peas/guacamole debacle.

I liked him, in so far as it is possible to like a New Party MP. He was, for example, engagingly anti-rugby, calling it ‘the egg rolling game’. He talked about a particular bus junction as being the ‘chrono-synclastic infundibulum’ of London’s bus network. If more politicians read Vonnegut, the world would be a nicer place. What puzzles me, though, is how anyone could want to become a politician after reading him.

During the course of the interview, we had cause to discuss some research emanating from the sociology department of the University of Salford. He said, I know a woman who knows everything about Salford. He got out his mobe and dialled a number. It was Hazel Blears. He said, Hello darling. He told her that he had stuck up for her that morning on LBC. He said, listen sweetheart, the reason I’m ringing is that I’m with two over paid hacks from the BBC, and they want to know about sociology in Salford.

They shared some chat, while I stared open-mouthed at the only person who ever called me over-paid; somewhat rich, you might think, coming from an MP. And not just that somebody would call me over paid, but that they would tell fucking Hazel Blears that I was over paid.  The numerous bailiffs who are probably trying to track me down by following this blog, and who universally feel that I owe them money, would be holding their sides to hear me described as over-paid. Lily would be quite literally wiping tears of mirth from her lovely cheeks if she heard me described as over-paid. Local tradesmen, who have got so far above their station as to refuse my cheques, would call their accountants to share the joke. Friend, if I was ‘over-paid’, I wouldn’t be standing here listening to you talk to Hazel Blears on your mobile phone.

And why do you keep calling her ‘sweetie-pie’, and ‘beautiful’? Isn’t that a bit Old Labour? And can’t we think of something more appropriate to call her?