The time is twenty three years ago. The venue is a flat in North Kensington. The person trying to have a drunken slash without pissing all over the floor is me. The thing is that besides being generally fuddled, I’m also baffled by the fact that there appears to be an election leaflet taped to the cistern. It’s a leaflet on behalf of a person whom my gracious hostess obviously disapproves of. The name is…aarroonn, uh, aaaaarrroooo ,…uurrghhhh. Oh fuck. It keeps swimming in and out of focus. Anyway, he’s standing in the Communist Party interest for the presidency of the National Union of Students.
Meanwhile, a few miles to the East and a world away from the ratpit of student politics, the Conservative Party, glowing and bellicose from a splendid little war, is settling in for a long, luxurious bout of hegemony.
Them times ain’t no more. It’s the Tory party now that is about as relevant as the National Union of Students. And as they convene to look for a new messiah, why look who it is who walks among them smiling benignly. It’s uurrgggghhh! It’s aarrghhhhh!. It’s Dave! By dint of extensive lunching and mighty labours on behalf of conventional wisdom he’s risen from cistern decoration to Murdoch monsignor, at large amongst an errant flock.
Do I detect a hint of vengeance in Dave’s opinions? Not at all. All is right with the world. Dave can walk amongst the Tories in the guise of Uncle Aaron, bestowing a casual blessing here, wagging a warning finger there. His gaze alights on David Cameron, a person not too dissimilar to Dave himself. A Tory perhaps, but safely wet. The kind of person you could chat to at the PTA about the wonders of Polish plumbers, full of bright ideas about this and that. A glow of recognition ensues.
A boring column for us, perhaps. But for Dave, something of an apotheosis. After all this time he has met the enemy on favourable terms, and some of them are his.