April 27, 2008

Take a look at the papers tomorrow and take a glance at the pictures of Mr Brooooon looking grey, ill, and grinning.

For those not particularly familiar with the intricacies and sheer venality of politics, it will provide an education.

Not 12 months in to the job he was never elected or chosen for - other than by himself - he is a wounded, busted flush; the guarded heavyweight who spent that long avoiding landing a killer punch himself, he's been laid out time and time again by haymakers largely created by himself.

Brooon is buggered:

Blair is clearly briefing against him, whatever his denials about the Levy book may say. The little turd Milibrand is briefing against him, too - but in the self same way a footclub chairman offers his club manager "full support".

And Ed "So What To A Tax Burden?" Balls - and my, has there been a man on earth yet that you haven't wanted to punch more? - promises never to turn on The Dour One. Which means he already has, and with a vengeance, too.

The rats aren't even gathering on the deck: They're helping along the sinking ship by setting fire to it. They've already dived into the water, and now sit floating on driftwood, looking up, expectantly, waiting for the self-styled captain, his stolen galleon sunk beneath the waterline, to disappear beneath it himself.

This is pure, vintage, back-stabbing Westminster at its finest.

He may not go this week - after the local elections on Thursday - but Broooon is fundamentally, fatally flawed.

He had two mythical strenghs, Gordon Broooon: Economic sense and an intellect so fierce and ahead of its rivals that to question it was to invite political death.

No more.

Within weeks he found £100 billion of taxpayers' money to save banks who'd got themselves into their own trouble, then insisted that making poor people poorer through his short-term budget sorcery was actually a good thing - only to reverse ferret when he realised that his cack-handed one-eyed bluster just doesn't cut it any more.

The game for Gordon Broooon is up.

And after a decade of sullen plotting for a job he's never had the nerve to properly attempt to go for himself, it is exactly, precisely, presciently, prudently, and judiciously - all his favourite words - what he deserves.