The Bentley is staying parked under the blooming cherry this morning, the rolled up umbrella remains in the elephant's foot stand, bought in Bombay in 19 and 5 by Sir Compton's great grandfather, the beautifully napped bowler is on the hook and the double-breasted pin stripe on the Connock and Lockie hanger. And why? Why?
Because anti-capitalist scum are crawling all over the place and Sir Compton and his workmates have been advised to wear grunge, carry two forms of ID and not to utter so much as a peep, let alone a "hooray", "tally-ho", or "I say, you there, common fellow" lest the mob swarm all over us.
Personally, I'd rather lay about me with the wangy handle on the brolley, or a horse whip, but one would probably be arrested for obscruction or have to endure condemnation from Shami Chakribarti and the Archbishop of Canturbury. It is all most unsatisfactory. Don't these people realise that it is my endevour that has paid for their dole and the crappy faux universities they attended? Gah!
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One good bit of news. The Thunderer named Newspaper of the Year. One bad bit of news. The Independent is going to be subbed by desk editors from today. These two bits of news are connected, but media mangements seem to be missing the point made by the contrast in fortunes. I wonder why?
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