Dear Jezza
I’ve been thinking. Dangerous, I know, but I have.
And what I’ve been thinking is about making a bold political move to the ultra left, a sort of statement of intent that will send a signal to the wider world, and hopefully bolster my credentials as a writer, particularly if I’m ever interviewed on a BBC arts programme. ‘No more boring Mr. Middle-of-the-Road for me’, is what I said, and I hope you don’t mind that I’ve been studying you to see how to do it. You see, we had someone like you at school, but that’s another story. He ended up inheriting Daddy’s fortune and finding his own brand of capitalism in a haze of the best Red Lebanon.
In some ways, we cover much of the same ground, in that we were both privately educated and are both non-graduates. My own view is that your two modest ‘E’s at A’Level will introduce a welcome non-intellectual streak to our body politic, as I think we’ve had quite enough bright people as Prime Minister for the time being. Look where it’s got us. During the 1980s, we both had quite a lot to do with the IRA, albeit from slightly different perspectives.
I guess that the challenge for me is to try to be even more like you, now that the other lot are doing their best to make you look electable, so here are my commitments.
First, I will find a fence and sit on it, so as to obscure my less popular views from public scrutiny. As an ex-capitalist, I’ve got a decent length of fence in my garden to try it all out on, so it shouldn’t be hard. Once I’ve done that for a bit, I’m thinking of returning the fence to public ownership, so that the workers can properly enjoy the fruits of its labours.
Secondly, I need to find a religion, and then not be very nice to its adherents. We’re a bit out in the Styx here, so I might start quite gently, maybe just ignoring our parish vicar when I see her in the street, and then work my way gently upwards from there.
Thirdly, I need to get rid of my car. It’s a sacrifice, but I’m up for it, particularly if there’s the odd limo to whip me around the place. If all else fails, I can get photographed sitting on the floor of trains that in fact have lots of available seats.
Fourthly, I’m going to find someone called Seamus and then try to do exactly what they tell me. At the moment, the only Seamuses I know work in lifestyle media and in elite trout fishing, but I can probably work them up to more esoteric subjects in the fullness of time.
Finally, I need to change the way I deal with conflict. If someone has really pissed me off, from now on I will very publicly blank them before very privately pleading for a meeting with them when no one is looking. And why, I ask, would I go to a state dinner with an unpopular, unbiddable elected leader when I can go to one instead with a dictator who still allows his own people to be routinely tortured, and who executes four or five thousand of them a year? You don’t have to tell me, Jeremy, how much you can influence people like this over the coffee and petits fours, as I know already.
What then? An allotment, perhaps? Glastonbury? (‘’Oooh, Roger’; I can hear it already); the little red book? A smart Lenin cap? You never know, I might even get interviewed on Front Row, or be the last politician on earth to still be allowed by its students to speak at a university.
I like to think I’m pretty adept at sniffing the wind, and right now the scent of change has got a strong whiff of you in it.
Good luck with it all
Roger
PS Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ll keep the fence in my own ownership. I’ve got to have something left to sit on come the revolution.
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