Or … why Malcolm resolves to spend more time away from home.
Simple. Any time he goes away, he returns to find Brian Coleman filling the headlines:
arraying himself in those singularly hideous habiliments so dear to him, which transform him from a (comparatively) good-looking Toad into an Object which throws any decent-minded animal that comes across it into a violent fit.
And, inevitably, covering himself in ordure.
How long can any Party, even one as daft as the Tories, allow this to continue?
With any luck, for the foreseeable future.
Coleman may be the most despised London Tory among his elected co-partisans: he regards this as their “homophobia” (etymologically valid in the sense that this is one specimen who throws any decent-minded animal into a violent fit):
You’ve disregarded all the warnings we’ve given you, you’ve gone on squandering the money your father left you, and you’re getting us animals a bad name in the district by your furious driving and your smashes and your rows with the police. Independence is all very well, but we animals never allow our friends to make fools of themselves beyond a certain limit; and that limit you’ve reached. Now, you’re a good fellow in many respects, and I don’t want to be too hard on you.
He may be universally an object of mockery:
the playful populace, always as severe upon detected crime as they are sympathetic and helpful when one is merely `wanted,’ assailed him with jeers, carrots, and popular catch-words; past hooting school children, their innocent faces lit up with the pleasure they ever derive from the sight of a gentleman in difficulties.
However, he will retain the support of all political opponents in wishing he retain his various potties of office:
He was warm from end to end as he thought of the jolly world outside, waiting eagerly for him to make his triumphal entrance, ready to serve him and play up to him, anxious to help him and to keep him company, as it always had been in days of old before misfortune fell upon him. He shook himself and combed the dry leaves out of his hair with his fingers; and, his toilet complete, marched forth into the comfortable morning sun, cold but confident, hungry but hopeful, all nervous terrors of yesterday dispelled by rest and sleep and frank and heartening sunshine.
he is, indeed, Carly Simon’s ideal, for, in matters of Tory pomposity, egotism and sheer inflated opinionatedness:
Nobody does it better.
The combination of “Mr Toad” Coleman and Blasted Boris is guaranteed to maintain hilarity and mirth among the populace, while ensuring that the Tory brand descends further into ridicule and contempt.
