That’s out of the playbook of Ana Sol Alliegro (as right), whose name comes close to combining a bad pun, a Mexican beer, and the worst car even British Leyland managed to produce. She appears in the Miami Herald as the star of a convoluted Floridan political scandal:
From a shooting to shoplifting, David Rivera’s pal in FBI probe has checkered past
Ana Alliegro, who has had previous run-ins with the law, isn’t cooperating with the FBI or a federal grand jury investigating the campaign finances of Justin Lamar Sternad and the possible ties to Rep. David Rivera.
She then sat naked at a desk with her leg up and compared the gun to a male sexual organ.
“If you think your [expletive] is powerful (showing the gun), this is mine,” Alliegro told [“her ex-husband, Moshe Cosicher, at his Tigertail Ave. home in Coconut Grove”], who tried to ignore her by going to make coffee, a report said. Alliegro followed him and told him to sit on the couch.
She fired a round into the ceiling.
“You see. It’s loaded — this is business,” Alliegro allegedly said. He tried to leave.
Somethings must run in the genes: that story has three credited by-lines. One is Scott Hiaasen McAputo, “22-year-old son” of the aforesaid,
who once deflected questions from a high school typing teacher about his Father-The-Writer by saying his dad wrote how-to home repair books.
Our British domestic scene rarely manages such delights as Ana Sol Alliegro, and her direct approach to politics and personal relations. We do our best, even in these days of the ConDem degeneracy:
- David Laws, the shortest lived Chief Secretary to the Treasury, now happily redeemed and whitewashed after
- Huhne, the first Cabinet minister in all British history to resign over a criminal charge. We have Regina v Christopher Huhne and Vasiliki Pryce, marked in our diaries for 2nd October, with interest.
- Liam Fox, who had a cavalier attitude to charity law, and then confused the national interest with those of his close friend, Mr Adam Werrity.
- David Cameron himself, to whom access could be bought through Peter Cruddas.
- David Cameron, again, who is severely confused about “pledges”, “promises” and “aspirations”, not just on the inevitable EU referendum, but on two score other matters — and counting.
- His confederate-in-deceit, Nick Clegg, who apologises not for breaking his word, but for giving it in the first place.
- Now Andrew Mitchell, who after six days still hash’t managed to produce a coherent account of what he thinks happened at the Downing Street gates. Yes, he used foul language — that admission came along about Day Four — but the “fucking” was only employed “adjectivally”. As Malcolm has put himself at pains to point out, an Old Rugbeian and a History M.A. (Cantab) should be able to recognise the difference between an adjective and an adverb of degree.
A Daley dose
All this, happily, is severely up-the-nose of Janet Daley at the Telegraph blogs. For all sorts of reasons what is about to ensue, the combination of author, subject, context and medium, seems almost as surreal as La Belle Dame (sans ou avec merci) Alliegro. Yet, here it is:
Time to tell the truth about the “nasty” party: as someone who has defended the Conservatives (or at least defended their arguments) for so many years, it is time to come clean. Tories can be bloody difficult to like. The Andrew Mitchell Debacle is not an uncharacteristic, deranged and inexplicable lapse. It is just an extreme example of the kind of attitude with which many people who circulate in this world are familiar.
While most of us who associate with Conservatives do not get sworn at or described at “plebs”, we (by which I mean those not included in a small circle of either known-since-childhood social intimates or devoted sycophants whose uncritical loyalty is beyond question) have been variously snubbed, dismissed, or found ourselves becoming pointedly invisible in the presence of people to whom we are no longer of use.
She is remarkably warm by contrasting all this:
with Labour politicians – even though we are clearly in genial disagreement over major issues. They inevitably greet me with warm recollection years after a joint radio or television gig – even if the occasion involved heated conflict.
Then it gets down and dirty.
Ms Daley expresses a variation of the distaste many of us, including Malcolm, have felt for some time:
it is the Tory modernisers – perhaps because they are more likely to be “toffs” than striving achievers from ordinary backgrounds – who are the worst. It is not the Thatcherite, aspirational, state school-educated Tories who look over your shoulder when they are talking to you: it is the snotty, condescending “one nation” paternalists for whom you are only of interest so long as you are being “supportive” (ie as faithful as a Labrador). No names, no pack drill, but you know who you are.
Oooh, err, Missus.
In one episode (season 4, episode 1) of The West Wing, President Bartlet meets a young Congressman, Peter Lien. Bartlet has the handshake farewell line: Welcome to the game that never ends.
What Malcolm didn’t appreciate was here is a quotation — as many of Sorkin’s gems deliberately and referentially are. This one is from a life-long socialist, George Reedy —(below, laid back with the characteristic hair), LBJ’s press secretary:
Politicians will always see the press as an arena for warfare… The concept that newspaper or television news exists to foster the political dialogue in a free society is incomprehensible to the political mind. Welcome to the game that never ends and will pull you in all directions at once!