Our man in Westminster, Sir Charles ‘Chatty’ Chatterton, the raffish, six-times-married Member of Parliament, who is Assistant Under Secretary at the Department for Transport, tells The Conservative Woman of a recent encounter.
I HAD the misfortune the other day to stand next to our Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Covid-19 Vaccine Deployment, Nadhim Zahawi, in the urinals at the Cabinet Office. I was at Westminster for another dreary meeting about ways to prevent poor people from hanging on to their petrol-powered cars to make the roads quieter and safer for the middle-class eco-loons in their electric milk carts.
After the usual chit-chat about how the country is going to hell in a handcart and ways we can keep the plates spinning for as long as possible, he mentioned that BoJo has been ‘raging’ to all and sundry about the reluctance of young people to take those new drugs that don’t seem to be doing much good in staving off the Bat Flu.
I do find it all a bit odd, as I recall that many of my contemporaries at Lady Margaret Hall were only too keen to take any concoction they thought would give them some mind and body altering experiences. It is no surprise to me that two latter-day alumni, Michael Gove and Neil Ferguson, have had prominent roles into our descent into this chaotic toy-town totalitarianism.
As you would expect I gave Zahawi some wise counsel, blessed as I am with years of dealing with government cock-ups and crises. By this time, you understand, we were side by side washing our hands for the obligatory twenty seconds.
I explained that it was only natural for our isolated PM to be going slightly crackers. In fact, I told Zahawi I had every sympathy for our leader as I distinctly remember being confined for several hours in a hotel room in Barbados with my second or third wife whilst the staff dealt with a rampaging orang-utan that had escaped from a circus.
Imagine the scene in Chequers, having to isolate with his young wife, who is no doubt constantly demanding that he plants some trees or puts up some more solar panels, whilst in the next room young Wilfred is bawling his eyes out wanting his nappy changing, or his next feed of vegan pork and apple purée.
I said that it is no surprise for BoJo to demand that no one should leave their house until they accept the jabs, as he believes that in their homes they will be suffering the misery and hectoring he is no doubt enduring.
I did suggest to Zahawi that to entice young people to take the experimental drugs perhaps they could be rewarded with a gramophone record, a cravat or a subscription to Horse & Hound.
As he sanitised his hands, I could not discern how he took my advice. When I look at him, he increasingly reminds me of Mephistopheles.