Pandora’s box

Gstaad

On the evening that Charles Kennedy resigned, Barry and Lizzie Humphries came to dinner. My German cook Alexander made a special cake for Dame Edna, but Barry smelled a rat. He asked if the cake contained any alcohol. The answer was almost none at all. ‘Well,’ said the great man, who has not had a drink in 30 years, ‘if I ask for another ten helpings, we’ll know what’s in it.’

The idea that these Liberal creeps got rid of a man who had done a good job as leader of such a shitty party for having a drink too many is quite revolting. It’s almost as bad as Oscar Wilde being sent to prison for doing something 90 per cent of the upper classes used to do at school. Sure, they now say that Kennedy lied about his drinking in the past, but, with the kind of slash-and-burn press we have in Britain, what did they expect? Say anything against yourself nowadays, and the vultures will feast on your carcass before you can say Murdoch. I had never given Kennedy a moment’s thought, but now I realise what puerile stuff professional politicians are made of. I only wish my friend Zac Goldsmith would not get involved, because this Cameron fellow is starting to reek. He is recycling New Labour crap, and distancing himself from the greatest prime minister of the 20th century. Which means he’s weak, or another bullshitter like Tony Blair. But Zac is right. If one has an agenda, which he does, he has to work with the creeps in power. I am happy to be unattached and out of the loop, and needing to kiss no one’s arse, especially a politician’s, but things don’t get done my way.