I know it doesn’t matter – and you know it doesn’t matter – but if he didn’t quote The Tempest with quite such a simpering smile I wouldn't find myself wondering whether he can bowl as well as Obama.
But Joe Biden did. And while he does, and being of the old Wilde school of not attributing his sources, Palin’s modesty to misattribute her quotes is all the more notable. Those given to Anglo-American comparison should note that it was with something more subtle than the way our own Chameleon Cameron crowbarred a Thatcher salute into an otherwise rather progressive season of political party conferences, Sarah Palin's shining city on a hill was calculated to give the illusion that she’d quoted Ronald Reagan twice, and almost made you think that she’s read more Reagan than Winthrop. This illusion meant that she could court the Reaganites of the grand old party faithful without outraging the moderates, a reconciliation whose Tory counterpart Chameleon Cameron has still to fathom.
Unlike Cameron’s speech, in which they were both crammed uncomfortably into his one person, the 2008 United States vice-presidential debate saw accommodation and partisanship healthily apportioned between the two candidates, but at times with equally comic results: the beautiful and (genuinely) moving family-guy Biden emotion was sadly undermined by his repeated claim to “love” Sen. John McCain.
Showing posts with label Chameleon Cameron. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chameleon Cameron. Show all posts
Thursday, 2 October 2008
Wednesday, 1 October 2008
The Third Man
Lately, Chameleon Cameron has shown all the symptoms (in my medical opinion) of a man trapped in a Graham Greene novel or two.
It began with a friendly smile and as few policies as he could get away with – as long as nothing happens anything is possible. Like Our Man in Havana, he talked a good game, painted castles in the sky, but when you actually looked closely for the policies you saw that it was all really an elaborate vacuum. As with Noel Coward in the film adaptation, one found his style mildly amusing yet couldn’t but wonder whether he was at all capable of the seriousness the role demands.
In the old Tory days the heartless Thatcherites could swallow hard, close their eyes, tick the box, and think of England because they at least knew what they were getting. There was something secure in its vulgarity. You could appeal to them as you could to an English policeman, because you knew their thoughts. But Chameleon Cameron is a stranger bird. With a man in search of a character the road to Conservative policy is a journey without maps.
And yet – and yet – just recently, in the rubble of our financial institutions (where it is not too early for some to speculate on the death-throes of capitalist decadence), has he found one? With his newfound seriousness could he have gone from hug-a-hoodie wetness to his very own metaphoric megaphonic climb-the-debris-and-hug-a-fireman moment?
Remember when Tony Blair really started to get into the war. To properly loose himself in the role. When his matey straight-guy stuff got supplemented with sub-Churchill grandiloquence. Well, all of a sudden the heir to Blair seems to have been taking the same hubris pills and has begun to strike statesmanly poses. Chameleon Cameron approaches a season of political party conferences like one might a state funeral. Poseur he may be, but reaching out pseudo-bipartisan hands to a plodding and doddering Gordon Brown is such astute political flimflam that when he slaps on a serious haircut and concernedly pursed lips one hardly notices that he admonishes D. Miliband for claiming there’s no such thing as society in the same speech as thanking heaven for Thatcher.
But, at this point, however dishonest the mockery – or perhaps the praise – one fears that the brute fact of D. Miliband might be enough. While Brown may have gravitas to spare there’s no doubt that Chameleon Cameron can out-solemnise the pretenders. When you add to that the specific fact that he looks more and more dignified every time D. Miliband shows his gurning phizog in public you can’t help fancying his chances.
It began with a friendly smile and as few policies as he could get away with – as long as nothing happens anything is possible. Like Our Man in Havana, he talked a good game, painted castles in the sky, but when you actually looked closely for the policies you saw that it was all really an elaborate vacuum. As with Noel Coward in the film adaptation, one found his style mildly amusing yet couldn’t but wonder whether he was at all capable of the seriousness the role demands.
In the old Tory days the heartless Thatcherites could swallow hard, close their eyes, tick the box, and think of England because they at least knew what they were getting. There was something secure in its vulgarity. You could appeal to them as you could to an English policeman, because you knew their thoughts. But Chameleon Cameron is a stranger bird. With a man in search of a character the road to Conservative policy is a journey without maps.
And yet – and yet – just recently, in the rubble of our financial institutions (where it is not too early for some to speculate on the death-throes of capitalist decadence), has he found one? With his newfound seriousness could he have gone from hug-a-hoodie wetness to his very own metaphoric megaphonic climb-the-debris-and-hug-a-fireman moment?
Remember when Tony Blair really started to get into the war. To properly loose himself in the role. When his matey straight-guy stuff got supplemented with sub-Churchill grandiloquence. Well, all of a sudden the heir to Blair seems to have been taking the same hubris pills and has begun to strike statesmanly poses. Chameleon Cameron approaches a season of political party conferences like one might a state funeral. Poseur he may be, but reaching out pseudo-bipartisan hands to a plodding and doddering Gordon Brown is such astute political flimflam that when he slaps on a serious haircut and concernedly pursed lips one hardly notices that he admonishes D. Miliband for claiming there’s no such thing as society in the same speech as thanking heaven for Thatcher.
But, at this point, however dishonest the mockery – or perhaps the praise – one fears that the brute fact of D. Miliband might be enough. While Brown may have gravitas to spare there’s no doubt that Chameleon Cameron can out-solemnise the pretenders. When you add to that the specific fact that he looks more and more dignified every time D. Miliband shows his gurning phizog in public you can’t help fancying his chances.
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
Fattening up for jolly old Christmas
The weight of leadership makes political posturing hard on the knees. To hold sway when the fat is in the fire it’s important to be a heavyweight. So I’m growing my very own potbelly.
The first phase of my plan to get fat got underway last night with a double helping of mince and potato, followed swiftly by a crunchy, oaten apple crumble and washed down with three – yes, three – tall glasses of cool milk. And I’m drinking milk as I type.
The great thing about drinking milk is that it fills you up and gives you energy; dairy fats prepare the belly for a night out, which means that I was able to happily chase it with a few pints of heavy and a pub quiz to work on the beer belly. I can see it shaping up nicely into a jolly old Christmas paunch.
As we all know, a man of a certain age should be fat. This is true in all situations in all walks of life, either side of the pond: Chameleon Cameron struggles (however admirably) after the gravity that Gordon Brown has in spades; for all his Presbyterian prudence, the latter carries more weight because he carries more weight; likewise, Obama’s greatest danger is that he is literally a lightweight.
If one can’t muster statesmanly rotundity, one must at least try for a mild podginess, an ambassador’s paunch; in order to properly lead a political party, let alone a country, one should be a plodder, a clunker. A deep booming voice supported by an expansive diaphragm can stir the souls of nations and plumb the depths of the hearts of men. It speaks to them, rather than squeaks at them (like a certain country mouse candidate generally expected to shrill her way through the 2008 United States vice presidential debate on a untried wing and a divisive and arrogant prayer who shall remain nameless).
This is the hope that Obama’s wet-eared youth must promise – and, in the old country, it is everything that D. Miliband isn’t. The Chameleon Cameron has more chance, but he must root himself, plant his feet firmly and stand tall (shoulders back) – and try to look as if his Eton-fag frame could support the weight of governmental office. When he understands this he’ll understand that the least he could do is to put on a few pounds.
If jolly old Christmas (my target for achieving fatness) teaches us anything it is the Kriss-Kringlesque manliness of jolly fatty-men. Jovial hearty fatty men may be a cliché. (There are plenty of angry fatties, and a really angry one, red faced and sweating, isn’t at all pleasant.) And we’ve all been told depressingly how Santa Clause would be ill if he was real. But the happy flipside that proves the stereotype is rarely mentioned. Angry fatty men get heart attacks and die, leaving only the jolly ones to chuckle with us as life’s black comedy.
Besides, when fatty men are merry they are merry. A moment’s thought will confirm that you know the fat drunk party animal is much more fun than the drunken skinny guy in any barroom (even if only because his stagger is augmented with a wobble factor). So eat and drink and pile on the pounds and one day you – yes, you – will be President of the United States.
The first phase of my plan to get fat got underway last night with a double helping of mince and potato, followed swiftly by a crunchy, oaten apple crumble and washed down with three – yes, three – tall glasses of cool milk. And I’m drinking milk as I type.
The great thing about drinking milk is that it fills you up and gives you energy; dairy fats prepare the belly for a night out, which means that I was able to happily chase it with a few pints of heavy and a pub quiz to work on the beer belly. I can see it shaping up nicely into a jolly old Christmas paunch.
As we all know, a man of a certain age should be fat. This is true in all situations in all walks of life, either side of the pond: Chameleon Cameron struggles (however admirably) after the gravity that Gordon Brown has in spades; for all his Presbyterian prudence, the latter carries more weight because he carries more weight; likewise, Obama’s greatest danger is that he is literally a lightweight.
If one can’t muster statesmanly rotundity, one must at least try for a mild podginess, an ambassador’s paunch; in order to properly lead a political party, let alone a country, one should be a plodder, a clunker. A deep booming voice supported by an expansive diaphragm can stir the souls of nations and plumb the depths of the hearts of men. It speaks to them, rather than squeaks at them (like a certain country mouse candidate generally expected to shrill her way through the 2008 United States vice presidential debate on a untried wing and a divisive and arrogant prayer who shall remain nameless).
This is the hope that Obama’s wet-eared youth must promise – and, in the old country, it is everything that D. Miliband isn’t. The Chameleon Cameron has more chance, but he must root himself, plant his feet firmly and stand tall (shoulders back) – and try to look as if his Eton-fag frame could support the weight of governmental office. When he understands this he’ll understand that the least he could do is to put on a few pounds.
If jolly old Christmas (my target for achieving fatness) teaches us anything it is the Kriss-Kringlesque manliness of jolly fatty-men. Jovial hearty fatty men may be a cliché. (There are plenty of angry fatties, and a really angry one, red faced and sweating, isn’t at all pleasant.) And we’ve all been told depressingly how Santa Clause would be ill if he was real. But the happy flipside that proves the stereotype is rarely mentioned. Angry fatty men get heart attacks and die, leaving only the jolly ones to chuckle with us as life’s black comedy.
Besides, when fatty men are merry they are merry. A moment’s thought will confirm that you know the fat drunk party animal is much more fun than the drunken skinny guy in any barroom (even if only because his stagger is augmented with a wobble factor). So eat and drink and pile on the pounds and one day you – yes, you – will be President of the United States.
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