Tuesday 16th June
A voice message on the group WhatsApp from Greg. The difference between God and Greg is God is everywhere. Greg – from HQ who has Mardon under his remit – is everywhere but here. I was introduced to him at the last national conference, when after the handshake his mouth opened to speak to me, he caught sight of Nigel and wrestled my palm out of his own as quickly as if he’d found out I was Ebola’s Typhoid Mary, as he went scampering off following the flash of yellow trousers visible in the throng.
Greg apparently wants all of us to read Nigel’s missives on something called a Substack, and make favourable comments about them and about Nigel on social media. I suspect this is something to do with Nigel’s Facebook posts, which are attracting in the comments underneath them the lefties like flies to shite, although maybe that’s not a good comparison to make under the circs.
They’re all moaning about the five mil. that Thai bloke gave him. Truthfully, I don’t see the harm; for a billionaire, that’s the equivalent of the loose change you fumble for when you see the poppy people outside Tescos. If anyone offered me that, I’d bite their hand off. So would anyone; but I can’t see Starmer getting anything more than a few coppers off anyone to be honest, I think his goose is cooked either way the by-election on Thursday goes.
Thursday 18th June
My head! The problem with a 9pm kick-off is that by the time the game starts, you’re half-cut because you’ve been in the Crown since 7 to make sure you get a seat and can see the screen. Al was OK with me because I’d got him a pint in first, then of course he gets me one back and I get him one back and when the fourth goal goes in, nearly a full pint goes over us both when Harold the Barrel falls over me and half the pub as he misguidedly does a swan dive that nearly takes out the flooring. Great night though, but I paid for it today.
And then, after a council meeting I nearly fell asleep in – again – a stroke of luck.
I was about to go into the Gents to empty out half a day’s worth of rehydration when I literally bumped into Manny Singh as he was coming out. Inspiration struck, and I asked him how to remove dhal stains as the Mondeo’s cream leather is still the colour of a certain US president. Or is that color? Anyway, he asked how it happened, we got into a conversation and I told him how I was currently making a crust. Lord alone knows why I chose to confess my predicament to him, but there’s something about the bloke that is just – sound. Even though this was the first conversation we’d ever had.
Anyway, a bit more chat about what I’d done for a living before, and he says his cousin runs a haulage firm in Braintree. And lo and behold, there and then he takes his phone out, has a conversation with him, in English, in front of me, and I’m to go round tomorrow for a chat.
I know the Sikhs have had a lot of bother recently with one thing and another, and I wish to put it on record I never got into that nonsense. Now, I’m feeling like I could convert, although I don’t know if that’s possible.
For the first time in weeks, dear Diary, I’m feeling optimistic. Maybe I’ll never be king of the road again, but I’d settle for being a Raja.
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