Politics Makes Strange Poetic Bedfellows

As the Labour Party moves ever closer to Apocalypse Now, I can't help reflecting on what strange bedfellows politics makes of people. Although my spoofster studiously avoids "The Hackney Connection" as per usual, my intransigent Popeye Doyle brain can only drill down into the twisted, steaming mess that local and national politics has become, between the tabloid sheets and even more so between the linen sheets. However, it's not the novels of Joseph Conrad, nor the film scripts of Robin Moore that inflame my senses right now, but the poetic words of The Bard and the images of Jean Cocteau. I read Shakespeare (well, a few bits) in-between lectures, boozing and chasing totty at Bristol. Of course I've never had anything to do with la monde du Cocteau myself. The question of the day is Tony's future ("To be or not to be, that is the question") and the silence (or, according to some, the screaming match) with Gordon (Et tu, Brute?).

Friends, Romans, countrymen...

As I have argued, I want Tony to continue (Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow), while traitors call for his resignation (Out, damned spot!).

All the eyes of the press are focused on Tom Watson (O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!), late departed Defence Minister, MP for The Baggies (That he's mad, 'tis true, 'tis true 'tis pity), fellow LibDem hater and The Guardian's "Top Toadie of 2005" (Eye of newt, and toe of frog). But it is not the antics of my friend and former NOLS Chairman that hurts me most (Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't), but the antics of his namesake Peter (What's in a name? That which we call a rose) and, more importantly, those with whom he placed his heart, soul and trust (O, how this spring of love resembleth).

Peter (What a piece of work is man!) was the driving force behind the spearhead that I and others launched from Millbank (Why then tonight let us assay our plot) in the wake of the disastrous split in Hackney Council Labour Group (This was the unkindest cut of all) following the Trotter affair (Something is rotten in the state of Denmark). He was pivotal in securing a solid Blairite stranglehold on the Council (And thus I clothe my naked villainy) and keeping it intact through successive elections (We are such stuff... as dreams are made on).

When Julian (The man that hath no music in himself) lost his nerve before the May local elections and thought he might lose the Mayorship (Cowards die many times before their deaths), it was Peter who gave up his time and energy (He hath given his empire) to ensure that we developed and implemented a local voting strategy (The play's the thing) that led to our massive victory (Give me my robe, put on my crown).

So here's the bitter irony (Aye, there's the rub). When Peter first came to prominence for his loyalist activities in Hackney (This was the noblest Roman of them all), he was snatched up into the welcoming arms of the avocado dip man, Mandy (Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow). Mandy, of course, was not a mere Tony loyalist but the man who invented Tony and all he stood for (Be not afraid of greatness).

So where's the irony? The bed from which Peter was snatched (Thou art a votary to fond desire) was - allegedly according to my lawyers - that of Underpants Man (A plague o' both your houses!). Yes - the very same friend of mine, former colleague at Holborn and St. Pancras and on Hackney Council (I follow him to serve my turn upon him) - who helped me pen the infamous letter (The lady doth protest too much, methinks) that has proved to be such a disastrous catalyst in the downfall of Tony (Done to death by slanderous tongue).

Now is the winter of our discontent.