Postcard From Jerry, Part Seven
‘Shabby!’ Myself, my assistant Miss Blod, and a diminutive figure in Muslim dress, who has just revealed her face with a swipe of a delicate brown arm, are at the bottom of the fire stairs [more…]
‘Shabby!’ Myself, my assistant Miss Blod, and a diminutive figure in Muslim dress, who has just revealed her face with a swipe of a delicate brown arm, are at the bottom of the fire stairs [more…]
A perspiring Prime Minister called for coffee time at Number 10 North. My companion, Miss Blod, and I circulated, made small talk and nodded. There seemed little need for any great subterfuge, despite the fact [more…]
“Hi guys, welcome to Manchester. My name’s Andy. Yes, yes, I know, the prime minister. These things ’appen. Repeat after me: Fatcher, Liz Truss crashed the economy.” Mr Burnham stood before us in a floor-tiles, [more…]
One can never tire of Jerry Westerby, an old-school Fleet Street soak with a rugby forward’s build but a talent for wicket-keeping before the call of sports journalism pulled him away from the crease and [more…]
Going-Postal’s old friends in the shadowy world of contractors used to disseminate government propaganda are back in the news. This particular practitioner of the dark arts of perception management and black propaganda came to Puffin’s [more…]
‘He did not know her name, but he knew that she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably – since he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a spanner – she had some [more…]
“I feel as if I should be angry with that child, that naive young girl. Or that I must not forgive her for not recognising the nature of that monster. For not being aware of [more…]
The vast majority of yer actual lefties give the impression that they are incapable of either thinking or concentrating and this means their education has to be conducted in soundbites. They use these soundbites to [more…]
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