Picking a GP nominee is a blinding stroke of genius

Maurice O'Brien • Published 13 Aug 2009 09:00 0 Comments

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OKAY, I'll come clean and admit it. Boy Dave and his Clueless Cohort aren't clots after all.

They've played an absolute blinder with their latest wheeze, and in the interests of fairness I must acknowledge the lad's true genius.

Faced with a governing party which no longer appears to possess any beliefs at all, other than self-preservation, BD and the CC pulled a real whiz-banger from the hat when they sought a candidate to replace some oilslick expenses apologist in darkest Devon.

Dispelling once and for all the image of a room full of Hyacinth Buckets and gents in tweed doing the choosing, they threw the decision open to Total Totnes.

The entire town could have had a say in the choice of Sarah Wollaston, a startled-looking GP with a horde of kids, who duly picked up the nomination and the second home dilemma.

Having been selected from across the widest possible political spectrum, she will have to prepare herself to be all things to all men (and women, and a few other categories). In effect, a total mishmash of opinions, and ideas not unlike little Georgie Osborne's 'more for less' economic litany of generalities. But, you see, that's where Dave's cracked it.

If Doctor Sarah's the template for future Tory candidates then he will never, ever have to come up with any original policies of his own.

- OUR politicians, by and large, tend towards a studied naff appearance during their summer break, attracting little more than a disinterested snigger from the rest of we paragons of sartorial elegance.

Therefore the sight of a topless Vladimir Putin frolicking with his horse like some poor man's Johnny Weissmuller must have made everyone thankful for small mercies. Until, that is, some bloody paparazzo goes and sticks his long lens over the wall of the Corfu villa from where Lord Mandy and his chums were running Britain. Ugh!

- TO all those childless couples clamouring for IVF treatment and wondering why the NHS still seems as penurious as it was in the days when nature had to take its course, the case of Samantha Orabator must seem particularly ironic.

The 20-year-old self-confessed heroin smuggler seemingly successfully impregnated herself in the female wing of an insanitary, hellhole prison in Laos, with a homespun technique using a tube and something too indelicate for a family newspaper to mention. Whatever, the outcome was sufficient to avoid death by firing squad and win her an undoubtedly brief spell in a comfy British nick.

Some good might come from her experience if it stopped the next cretin caught smuggling death from begging for our sympathy.

But you somehow know it won't.

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