The True Princes Of Socialism

I'm all for elitism. Staying at deluxe, five-star hotels and villas is one way of doing it. I don't like spending my money on that sort of thing, I hasten to add, unless someone else is paying for it. I brush down the old forbears' dinner jacket and reserve a good seat at the opera now and again. That sort of modest activity. The nouveau elite like the footballer, Beckham, and his singing wife, are fêted, worshipped and treated like royalty wherever they go. It must be added that the Beckhams are undoubtedly beneficent, of course. The chap seems a good enough egg.

My activities are but nothing compared to the Pillars of Labour society - sorry, New Labour. Mr Blair, too, is treated like royalty: the other day, a smart London store opened its doors early especially for him. The Northern Ireland Secretary, Mr Woodward, would not need to do such a mundane thing as that: he has his own butler. Those two are merely the tip of the Labour iceberg.

And to think that these people are all propped up by the loud-mouthed donkeys and buffoons of the Proletariat like Skinner and Prescott.