ANOTHER VOICE
Kinnock covers his dog messes with talcum powder
AUBERON WAU GH
or many years, in my capacity as President, Chairman, General Secretary and only member of the Dog Lovers' Party of Great Britain, I felt it incumbent on me to point out the salutary effects of dog mess on the pavements of London and our other great cities. It provides a form of suste- nance to urban toddlers which is free and non-fattening; although excessive ingestion of dog shit is thought to cause blindness, it is probably less dangerous than the wrap- ping paper, elastic bands and other sub- stances they would otherwise be eating. More important than this, the vexation which city dwellers suffer when they step in a pile of dog mess is surely good for their souls: it teaches them humility and an awareness of the fragility of social institu- tions, as they try unsuccessfully to scrape the evil-smelling clay from their trendy Gucci shoes, and as they subsequently walk across the wall-to-wall carpeting of their costly little homes in lingering, intes- tinal miasma.
I do not wish to seem pious when I say that I always rejoice when I accidentally step in a pile of dog shit in London, counting the number of days in purgatory I am saving myself as I offer up the incon- venience to the Great Doglover in the Sky; but I must claim that when I came down- stairs on Thursday morning to find that my home had been burgled in the night — one of the burglars had thoughtfully defecated in a courtyard before gaining entry — it was not long before I began to identify the incident as another possible source of spiritual uplift. The objects stolen included a gold chim- ing pocket watch with the crest and name of Evelyn Waugh engraved on the back — I hope anyone who sees it offered for sale will lose no time in telephoning the nearest police helicopter armoured gunship service — and also a pretty 17th-century Dutch cow-creamer with 20th-century English hallmarks superimposed, of which I was Particularly fond. It is the sort of thing which would have delighted the heart of Wooster's Uncle, Tom Travers, and might have inspired any number of Wodehouse fantasies. Incidentally, it is easily identifi- able, too, as the cow has a huge bumblebee on its back, serving in the office of a hinged lid, But even as I mourned its loss, I began to appreciate the various things which the burglars had not taken. Everybody, it
seems to me, should be burgled from time to time. The experience not only teaches us to value and to be grateful for what we still have; it also reminds us of the snarling underworld of people who do not possess any delightful objects at all, who regard our possession of them with malicious resentment, whose fondest wish is to take them away from us and convert them into cash to satisfy whatever gross and de- formed appetites of their own. Perhaps the burglar's girl-friend is even now sunning her limbs on the Costa Brava from the proceeds of this foul crime. I cordially hope she burns herself to a frazzle, con- tracts dysentery and is raped by ten Sun readers, but the truth is that one would not enjoy one's possessions so much if one was not aware that others wanted them, too.
Indeed, the entire political system in this country would seem to be based on this principle. Outside the agreeable homes and gardens we create for ourselves, grumbling masses of the North whine their resentment, the ravening wolves of the Labour Party howl their envy and hatred. It is partly for this reason — and for the sake of the continuing health and vitality of our political institutions — that one re- First you must have a shower.' gards Neil Kinnock's attempts to sanitise the Labour Party with some apprehension. Under the guise of saving £11/2 million, he has welcomed proposals from Larry Whit- ty, Labour's General Secretary, which will close down three party newspapers Labour Weekly, New Socialist and Socialist Youth — and merge the troublesome Young Socialists with the party's student organisation.
Worse than any of these, he proposes to block the accession of Mr Dennis Skinner, Labour's walking dog mess, to next year's vice-chairmanship, the year after's chair- manship of the Labour Party. Traditional- ly, these posts are filled in order of length of service on the national executive, a Buggins's turn principle which has pro- duced several curiosities, not least of them dear old Uncle Tom Driberg. But Kinnock is not anxious to expose this dog-mess or house-burglar element to public scrutiny, and will no doubt find some pasty-faced, pudding-haired New Brit in advertising as his candidate.
This would not only be dishonest but also, I feel, it would be foolish. Skinner, with his revolting manners, his proletarian arrogance and invariable rudeness to his betters, is, in fact, the effective opposition to Mrs Thatcher; he is also, effectively, the alternative government. No matter how much sheep's clothing is wrapped around the Labour Party, he is the essential wolf underneath. When working-class people vote Labour, he is what they expect and what they want. The fact that he was not wanted by enough voters in the last elec- tion does not mean that more voters will not want him next time round. The truth is surely that Lawson manipulated the eco- nomy very skilfully to give us all an illusion of prosperity in June of this year. There is no reason to suppose he will be able to do it again. The chickens could almost be heard last week, as people began to appreciate how Lawson euphoria had over- valued their shares.
At any rate, Kinnock must believe this, or he has no business to be in politics at all. It is quite possible, I suppose, that the British people do not want socialism and never will. Under those circumstances, Kinnock's attempt to impose it by stealth, dressing his wolves in sheepskin, covering his dog mess in talcum power and keeping his burglars out of sight in the brush cupboard, is not only dishonourable but also, I would have thought, doomed.
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