Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Andrew Marr. I nodded - he didn't.

 I met Andrew Marr, he of the dark brown voice and piercing eye, in my local pub last night.

Actually to say ”met” adds more to the meaning of the verb “to meet” than the Oxford dictionary intends.

Let me more accurately say I encountered Mr Marr in what used to be my boozer, but since he moved into the area, has become his. That, of course, is the price of fame, those who don’t have it are replaced by those who do.

Not that Andrew, as I now call him to myself, is insensitive to my previous notoriety, more like unaware of it. And it is not that everyone in the pub knows who he is.

Eighty per cent of the regulars have no idea who he is but then forty per cent of them have no idea who they are themselves by closing time.

I can report that he drinks in moderation which, as I say above, is not a destination of many of those he shares his hostelry with. Of those who do ”know” him, conversations in the gent’s show at least as many have apparently seen him on Crimewatch as early on a Sunday Morning. 

Which brings us neatly to why we are here in the first place - Ed Miliband.

The Leader of the Labour Party would like to be as famous in my pub as Andrew Marr.

It was in a conversation with the deep brown voice just two days ago Ed made his bid by revealing to Andrew that he was, in fact, Ed.
Yes, he was the one with slightly short long trousers, goofy teeth and the gob full of indecipherable phrases, being tracked by the Daily Mail.

The admission had some resonance with the story of a former chief reporter on the News of the World who had tracked down an errant vicar and his choir-mistress girlfriend to a country cottage. Having identified himself, the reporter sought details of their shame only for the alarmed vicar to demand further proof of who he claimed to be. 
“I’ve admitted it, haven’t I?", replied the affronted NoW staffer.

Ed has now decided that similar honesty is the only way ahead what with the general election just 10 months away and plastic surgery too expensive.

Meanwhile back in the pub they were talking of little else apart from Thomas Piketty, Alistair Cook and those girls in Number 22.

Andrew came in. I nodded - he didn’t.