Anorak News | Kilroy Woz Here

Kilroy Woz Here

by | 24th, December 2004

‘IN any ordinary year, the fact that the Tory party managed to struggle from January to December with the same man in charge would be the political story of the past 12 months.

The Man Who Laughed Too Much

But 2004 was not a normal year in politics – it was the year of the Orange Revolution.

Not just in the Ukraine, but in Britain too the political landscape was bathed in an ochreous glow as the permatanned figure of Robert Kilroy Silk returned to the fray.

Having made his proverbial sunbed with a newspaper column describing all Arabs as “limb-amputators, suicide bombers and women repressors”, Kilroy decided to lie on it.

He quit the BBC before he was sacked and took up cudgels on behalf of another acronym – UKIP (otherwise known as the UK Independence Party).

And, one heady day in June – on a tide of popular fervour (identified as the one man and his dog who bother to vote in the Euro-elections) – our sepia-skinned friend was swept into power as the MEP for the East Midlands.

With an ego the size of which is matched only by his local solarium’s electricity bill, Kilroy announced that he would single-handedly do to the European Union what Samson did to the Temple of Dagon.

Sadly, either it’s built on firmer foundations than said temple or Kilroy’s silver locks were not of the required length, but the EU survived.

However, he did at least meet a Samsonesque fate as his political career came crashing around him.

First he managed to fall out with fellow members of the European Parliament, then he fell out with UKIP’s principal backer and finally he fell out with his UKIP colleagues.

And a year which had started with Kilroy talking shit on telly ended with him wearing shit on radio as in December he was attacked on his way to record a BBC4 programme by a protestor armed with a bucket of manure.

But he was by no means the only politician to learn the truth of the phrase about muck sticking.

David Blunkett’s metamorphosis from hardline Home Secretary to “The Man Who Loved Too Much” kept us all briefly amused towards the end of the year.

An unlikely Romeo, Blunkett ended up sacrificing his political career to gain unfettered access to the son he claims to have fathered by the Spectator’s American publisher Kimberly Quinn.

But, as he was forced to stand down amid allegations that he helped fast-track his lover’s nanny’s visa application, the waters of his paternity claim were muddied by news that he did not have unfettered access to Mrs Quinn during their three-year affair.

Guardian columnist Simon Hoggart was quickly outed as the third man in the whole affair, Mrs Quinn’s cuckolded husband Stephen being presumably the first.

And rumours were rife of the existence of a fourth, a fifth and even a sixth as Mrs Quinn was revealed as a woman with an appetite for sex to match Vanessa Feltz’s appetite for food.

Indeed, the house bible at the Spectator appeared to be missing the Seventh Commandment as editor Boris Johnson was forced to resign from his role as the only interesting person in the Tory party as a result of an affair with columnist Petronella Wyatt.

But what of Teflon Tony?

The Hutton Report into the death of Dr David Kelly failed to land a blow on Our Beloved Leader, but did fell two BBC heavyweights in Greg Dyke and Gavyn Davies.

The Butler Report fared little better six months later, catching Tony only a glancing blow by finding everyone – and therefore no-one – at fault for the intelligence cock-up that led to the war in Iraq.

But Fathers 4 Justice, a pressure group fighting for the rights of grown men to dress up as their favourite superhero, did at least score a direct hit.

In May, a well-aimed condom full of purple powder hit Tony Blair as he stood at the despatch box during Prime Minister’s Questions.

A burly Scot was seen running away, laughing hysterically and muttering something to himself about neo-classical endogenous growth theories.

But as Tony Blair and Robert Kilroy Silk asked for a change of clothing, a more serious political – and sartorial – storm was brewing on the other side of the Atlantic.

A “wardrobe malfunction” during half-time at the Superbowl meant that one of Janet Jackson’s star-spangled nipples was displayed to the watching millions.

In an instant, the morals of a whole generation of children were corrupted – and the fall-out (excuse the pun) promises to be felt here, as there, for years to come.

We responded by getting worked up about something equally as unimportant – fox hunting.

And in September, Parliamentary security (a couple of men in tights) was breached again when protestors stormed the debating chamber of the House of Commons.

The issue was not the thousands dying in Iraq nor the tragedy in Darfur; it was not even foundation hospitals or top-up fees; it wasn’t the right to live or the right to die.

It was for the time-honoured right of every British man and woman to spend their days chasing around a field with a pack of dogs looking for a fox whose morning they can ruin.

Go figure…’

Posted: 24th, December 2004 | In: Uncategorized Comment | TrackBack | Permalink