Pretty boy looks have nothing to do with politics

PAV’S PATCH: WHEN Michael Foot died a few weeks ago it made me rather sad.

I know a lot of people liked to call him Wurzel Gummidge because of his crumpled appearance and shaggy hair, but the fact was he didn’t believe such things mattered. He tried to stick to policies and arguments, not the make of his suit.

Of course the tabloids famously made fun of him because of the “duffel coat” he wore to the Cenotaph. Except that it wasn’t a duffel coat, it was a rather expensive creation that was ideally suited to keeping an elderly gentleman warm on a November morning. The Queen Mother, no spring chicken herself, was most impressed.

What a difference a Michael Foot would make to today’s sterile political scene where two of the main parties are led by pretty boys and the third one’s attempts to smile are reminiscent of some sort of low-budget 1950s horror film.

It amuses me how all the main party leaders try to portray themselves as ordinary blokes with an ideal family life. Funny that, because at the same time they say that the “ideal” family doesn’t matter anymore. The UK of the 21st century is beyond all that middle-class Victorian nonsense. And do we really believe that they listen to the Arctic Monkeys on their iPods? If they do, I find that worrying in a mutton dressed as lamb sort of way. I find it all reminiscent of 50-plus councillors who believe that a baseball cap is all they need to “get down with the kids.”

The whole wife, bare-my-soul thing makes me very sickly. We used to laugh at American party conventions where wives would appear and start hugging their husbands.

I can still remember Ronald Reagan’s second nomination and the biopic of his missus which ended with Sinatra singing “Nancy With the Laughing Eyes”. Excuse me while I vomit.

But it’s happening here. Sarah’s backing Gordon and now Samantha’s out to help Dave.

Well excuse me but I didn’t know that we elect presidents in Britain. And what have the wives got to do with anything? I thought laws were enacted in Parliament and the wives aren’t members.

Thank goodness we were never forced to see Maggie Thatcher snogging Dennis, or Jim Callaghan squeezing Audrey.

I want to vote for someone who can tackle policies — not someone who cries at the drop of a hat. Can you imagine Churchill or Lloyd George making porridge? I wonder if they were in touch with their feminine side?