UFO Info Week-End

Major need not dream up pet names to deny he sits at

Major need not dream up pet names to deny he sits at home counting peas over dinner with Norma. Blair could have said the plane was only going to Birmingham, and the story would have been better. It is only if she cannot keep her voice down when confiding to Uncle Arthur that she would rather die than wear it, that the problem arises. If your sister-in-law tells you her Christmas gift is just what she wanted, all will be well.

What it will find so disappointing in these stabs at self-embellishment is their amateurishness. A sophisticated electorate expects nothing less from its MPs than the odd slick, expedient lie from time to time. The Tory press, as this fine-spun Labour Party should know, may have indulged much of Major’s faux blokeishness, but will be ruthless in catching Blair out. An easy-listening account of Tony Blair is not real; Cherie Blair QC as editor of Prima is uncomfortably close to Hillary Clinton, the home-baked cookies expert It will come unstuck. It is no credit to the Labour leader that he seeks to reinvent himself likewise. This incarnation of PM as bloke in the pub was first brought to us by Major, Ordinary John from Brixton.

What, pray, is the Prime Minister doing in Good Housekeeping? What is the Leader of the Opposition doing on Des O’Connor? Mr O’Connor appeared as surprised as anyone, but was reassured by Blair; once installed at No 10, he intends to come straight back, and bring the whole family along. The need by Messrs Blair and Major to make things up in order to sound like human beings is more troubling. Yet this lie had, at least, the distinction of a good reason behind it. “What rubbish.” How we chuckled! The week’s other deception, from the Tory whips’ office – a kind of multiple share application for parliamentary pairs – was taken more seriously. Then came the Prime Minister’s cosy disclosure to Good Housekeeping that, chez Major, Norma goes by the petname “Little Grub” This was news to the lady herself “We don’t have nicknames for each other,” she said. Its most exotic destination in 1968 was, gloated the Mail, the Isle of Man.