Tim Worstall

Well, the imagery here is certainly quite vivid. Very quite vivid in fact.

As for poor Pol, where to start? Imagine the despair, so raw you can almost taste it. Imagine the sense of crushing disappointment. For years now, she has waited for her prince to come - her dashing Norse warrior, who will sweep away all the effete detritus of the Blair years and unload a torrent of resources into child poverty and public services. Night after night she has left the red light on for him; lying in the bed in her Agent Provocateur lingerie, maybe some crotchless pants and a peephole bra, striking an uncomfortable pose lest he come charging through the door at any moment to sweep her up in his powerful arms.

And then, after what seemed like years, suddenly there he is; his chunky body framed by the doorwell, his Presbyterian profile silhouetted in the crimson glow. Here, she thinks, is her Viking! Quickly, silently, she enfolds him, gorging on his lengthy pledges, swallowing his promises, almost gagging on the heady, musky scent of true, bestial socialism unleashed after so long under wraps. There doesn’t seem to be quite as much as he had promised, sure, but no matter; isn’t there plenty of goodness in those heavy, swinging sacs of his, so engorged with cash that they seem about to burst? It’s not all about presentation, you know. Never mind the quality; feel the width.