SaturdayTo Afghanistan with our new leader Clegg for a flying visit. We are there to visit the troops at an airbase, and young Clegg takes a keen interest in their welfare, asking if they find their equipment outdated. The fellow cleaning the harquebus replies that, while it would be nice to have more modern weapons, it is the Army’s way to make the best of things.
All this is very commendable, but hellishly tame; what the accompanying journalists want is a bit of pizzazz, a bit of danger. I steal away from the crowd and into the Afghan foothills to call upon an old friend with whom I have enjoyed many a loya jirga and game of goat polo.
I take tea in his tent and ask if he could possibly liven things up at the aerodrome. He obligingly has some of his young bucks launch a rocket or two in its general direction, with the result that Fleet Street’s finest will have some sparkling copy for tomorrow’s haddock sheets.
Incidentally, this is not the first time I have had foreign insurgents fire at a Liberal leader, but on the last occasion it was little Steel and they missed.
Friday: Feeding Ruttie
Thursday: The first Lady Bonkers' tits
Wednesday: Remembering Sugar Ray Michie
Tuesday: Brian Paddick's campaign song
Monday: Lembit in the fountain
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