Very shortly I will be able to reveal to you the whole truth about Baroness
Scotland’s employment of an illegal immigrant, a Tongan lady called Loloahi
Tapui.
Tapui has signed herself up to the likeable, public-spirited publicist Max
Clifford and is reportedly offering herself around Fleet Street demanding
£100,000 to tell her story; someone has bitten, and good for them.
Even in the gloom of a credit crunch this seems to me excellent value for
money. But I have put in a bid too and by next Sunday I expect to own the
subsequent rights to Loloahi, with the option on a film script, and she will
be legally obliged to tell me everything she has not already said this
weekend; she will also be required to do some light vacuuming and sort out
the mess in the downstairs toilet.
The attorney-general — the person who previously owned Loloahi — believes that
employing her illegally is a very minor transgression, like not paying the
congestion charge. However, she also “bitterly, bitterly” regrets not having
taken a photocopy of Loloahi’s, um, documents. Wow; such bitterness: double
bitterness. But now Loloahi has told us that Lady Scotland did not even look
at her documents, or ask to see them, let alone got the old photocopier out.
Baroness Scotland says she did. But my guess is she just said, “Here’s the
Cillit Bang and there’s the sink, now naff off and get scrubbing.”
You might well argue that it is wholly wrong that British citizens should be
held legally responsible for the legitimacy of their skivvies, even vastly
over-promoted citizens such as Scotland. But whose fault is that? If the
government had the vaguest notion of how many illegal immigrants were in the
country, or were able to stop them coming in, or had some sort of plan to
round them up and deport them, then we wouldn’t need such draconian laws
aimed, squarely, at the wrong person.
But then Scotland is — still, amazingly, you have to admire the chutzpah — the
attorney-general.
However, I also want to know from Lulu if she was paid her £6 per hour cash in
hand or through her agency (not Max Clifford, which would be £5,000 per
hour, love, if you don’t ask you don’t get, least you can ask for someone
who’s been through a helluvalot and will be appearing on This Morning very
soon). Plus, I want to know lots of prurient stuff such as ... does Scotland
have pink candlewick covers on the toilet seat and a porcelain toilet roll
holder decorated with stencils of Little Grey Rabbit?
Then there’s this: apparently Lulu is married to a Serb called Alexander
Zivancevic. I bet nobody following the story expected that. And it worries
me because here you have a political crisis and suddenly, in the middle of
it, a mysterious Serb emerges and you start thinking about the first world
war and the fate that befell Archduke Franz Ferdinand ... well, Lulu can
clear all that up, too. Apparently Alexander’s papers might not be in order
either. Surprise, huh?
Then I want to know if some sort of exchange programme can be set up whereby I
fly to Tonga to scrub the toilet bowl of some similarly over-promoted
politician.
Why is Scotland still in a job? Several of The Guardian’s inexhaustible supply
of expensively educated liberal idiots have been arguing that either her
race and background should make her immune to the normal laws of the land,
or that as attorney-general she was following a certain moral law which
argues that Lulu was a nice person who had been here, albeit illegally, for
quite a long time and that therefore to give her a job was an empowering
recognition of her right to live in this country.
Well, sure — all well and good if that’s the way you feel about illegal
immigrants. But it’s slightly different if the woman doing the employing has
dreamt up those very laws in the first place and is responsible for seeing
them upheld. The stance exemplified by The Guardian’s writers — whichever
way you look at it, as liberal public school-educated journalist or normal
human being — would be hypocritical, no?
That goose step rocks, Adolf
Ah, now we know where the inspiration for that moonwalk came from. Michael
Jackson, it transpires, was a big fan of the work of that pioneering showman
and part-time hoofer, Adolf Hitler, whom the singer considered “a genius”. A
taped interview with the dead star (Jacko, not Adolf) reveals this
previously hidden admiration. Michael also thought that given an hour alone
with the Führer he could have “healed” him and stopped him doing all that
questionable stuff with the Jews. This aspiration has been described as
“naive”. I don’t know. Maybe if Adolf had been given an hour alone with
Michael, he could have stopped him writing the bloody Earth Song. Terrible
thing is, we’ll never know.
Righteous Mr Mole still takes the money
Thank the Lord there is at least one person in this corrupt, venal,
money-grubbing country with a sense of principle. The civil service mole who
passed on details of MPs’ expenses claims to The Daily Telegraph has now
revealed why he did so. His motive was a burning anger at the way in which
our troops in Afghanistan have been let down by the government; equipment
shortages, lack of manpower and so on.
“It’s not easy to watch footage from the TV news of a coffin draped in the
Union Jack and then come into work the next day and see on my computer
screen what MPs are taking for themselves,” he said.
No indeed: it must be incalculably painful to have to witness such rank
injustice every day — and one can only hope that the hundred grand or so the
mole received from The Daily Telegraph somehow eased the pain a little and
made those television pictures easier to bear. The coffins are still
arriving, almost daily — but at least this chap has a cleaner conscience.
+ Globalisation update: in the godawful central square in Marrakesh
each evening there are scores of stalls selling cheap-ish meals of grilled
meat and salad, each of which employs an aggressive young rogue, dressed in
a Barcelona or Chelsea football shirt, to cajole or bully tourists to choose
their particular fare.
How do they attempt to entice the British tourists? All of them say exactly
the same thing: “Come, come, my frent. Zees ees not jus’ food — zees ees
Marks and Spencer’s food!” Better still, the last one I told to get lost
responded: “Fine — well go to Asda, then.”
+ An age-old question: should university lecturers grade their female
undergraduates according to how attractive they are or by the quality of
academic work they produce? The sensible answer, a middle way if you like,
is that they should employ both criteria — use the essays and what-have-you
to mediate a mark arrived at by assessing how fit the women are. That is the
time-honoured tradition, even in our polytechnics (or “universities”, as
they are now called). But political correctness has intervened.
Terence Kealey, vice-chancellor of Buckingham “University”, has implied that
while lecturers should enjoy the presence of attractive and flirtatious
female undergraduates “as a perk”, this should not have an effect on whether
or not the girls are awarded a 2:2 or a third in media studies, history of
hair styling and so on. He has even suggested that the lecturers should try
not to have sex with their most attractive students, even if the students
are perfectly willing.
Incredibly, Kealey has been attacked by feminists who say that lecturers
should not look at female students at all, ever. But if that is the case,
how will they know if they are attractive or not and arrive at a suitable
grade?
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