My dream date with Douglas Alexander

Last night I had another one of my strange dreams and I’m starting to wonder if they’re not induced by my favourite malted milk drink, Horlicks.

Now I’ve never met Douglas Alexander, Shadow Secretary of State for Work and Pensions, but last night he collected me in his 2.0L Mondeo Zetec (in Moondust silver) and whisked me away to The Jack in the Green restaurant at Rockbeare, near Exeter.

I had a lovely braised shoulder of West Country veal with pumpkin risotto,while Douglas plumped for rump, and a 10oz steak with smoked mash potato and peppercorn sauce. He ordered a bottle of light and fruity Pinot Noir and I had an apple and mango J2O.

The conversation was lively. We chatted about the Government’s plans to raise the pension age. He was interested in DBLW’s new electronic cash register. He gave me the inside track on Paisley and Renfrewshire South. I explained why I’m boycotting Hair Today Hair Tomorrow. He laughed when I told him about Flo’s mishap on our recent minibus safari through the Haldon Forest. He had me in stitches with his tales of high jinx in The Department of Transport.

If I’d have been 10 years younger, and Douglas hadn’t been happily married, I would almost certainly have played footsie with the dashing Member but… alas, it was not to be. He took flight at the sound of my Goblin teasmade and I woke up alone. My dream date was just that.

I shall be having an extra large mug of Horlicks tonight in the hope that I can tempt Douglas back to our table, and we can share the sticky toffee pudding with butterscotch sauce that we both drooled over.

Wavering not drowning

It has probably surprised many of you that somebody as opinionated as myself should have remained so tight-lipped on the subject of the forthcoming general election.

My reasoning was straight-forward enough; I did not wish to unduly influence its outcome. But, with only a few days to go, most of you will already have made your minds up and so I feel able to reveal that Doris Brazil will be casting her vote for Dr Jonathan Underwood of the Liberal Democratic Party.  The Tiverton and Honiton constituency is what one might call a Tory stronghold, or stranglehold even, with Angela Browning our honourary Conservative Member of Parliament for the past eighteen years. At the last election Mrs Browning attracted two thirds more votes than David Nation, the then Lib Dem candidate.

So why am I, very publicly, throwing my weight behind Jon Underwood? Well, he’s ticks all my boxes being young, intelligent, handsome and, above all, well-dressed (see above how he’s got a Queen Elizabeth 1 thing going on with the collar of his waterproof jacket – that’s style and it can’t be taught). At the age of fourteen he was offered a place to read maths at Oxford University and several years later he spent time at Cambridge University where he met his wife before going on to complete a PhD in theoretical physics at Imperial College London. After working briefly as an academic physicist Jon left to join the City as a trader. Intelligent, ambitious; I can relate to this man.

Jon has gone on record saying, “Locally we want to see a much fairer deal for Devon”. It’s a very powerful message to take to the electorate and I think a vote winner. But, to win on May 6, Jon will have to overcome the challenge posed by a very credible Tory prospective Parliamentary candidate, ex-farmer Neil Parish, and a handful of vote-splitting outsiders, Vernon Whitlock of Labour, Daryl Stanbury of UKIP and Cathy Connor of the Green Party.

If you live in our little constituency and are still wavering, then it’s not for me to tell you how to vote but, and I know it’s not much of a compelling strapline, you could do worse than voting for Jon.

And that is the end of my party political blogcast. I shall of course drop Jonathan a note to let him know that I have put my weight, and my reputation, behind his campaign. Should he succeed it would be nice to think, at some point down the line, Jon might reciprocate by visiting Appleton Marsh and opening an event at DBLW. Perhaps a promotional tie-in around a yellow theme, or perhaps a buy-one-get-one-free around the theme of a much fairer deal for Devon. The possibilities are limited.

Race Row in Doris Brazil Ladies Wear!

“Who would win in a race, I wonder?” mused Flo.

I’d been changing the till roll. I looked up.

“Peter Mandelson or Alistair Darling?” she said.

Flo has a habit of doing this, asking the most inane questions. She does it all the time. And I always rise to it…

“Why would they be racing?” I challenged her.

“Who?” she said.

I could have beaten her with a stick.

“Peter Mandelson and Alistair Darling!” I snapped. “It was you who asked me the question!”

“Of course,” she said, recovering her thread. “Who do you think would win?”

I was tempted to ask her again under what circumstances these two politicians would find themselves in a head-to-head race, but I thought better of it. I’ve learnt, in these situations, the best thing to do to bring these conversations to a rapid conclusion is to go along with her flights of fancy.

“Alistair Darling,” I declared, not a hint of self-doubt in my voice.

“Why?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Because he’s a silver fox,” I said, not knowing what I meant by this.

“Ooh, do you think so,” cooed Flo, seemingly knowing what I did mean by this.

“And also, Peter Mandelson has an artificial leg.”

“Does he?” she said, except it was more like “doooooeeeesss he?” with the intonation of “he” very much with an upwards accent.

“Oh yes, didn’t you know?” I lied.

“No, I didn’t,” she gasped.

There was silence. Had our race row crossed the finishing line, I wondered? I fiddled on with the till roll not daring to look to her.

“How much of a head start would he need?”

“What?” I groaned.

“Peter Mandelson. If he’s got a wooden leg, he’d need a head start.”

For once I couldn’t argue with Flo’s logic but I had to pick her up on one thing.

“Who said his leg was wooden?”

“You did,” she said.

“Wrong. I said he had an artificial leg. I did not say it was wooden.”

“Well does it really matter?” said Flo.

“Yes it matters. It would have a bearing on the head start you need to give him,” I explained, sounding quite authoritative.

“I suppose so,” conceded Flo, sounding deflated in a wind from one’s sails sort of way. I could tell she’d been thinking about this for most of the day.

“What if it wasn’t Peter Mandelson? What if it was Angela Browning?”

For those of you that don’t know,  Angela Browning is our local Member of Parliament.

“Now that would be interesting,” I enthused, momentarily drawn into Flo’s magial world and seeing immediately the possibilities of such an encounter.

“She’s a woman. Alistair Darling is a man,” said Flo.

“Go on, go on,” I encouraged her.

“She’s  a Conservative and…”

“And Alistair Darling is New Labour,” I completed the sentence for her.

“A grudge match,” concluded Flo.

“Indeed,” I agreed.

“So who would win Doris? Between Darling and Browning?”

I had a sudden feeling of déjà vu. I felt my life trickling away through my fingers. What did I do? Perpetuate this discussion until a customer spared us, which could be another hour, or kill it dead and hurt Flo’s feelings in the process.

I looked at Flo in all her neediness then declared:

“Angela Browning,” not a hint of self-doubt in my voice.

It was a controversial choice, I knew as much. These Parliamentary protagonists were not evenly matched.

I looked at the clock on the wall.