It was a drizzly, implacable November evening. Anthony Charles Lynton Blair was pacing his chambers at 221 Connaught Square, absentmindedly strumming "Dead End Street" on his guitar, pausing occasionally to glance out the window at the Georgian terraces across the way. A black dog loped down the sidewalk. Anthony sighed. "I am sick at heart," said he. Whilst thinking about putting on a kettle, it came to him as a lightning bolt from God's New-Age Heaven. "Cherie!" he cried. "Cherie, hear! I know what to do! I shall write a memoir and title it
I was in England last week, and saw this book in every bookshop, although it was already marked down. I leafed through a copy, and found it to be written in Blair's speaking style: short paragraphs to allow time to grin and preen.
"Grin and preen" really is the perfect encapsulation of Tony Blair, isn't it? The only time he stops with that horrible smug grin is to look pinch-faced and Veddy, Veddy Concerned about something.
I was in England last week, and saw this book in every bookshop, although it was already marked down. I leafed through a copy, and found it to be written in Blair's speaking style: short paragraphs to allow time to grin and preen.
"Grin and preen" really is the perfect encapsulation of Tony Blair, isn't it? The only time he stops with that horrible smug grin is to look pinch-faced and Veddy, Veddy Concerned about something.