The tragedy of Owen Smith

I would like to tell you a story about a kid I met once.  He was effete and bespectacled, a real dweeb. One afternoon, the boy was dropped off at my friend’s house – a favour for his mother. The precocious boy was given free reign to explore his surroundings, which he happily investigated. Some time later, my friend’s ma called up the stairs to him, it was dinner time.

“Do you like lasagne?” she asked. The boy replied with gusto, his childish exuberance getting the better of him.

“Like it?” he boomed rhetorically, “I love it!”

Owen Smith reminds me of that boy.

All female shortlists sounds distinctly New Labour don’t you think?


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