I’d like to say something nice about Michael Foot

…but I can’t.

David Davis

He died today. He was 96: I’d be happy to reach that, but I probably won’t, owing mostly to high living, wild women and too much alcohol drunk while too young.

The problem with socialists is so, so easy to solve. As a human being, you have free will. You can, well, just walk away. Just like people give up smoking or drugs or drinking. In the end, they walk away, or die.

Foot never did. Perhaps the “feminist”  Jill Craigie was just too sexy to shag (I am sorry, I do not know either way) and he never fancied any of the Tories’ (young female) “researchers”. We always knew about “researchers”, and they were always at least vaguely pretty, or even better than that: many of them “had family money”,  and some were even the daughters of “Officers” (these only married “rising stars” and you were of course out of the running big-time – “look, you’re a really really super fun friend…but….”): but we being penniless, we could never get any.

In the end, Foot didn’t walk away – he just became an old socialist. He could not even not wear a “donkey-jacket” to the Cenotaph. Not that it really really matters at all what you wear while paying your respects to the War Dead, so long as you mean it.

But it was, well, just “impolite”. Socialists, ultimately, know that they “are serious” and so they don’t even want to disguise how they despise.