My friend woke me up this morning. I am in a tiny apartment in Italy, finishing a book. I mean writing one, not reading one. Anyway, he rang as I was dozing — dreaming, bizarrely, that I had just been shortlisted for the Turner Prize – and delivered this torrent of violence down the phone. His animus, which was fabulous, immense, was directed towards a person called Owen Jones whom he had watched on Question Time yesterday evening. I cannot quote his diatribe in full because of the prohibition in these parts about the excessive use of foul language. But it was something like ‘F****** third form arrogant public school infantile leftist ****, vile smug and self-righteous tosser…….’ And so it went on. I have come across this halfwit before, when I read a very bad book he had written. But it takes a lot to make my friend upset. So it is all a bit of a mystery, which I pondered later as I had my espresso while basking in the glorious late Autumn sunshine of Positano, with the Med as still as a Lib Dem’s pulse. Was this pig-ignorant idiot really as annoying as he found? Or was it just a pretext to disturb my sabbatical?
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