One of the sharpest criticisms of Thatcherism in popular culture in the eighties was, in my view, Arthur Daley's hapless, seedy entrepreneur. I was reminded of this when our own becondommed leader offered us flu vaccine from previous years.
So there you are in some drinking dive in Westminster. Smoothie chops Dave, camel hair coat, ridiculous titfer, cigar in one hand and V&T in the other is holding forth. He leans across the bar to Andrew, a dour silvertop who is polishing bedpans.
“So Andy, we are running out of the old flu vaccine.
It just so happens I know this guy in Catford who has a warehouse full of the stuff.
This is the real McCoy. It would bring down a herd of swans at 50 paces. Lamentable, because it is a tad past its sell by date it is languishing in a crummy lockup!
Andy holds a bedpan up to the light squints at it. With all the enthusiasm of man about to cut off his own right arm with a rusty butter knife he lets out a slow stream of breath followed by,
“I suppose we could give it a try, it would have to be dated 2000 an somefink though Dave, no tricks mind!”
Arthur looks mortified, as if someone had accused him of a VAT fiddle. He replies,
“Andy, how long have you known me? Would I seek to abuse the bonds of friendship, pollute the trust of two trading partners with some cheap legerdemain? “
He turns to a sallow yoof at his side and rouses him from a reverie of heaven knows what with,
“Gideon, get the motor, pop round to Stavros at Biggie Pharma and pick up a few cases of Chateau Avian 2009! Try not to drop it. “
Arthur smiles, empties his glass, points it in the direction of the vodka optic and requests,
“A large one, please Andy, not too much ice!”
