Westminster blog

Back from two weeks’ paternity leave and struggling through the morning papers I alighted on this gem (incidentally by Robert Shrimsley of the FT).

“In the wake of Barack Obama’s win, opposition politicians across the world are honing their campaigns.

The scene: 2010. David Cameron’s election night rally. Thousands gather on the lawn of Hatfield House, knee-deep in discarded champagne bottles, awaiting confirmation of victory. Cameron rises to address the gathering:

“My friends, a few moments ago I received a phone call from Prime Minister Brown. At least I think it was him; it was rather short and punctuated by someone swearing in a Scottish accent.

It’s been a long time but tonight change has come to Britain. Today marks the end of a long journey – and, kids, you’ve earned that wolfhound.

As I look at this victory I think of the people like me – like us – despised, dispossessed, reviled, sneered at by people who didn’t go to a good school; who don’t know how to hold a fork. We were mocked by Harry Enfield ( growls of anger and shouts of “String ‘im up” ) and forced to pretend to like beer. There are people in this crowd who believed we would never again see this country elect a chap who knew which way to pass the port. We have touched the arc of history, we have driven the Daimler of destiny. Our campaign was not hatched in a backroom in Westminster. It began in the backyards of Boodles, the living rooms of Lord Ashcroft, the roof terrace at Petronella Wyatt’s. But today our voices can be heard – not just in Notting Hill but as far away as Kensal Rise.

I recall our forefathers; men who couldn’t even vote – albeit because they were in the House of Lords – men denied the basic human right of walking to the polling station and voting for their MP; men who had to get their valet to do it for them.

For too long, we were looked down upon by a nation obsessed with Wags, watching Big Brother ( groans from crowd ); reading Jordan’s autobiography and drinking Bacardi Breezers ( cries of “Shame” ).

And today we can wear our Bullingdon tailcoats with pride ( shouts of “Hear, hear” ); we can dunk oiks in the fountains and deflower maidservants – or footmen if that’s the way you swing (shouts of “Hurrah”) . We can stand tall and speak plummy. But tonight, after years of oppression, the upper class has spoken out ( loud cheers and champagne bottles hurled ).

Today I saw a 106-year-old woman – lumme, she was wrinkled. But she saw this country defeat the general strike – yes we can. She saw us bash the Hun, not once but twice (thrice if you count Wembley) – yes we bally well can. She saw us roll back the frontiers of the state then roll them forward again – yes we bally well can. She saw us back the masses against the classes and now back the classes once again. Gawd bless you all. Floreat Etona. Bottoms up.”