Fatuous

In keeping with the spirit of Lady Thatcher’s Wink, this blog will keep a beady eye on those aspects of contemporary social and political life which demand a sending-up. It won’t be short of opportunities. Remember how ‘Mother Theresa’ May launched her premiership with a saintly promise to rule the roost for the benefit of all? And especially, she probably added under her breath, her fingers crossed behind her, for the benefit of the kind of companies who bankroll her party.

She has, by common consent, fallen at the first hurdle. The government’s obesity strategy, rather than introduce restrictions on junk-food advertising as so many doctors and nutritionists wanted, is simply to ask the food and drink industry to do the best they can to cut down on the sugar and fat they load into the stuff they sell us. It’s not difficult to imagine the discussions around the Cabinet table which led to this shameful stitch-up.

Theresa May: That idiot Cameron seems to have given people the idea we’re going to interfere with the free market just to slim down working class fatties. Why the hell don’t they go walking in the Alps like Phil and me?

Boris Johnson: You wouldn’t want your holiday ruined by gross people like that, Theresa. Keep ‘em at home and let ‘em eat doughnuts – assuming that EU regulations still allow us to eat doughnuts. I believe they’ve got to be square-shaped by 2020.

Jeremy Hunt: Fact is, Theresa, the fat die young – they don’t take up precious hospital beds with long-term illnesses and dementia. I’ve never understood why we got tough on smoking – that culled the lower orders with tremendous efficiency. Shrink the population and we won’t need all of those wretched junior doctors.

Theresa May: How am I supposed to sell that to the public? They’ll say we only care about our friends making profits.

A long silence, broken only by Boris Johnson unwrapping a packet of biscuits.

Philip Hammond: Well, we do, don’t we?

Theresa May: But Jamie Oliver will be whining about all those wretched little lard-buckets in our sink schools. What we need is a plausible food tsar to argue our case – someone with bottom.

Boris Johnson: Don’t give me that beady eye, Theresa. I’m too busy brawling with David Davis and Liam Fox.

She picks up the telephone.

Theresa May: Get me Eric Pickles.

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