Sniffer was out of bed this morning before his usual seven hours, not because he wanted to, but because last night's two bottles were eager for egress. During an extended sitting he fired up his phone to read that Andrew Mitchell had resigned. Yes! About bloody time too.
Suddenly a rough morning-after turned into a beautiful day and sun streamed through the window. Sniffer recollected earlier in the week when the Macaroon had dragged Mitchell onto the front benches in an act of contrition, and publicly defended him to Tweedle-Ed and the rest of the shower at Islington Comprehensive. Despite holding the soon-to-be-ex-Chief Whip up by the scruff and saying "Look, it isn't Mitchell-minor's fault he swore at one of the oiks. He's simply not used to staff. After all, he only went to Rugby, so he's practically middle-class. Come on chaps, do the decent thing and leave it go," it was all to no avail.
When it became unavoidably clear that Mitchell wouldn't be let off with fifty lines and a run round the school perimeter, even the ever-myopic Macaroon had to concede it was time he was on his bike in all senses. Rumours that the Cons-(french)-ervative front bench had offered to do a quick 'Gangnam Style' dance in the Stranger's Bar if Tweedle-Ed stopped raising the subject are unsubstantiated, although this reporter thinks that might have been a trade worth making.
Through the haze of a blinder behind the eyes, Sniffer takes comfort from the fact that there's one less Jeremy Hunt in government this morning.
Mine's a large one.
'Sniffer'
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