Where the Prog Con gets its ideas
Tyler is fretting that something bad is happening to him. Last night he found himself feeling sorry for Pol. Pol!
Along with Labour's Steve Richards she was attending a funeral, and Tyler unforgivably eavesdropped their graveside conversation with the Rev Gavin Esler. Richards was trying to put a brave face on things, but Pol was devastated. She looked old and grey, any resemblence to late-vintage Marianne Faithful blown clean away.
Her voice cracking with emotion, she poured out her regrets.
Why had she hustled the deceased into the arms of a killer? If only she'd known! But how could she? How could she have guessed that that highly intelligent man who'd lived next door all those years would turn out to be a brute? She'd thought it was for the best. How could she possibly have seen the truth? An innocent at large in an extraordinarily naughty world, she could only do her best.
She collapsed into a prolonged sob, and the Rev Esler awkwardly put his arm round her shoulders. Mr Richards mouthed platitudes about resurrection and the life eternal, as they walked from the grave.
No one was saved.
Clearly, the brute Brown will now be dealt with by the forces of justice, but where's the comfort in that? There's nobody halfway credible to take over, and Labour is going down to a massive defeat. Everything that Pol and Steve and Jackie and all the rest of the Prog Con hold dear will be buried for a generation.
Well, you and I know that isn't true of course - when it comes to dismantling the Prog Con superstate, a Cam government will be timid in the extreme. But for Pol and her chums even a pause in its expansion represents disaster.
This morning she wrings her hands even more tightly, praising the Milibands, Ed Balls, Harriet Harman, Douglas Alexander, John Denham (no relation I assure you) and Yvette Cooper, who apparently think the post-Blair era of recession needs new policies:
"These progressives would tax the top 1% to make them share the pain of recession to ease the bills of the poor and cut council tax. They would windfall tax profiteering energy companies. They would turn more radically green and create a million jobs in the renewables industry. They would pursue tax havens and tax avoiders, confronting bonus-heavy bankers who demand the state shoulder all risk while the banks reap all rewards. The progressives warn that without the verve and the nerve to stand for anything, Labour will be obliterated."
Oh, Pol. It's a dream. The power to push through any of this has gone.
The other morning we caught a snatch of Lady Antonia Fraser. No not the perfume, but the toff historian married to Harold Pinter, speaking on Desert Island Discs.
Now, Mr and Mrs Pinter are Prog Con Central, and even live in Holland Park. But her Ladyship candidly revealed she knows absolutely nothing of how families in the village live. Rather pathetically, she talked of how her key insights came from visiting some ghastly state school for two days. Two whole days.
And that's a big problem for the entire Prog Con. Their lives are every bit as privileged and detached from everyday life as the Tory frontbench - possibly more so. Yet the way they harangue and campaign for the order and control life of village life, you'd imagine they knew more than the villagers themselves.
The sad reality is that they can't even spot a party killer when he comes up and massages their egos.