LAST Thursday was a beautiful day. A day, if you had a spare few hours, to be out enjoying England at its very best. Only an idiot, a stalker, or a brainless errand boy would choose to be sitting, bored stiff, in a windowless municipal room.
But that was the destination of choice for disgraced ex-MP Shahid Malik’s two goons, Paul Moore and Dathan Tedesco.
They sat for hours on end at Huddersfield Magistrates, in giddy anticipation like a couple of nappy-wetting toddlers, just to see me spend two minutes confirming my name and address, and plead not guilty to assault.
How pathetic is that?
But my two moronic stalkers loved it – taking joy in gloating over my perceived misfortunes.
When my case was adjourned the previous week, they and their internet troll friends were damping down their mattresses in glee at the thought I’d absconded and was a fugitive! (These people create false identities to follow me on Twitter and Facebook, to try trip me up.)
But here’s the thing – this is the ‘quality’ of people who are scheming and conniving to choose your Parliamentary Labour candidate. Really.
Paul Moore came over with Malik from Burnley in 2004; he fancies himself as a bit of a ‘minder’ in a brooding, Jack Palance kind of way.
On Wednesday I visited the Chickenley Community Centre to ask Paul Moore how he got his job there, whether his personal relationships had any bearing on the appointment, and if he came to gloat over me in court in work time.
I failed, because before I got to that he threatened – then promised – to hunt me down and “have me” if I dragged his “missus” into my professional inquiries (and now that I’ve stopped laughing, if the police feel minded to take a statement, I’m happy to cooperate – always play it legal, me!)
The thing is, while the girl I spoke to in the centre thought Moore was the manager, it’s actually supposed to be ... Coun Cathy Scott.
It seems Savile Town isn’t the only place where milking public funds is a speciality of Labour Party activists – although in a spirit of fair play, I’m sure far more worthwhile work goes on with Scott/Moore at Chickenley than at the Taleem Centre.
Dathan Tedesco meanwhile came late to Malik’s party, the junior hanger-on behind Moore and Terry McKay. At least McKay walked away from the disgraced Malik.
Sitting in back of the court in Huddersfield, you couldn’t quite see Malik’s hands up Moore and Tedesco’s backsides, but they were there in spirit, no doubt.
The great irony here is that while Shahid Malik is desperately trying to beg a Labour candidacy somewhere, anywhere, his meddling in Dewsbury has blown up in his face.
Coun Karen Rowling was shoe-horned into the Dewsbury West Labour role by courtesy of an All-Women selection process and Malik’s patronage. She was emplaced to help assure his return to power for 2015.
When the national Labour Party then decided on All Women for this seat in the next general election, it was Rowling who took the complaints to London.
I was going to say thankfully Malik/Rowling’s pleas fell on deaf ears, but the danger now is that thanks to the politicking and power-mongering of Malik’s stooges – led by Rowling, Moore and Tedesco – the town could end up with either Rowling or Cathy Scott standing for MP.
And just to emphasise how cosy this little cabal is, Dewsbury Labour vice-chairman Tedesco gives his ‘constituency’ address (he must have one) in Chickenley.
But who really lives there? Well, unless I’m grievously mistaken, that’s Cathy Scott’s mum’s house. I’ve put the question to Coun Scott but received no reply.
And I don’t know about you, but I think getting an elderly lady messed up in these sorts of shenanigans is poor form.
So believe me, if you think Simon Reevell as a part-time MP is taking the mickey – and I certainly do – then think what you could end up with.
It might not be gentlemanly to insult a ‘laydee’, but if either Scott or Rowling actually think they are MP material, then either they are delusional, or we really are halfway down the toilet bowl.
They would be the final flush.
DESPITE the fact that I flirted briefly with standing for the Tories (and yes, it would have ended in tears!) I really couldn’t care less which party wins the Dewsbury and Mirfield seat.
I care about the quality and passion of the MP elected.
I care that it is someone who goes to Parliament to fight for investment in this town, not argue against legal aid cuts that will impact on their ‘other’ job; someone who has the guts to fight the criminal gangs and corrupt local politics.
I said much the same to Malik when he came greasing for support – that the proof would be in the pudding.
Well, as the world witnessed, his main concern was shovelling as much pudding into his bowl as he could.
If the right man or woman for Dewsbury and Mirfield is a Labour MP – someone who is not in thrall to the neanderthal meddling of people like Paul Moore and Dathan Tedesco – then well and good.
There are some fine people in the Dewsbury Constituency Labour Party, but so long as they are shanghaied by characters of the questionable ‘calibre’ of Malik’s gang, then sorry, but they have no electable credibility at all.
I’VE never claimed to be completely immune from hypocrisy. By 7pm on Tuesday I was desperate to hear the national and global news, but found myself stuck with wall-to-wall images of a pair of black double-doors, and hundreds – nay thousands – of pathetic, nappy-waving fools with clearly too much time on their hands.
If that had been an old telly, it might have found itself being drop-kicked into the back garden.
On the subject of names for the poor over-sold infant, I was leaning towards Jesus Christ, because there hasn’t been as much palaver over a birth this past two thousand or so years.
Taking a royal theme, I fancied giving the wee feller a moniker styled on one of our former glorious Crown colonies. That way he could one day have been known as ‘King Kong’ … boom, boom!
I liked the suggestion on Twitter that the modernist name ‘Ell’ could have a certain ring to it once the mite ascends the throne. King Ell (think about it). Not quite as creative was naming him Dominic – King Dom – although I did like the idea that the family’s Germanic ancestry could be worth a visit. King Adolf, anyone? No, maybe not. George is just fine, I reckon.
Just thank our lucky stars that the tot’s granddad, the increasingly unstable Prince Charles, didn’t having any input on the child’s naming, given his recent religious pronouncements.
Because if we’d have faced the prospect of one day having a King Mohammed I, then I’d have been aboard the next slow boat to nowhere. (That will still probably come to pass however … just not with this bairn).
Anyway, just as I was starting to scream at Jon Snow on Channel 4 and Julie Etchingham on ITV, out came William and Kate, not to jump hurriedly into a waiting Range Rover, but to present their precious little chap to the world’s gaze.
I recognised the pride, joy, miraculous wonder that every new parent experiences, and I was completely won over by how naturally the couple wanted to share the moment. I fair melted (I know, just a big Jessie). And as for ‘George’? That’ll do nicely.
PS: I suppose it’s too much to ask that we leave the poor child to grow up in peace for the next 18 years? Fuss over and all that…? I know.