The Nottingham Evening Post, bless it, eventually gets hold of the Craig Cox story and runs it, with quotes from Soubry, Cox himself but not me. They must have lost my number, although I email it daily to them and am often to be found of an evening standing outside their offices in a sandwich board with it scrawled over in silver gel pen. Ah well, nice to see it appears, and then nice to watch the comments board fill up over the next few hours. I even think Cox could have been behind the more vehemently right-wing comments that were posted up. But regular readers of this little corner of the interweb know that its not my style to post up possible slander, unless its involving Gideon Osbourne, cocaine, tramps and burning money.
So I’m feeling particularly happy about this turn of events, and then find myself in a coffee bar reading the Guardian’s diary page earlier today. I suddenly remember I emailed the journalist responsible, the quite lovely Hugh Muir, while researching Mr Cox, and dropping them a few lines on him. So I see if he has made an appearance, and bloody hell, he has. Apparently hes challenging,and in a strong position, to take over as head of Conservative Future, those strangely waxy creatures that future Tories pupate from. So Muir throws in a mention of his little accident with the racist placard, and I splutter over my Americano. Beestonia has gone National. Sort of.
Anyhow, back to the Post. Soubry’s defence was ‘he was very young’ (it was less than two years ago), and there were ‘more important things to talk about’ (yes there is Anna, but that is reductive logic that would lead us to all stop thinking what socks to wear and contemplate the Meaning of Life in the morning. Its still a pretty indefensible thing to lie to the electorate AND hire a bigot, but hey! The economy! Afghanistan! ) .
Cox is contrite, unlike immediately after the event,when he bleated to The Daily Mail
‘The real story here is that the NUS wants to run a show trial that would make Stalin blush. Due process, natural justice and fairness are, in NUS eyes, mere concepts that can be readily ignored when it suits them.’These witch-hunts have got to stop. It’s about time the NUS started representing ordinary students again and stopped acting as a front for Left-wing zealots.’
He also argued he couldn’t possibly be a racist as he was gay. Fascinating logic again.
He also tries to blame his behaviour on an incredible series of hilarious events,. Cox is obviously a fan of Father Ted (Channel four have barred all the youtube clips, so heres a still image)
Sadly, Cox’s ambition is a steely thing, and I have no doubts he’ll breeze through and one day become an MP. Possibly PM, and I hope so, only if Ed Balls is Leader of the Opposition, just for the funny headline potential.
Best reaction to the story breaking was my mother. WhenI told her about it, instead of the lavish praise, she sighed, said ‘Matt, you’re really getting into dangerous territory here’ . How so? reply I ‘well, you know what happened to Dr Kelly’ . Maternal love has a great way of bending logic and amplifying worry, but I’m touched by her concern all the same.
Googling your name is always a distressing experience, as this fantastic story from fellow blogger and Nottinghamite Ben Barton relates here: http://benjaminbartonformp.wordpress.com/2010/03/25/possibly-the-worst-ever-case-of-mistaken-identity/ . Ben met David Miliband with me a few weeks ago, where I introduced myself to DM using my proper name. He gave me a funny look, and seemed rattled. This threw me too, and when I asked for his autograph/ signing the contract that will make me benign dictator, I called him ‘Dan’ . Three times. Anyhow, I have discovered why. This man is Mr Matthew Gould, MBE:
Hes presently the British Ambassador to Israel, but before this was Dan David Miliband Principal Private Secretary when DM was Foreign Secretary. So it seems I possibly led the future Prime Minister to believe I was having some sort of bizarre joke at his expense. Great. Thats two potential Prime Minister’s I’ve annoyed in the last six weeks. Exile beckons. I’m off to Venezuela. Night.