The Charisma Secrets of Ed Miliband

The latest title in our Modern Statesmanship series provides a comprehensive account of the charisma secrets of  Labour leader and would-be Prime Minister 'Ed Miliband'. With the election looming what could be a better time to buy ten copies or more as gifts for your friends, relatives and work colleagues.
























Look inside this book...

Prince Charming

Ridicule is nothing to be scared of.

For Twitchers

Upon the news of its appearance there, I and a party of excited fellow-twitchers raced to the Seahaven nature reserve in the hope of glimpsing the extremely rare Fregata Aquila- the Ascension  Frigatebird. There we stood, bedecked with the best binoculars buckets of money could buy, pelted by the rain in the Channel gales until we were frozen to our cores. Then suddenly from behind a storm-lashed clump of reed it appeared- a majestic, haughty creature, robed in many-hued splendour.  A cry went up, and the battery of binoculars was swiftly trained in the direction of the beautiful bird. Alas our efforts were in vain, however, as we were all twitching so severely we could not hold our binoculars steady enough for a decent view. All that could be seen was a vague bird-like blur, dancing against the background of the reed beds. There remained nothing but to retire to a local hostelry to revive our sluggish circulations with a  drop of stimulant.

Subsequently some good did spring from the disappointment, as on the trip home I made preliminary sketches of a new device that might help twitchers everywhere, sketches that have at last led to the launch of the revolutionary 'Gynocular', pictured below:

This remarkable new invention will free twitchers from the effects of their tremors, allowing them to see stable images of their beloved birds. Two stylish and unobtrusive gyroscopes are attached near the objective lenses of the binoculars, carefully configured to rotate around mutually orthogonal axes, providing near-perfect stabilisation. The Gynoculars are available in two variants: the Standard, in which the gyroscopes are manually brought up to speed by pulling a string, and the Deluxe, in which the gyroscopes are accelerated by battery power. The Deluxe is particularly recommended for twitchers, since the gyros in the Standard version are a bugger to thread with shaky hands.
Twitchers will know a good thing when they see it (those years of bird-watching, after all), and will surely wish to click at once to my E-bay shop to take advantage of early-bird discounts now on offer.

The Theory of Everything

I confess I have been cruel in the pages of this blog in poking affectionate fun at my ex-pupil Stephen Hawking and his somewhat slow mental processes. But old habits die hard. Notoriously, I do not suffer fools at all well, so you will imagine how frustrating it was to me, some sixty years ago, to find myself appointed Stephen's private tutor by his anxious parents, who were naturally fearful lest Stephen grow to be an adult version of the dunce he had appeared throughout his unimpressive childhood. I did my best, as can be seen by his success, such as it is, but sows ears are sows ears. To think what he might have achieved, with my guidance, had he more natural ability.
To relieve the tedium and frustration of our lessons I often used to rib him on those many occasions upon which he failed to appreciate some point I was attempting to press upon him. The humour was largely one-sided I regret to say, as Stephen has no sense of humour whatsoever. I remember him once asking me to explain the chain of reasoning that had led me to develop the concepts of asymmetric boson exchange- the idea that paved the way to what became known as the Grand Unification Theory. Oh it was just a GUT feeling, I said. Characteristically he didn't get the joke, until it was explained to him. (Three times, I recall.)

Scott Grisham

Scott Grisham. US author of low-brow legal thrillers, often confused with John Turow. Novels include: 'The Formula' (2003),  'Presumed Indifferent' (1984).

Extract from 'The Formula'. Portly middle-aged Harry Rex Horgan- a fearless litigator with a brutal work-schedule, four brutal  ex-wives and a drink problem- is conducting a brutal cross of the defendant, a dignified elderly personage accused of libelling famous author Scott Grisham. The case is being heard under Mississippi state law by Judge Hiram Oldenshaw in the ceremonial court in Clanton, Kindle County...

Harry Rex nodded doubtfully at the defendant in the witness box. 'So, Professor, if I understand you correctly you are asking us to believe that in dismissing my client's books as...' Harry read from a paper in his hand...'"formulaic, over-padded, cliché-ridden junk that no self-respecting person should be seen dead reading", you are expressing a genuinely-held belief."

'Correct.'

'And the we can take it, therefore, that you are not a fan of my client's work?'

'Correct.'

Harry Rex paused for a moment, staring reflectively at the rich patina of the old oak panelling in the majestic courtroom. Every one of the jurors was watching him. The pause seemed entirely natural, as if  the burdened mind of a dedicated lawyer was struggling to divine the truth. But the pause, its timing and its duration, like the rest of the cross was the product of more than $1million of research and rehearsals. Before the trial had even started an abandoned warehouse near Clanton had been converted by a team of movie-set constructors into an exact facsimile of the court room. Proxy jurors had been hired and psychologically profiled. Actors had been made up to resemble the judge and the defendant. Every aspect of the trial had been thoroughly rehearsed again and again by the claimant's legal team. Even the pause Harry Rex was now making had been tried in several variants of duration, with the proxy jury asked to say which seemed the most convincing. Nothing was left unconsidered. The budget for the legal work was limitless, as at stake was something priceless- the ego of an author.
used to mimic the l had all bee duration and its He appeared to make a decision, and nodded at Pamela Swikowitz, his beautiful young paralegal. Swikowitz passed over a manila envelope from which Harry Rex extracted a glossy 9 by 7 of what seemed to be a luxuriously appointed bathroom. The area around the toilet appeared to be strewn with books. He held the photograph in front of him and addressed the defendant.

'Professor, do you recognise the subject of this photograph?'

The Professor shifted uneasily in the witness box. 'I do.'

'Would you please tell us what it shows?'

The Professor cleared his throat. 'It shows one of the bathrooms in my Central Park apartment.'

'One of the bathrooms?' Harry's eyebrows were raised, as was the incredulous tone of his voice. 'Is it just one of the bathrooms in that apartment?'

The Professor ignored the question and stared out across the crowded courtroom with a look of regal defiance.

'I have a deposition here from Matilda de Morta, a member of the domestic staff at your Central Park apartment. In it she states that the bathroom appearing in this photograph was you own personal bathroom, and I quote "reserved exclusively for the

Professor Lord Robert 'Ray' Winstone

English medical doctor, scientist, television presenter, politician and actor, famous for 'tough-guy' roles  ('Nil by Mouth', 'Scum', etc).

Coincidentally, I caught 'Ray' on Desert Island Discs this morning. It's amazing how Kirsty puts her guest at their ease, and gets them to lower their guard. Gone were the pompous, inflated tones we associate with Lord Winston's speeches in the Lords, and instead we heard the genuine, unadorned cockney patois of his childhood days in south London, where he combined and early interest in medicine with a love of amateur boxing. It cannot be a surprise to anyone that he has made such a fist of his medical career since.

The Hoarse Whisperer

Except in my capacity as chair of the Academy Awards Prizes Committee I rarely watch movies. Yesterday, however, surfeited with festive food, I was to be found recumbent in an armchair in the vicinity of a television receiver, the remote control for which was inconveniently beyond my grasp. As a result I was subjected to a broadcast of 'The Hoarse Whisperer', a film in which the lead is played by my one-time student Robert Redford. I was suffering at the time from that itinerant mental condition, a wandering attention, so I cannot be sure that I understood entirely the plot of the film, but I gathered that its central character was a man who could calm highly strung animals through the soporific qualities of his voice. I can quite understand why Redford was cast for the part, given his mumbling incoherent speech patterns. Whether hoarse whisperers really  can exercise such powers over animals I cannot say for certain, but I am willing to believe it, as I was fast asleep myself before the first adverts.