If I were to tell you that Christine Hamilton gave me a hug, you’d probably puke on your shoe. But try as I might, I can’t provoke the same reaction in myself.
Perhaps it’s because I view politicians on the professional and ultimately superficial level of a jobbing snapper. Were they polite, did they co-operate, were they – you know – a good laugh. And the Hamiltons, the most infamous of media tarting tories (Christine is however keen to point out she didn’t vote Blue), know the game.
So the story was well, ahem, flimsy. The sort of thing that’d make a diary piece ordinarily. The Hamiltons’ lost the keys to their posh flat. But as a bit of Fringe fluff, and safe in the knowledge that they’d make a good bright picture it seems churlish to deny them a little space as they attempt to draw in the crowds. Especially as when I told Neil to ‘harumph more – you’re a Tory’ he gladdingly obliged as well as feigning disgust at the de rigeur plastic cups of the Udderbelly’s VIP bar The Abbatoir.