Devil’s Advocate
John Major
Where Beatmag Defends The Indefensible
Writer and mysterious musical artist Nag’s Head defends the Grey Man
It’s easy to feel like one of the little people, powerless to challenge the injustice of the world. Maybe you think your life is going nowhere fast. A quick look at the rise and fall of John Major could change all of this. He proves that anyone can realise their true potential, and even reach the highest public office in a small island off the coast of Norway. His example is a beacon of hope to us all.
John Roy Major grew up in Brixton as the son of a trapeze artist. After helping his dad run a garden-gnome business into bankruptcy John left school at 16, with three O-Levels. So far I admit he doesn’t look too special, but this is my point. Almost every other prime minister in British history spent their youth being buggered into submission at one of our finest private educational establishments, before being given a leg-up straight into the cabinet. Our hero, on the other hand, was refused a job as a bus conductor upon leaving school, because he was too short. He dragged himself out of this rut by taking correspondence courses in banking. His gritty determination paid off in the late 1960s, as he became a well-paid banker, whilst everybody else his age turned into a smelly pile of useless hippies. He managed all of this despite being afflicted with an overly large philtrum (the moustache-shaped area above the top lip).
Major had a vision for Britain, and decided to spread the word by standing on a soapbox in Brixton Market. Instead of being made to go and join all the other undesirables at Speakers’ Corner, this stunning political innovation sped him through the ranks. In 1990 he became Prime Minister without anybody ever voting for him, which demonstrates a true mastery of blagging techniques.
Major ran the country for seven years. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but he captained the good ship Britannia through some pretty stormy seas. He was actually winging it by the seat of his grey underpants, just like all politicians. The garden-gnome shaped demons from his childhood came back to haunt him in 1992 on Black Wednesday. The Pound crashed out of the ERM, wiping out billions of pounds in gold reserves. Our man apparently spent a significant part of that day hiding in a cupboard at 10 Downing Street. Wouldn’t you if you made a gaff like that? Most of us wouldn’t come back out, but John Major did. He rolled up his sleeves, gritted his teeth, and in 1997 suffered the worst Conservative election defeat of the 20th century.
There is also the small matter of his four-year affair with that gob-on-legs Edwina Currie. We all make some shocking mistakes in the sexy department, and Major came out of his looking pretty tasty. In Currie’s own words her romance with Major was ‘spectacularly good, for such a long time’. It’s apparent that between the sheets this man transformed into a rampant wildebeest of sweet, sweet lovemaking. Currie also revealed that Major ‘really had quite a Machiavellian streak about him’. Not only was he the peoples’ champion, but scratch the surface, and it appears he was total man candy to boot.
Most of all I like to think of Major as a prophet of hope. Check this shit out:
‘Fifty years on from now, Britain will still be the country of long shadows on cricket grounds, warm beer, invincible green suburbs, dog lovers and pools fillers’
I despise cricket, and I’m no great flag-waver, but he was just trying to make us feel all cosy and warm. Of course, at the time I thought he was talking out of his arse, but with hindsight I have seen a warped beauty in his vision. Unlike Blair, Major wasn’t trying to ‘civilise’ the entire world into thinking just like him. He just wanted us little folk to live peaceful, decent lives. It’s a shame that the government he presided over only served to do the exact opposite, but he meant well.
Nobody likes politicians, let alone prime ministers, but I really like John Major. I like him more and more with each passing year. Those icecaps just keep on melting, and that unfortunate business in Mesopotamia threatens to spill over and vomit total annihilation upon us all. As we head for hell in a handcart the time has come to rewrite the book on The Grey Man.
