A memorable conversation

What really* happened when Crosby and Cameron talked.

The scene: 10 Downing Street. The Prime Minister is seated at a desk. Enter a stout Australian man.

David Cameron: Ah, Lynton, come in.

Lynton Crosby: G’day Dave.

DC: I’d prefer ‘Prime Minister’.

LC: But this is the Aussie straight-talking that you pay me for Davey-boy.

DC: That’s when I’m wearing my Conservative leader’s hat. For the purposes of this conversation I’m wearing my Prime Minister’s hat.

LC: But you’re not wearing a hat, David. Jeez, it’s lucky you hired a top dog like me to tell you what's what.

DC: It’s an expression. Look, I need to talk to you about something.

LC: What is it?

DC: I can’t say.

LC: Why not?

DC: Because then we’d definitely have had a conversation about it.

LC: Is this the plain cig…

DC: (Tersely) I said I don’t want to have a conversation about it.

LC: So what’s this conversation we’re having now?

DC: That’s the problem. That’s what I want to have a conversation about.

LC: You want to have a conversation about having had a conversation about something without having the conversation or ever having had it.

DC: Yes.

LC: Have you tried forgetting the conversation?

DC: What do you mean?

LC: Well, if you need to have a conversation about something but you don’t want to have had that conversation the usual thing is to forget that you ever had the conversation. That way, when someone asks you if you had the conversation, you can say: “I don’t recall any conversation.”

DC: Of course! How could I have forgotten to say I don’t remember.

LC: That’s why you pay me the big bucks. Is that all? It’s just that I’ve got a meeting with another client …

DC: Well, there is one thing. About these clients of yours ...

LC: Is this another conversation we won’t remember.

DC: No, this is about a conversation you have to remember. It’s from back when I first hired you. You agreed to abide by certain principles of engagement  to avoid conflicts of interest.

LC: I don’t remember that conversation.

DC: We’re having it now.

LC: Right now?

DC: Yes, this is it. Read this memo that Jeremy from the civil service put together about how being a corporate lobbyist four days a week won’t be a problem when you’re advising me one day a week. I think you'll find it captures the essence of the conversation, so now we can all remember having had it.

LC: (Skims memo) Right, of course. It’s all coming back to me now, Prime Minister.

DC: That’s why I pay you the big bucks.

Curtain.

 

 

 

 

*not really.

 

Rafael Behr is political columnist at the Guardian and former political editor of the New Statesman

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A glossary of football’s most hackneyed phrases – and what they mean

This is the time of the season when we all get tired. Time to break out the cliches.

This is the time of the season when we all get tired. The players, poor petals, are exhausted. The refs have had enough of being shouted at. The hot-dog sellers are running out of hot dogs. And the TV commentators, bless ’em, are running out of clichés. So, between now and the end, look out for the following tired old phrases, well-worn adjectives and hackneyed descriptions, and do feel sorry for them. They know not what they are doing.

It will go right to the wire. In the case of the Prem, this isn’t even true. Leicester are as good as there. It is only true of the Championship, where three teams – Burnley, Middlesbrough and Brighton – are on 87 points each, with the fourth team miles away. Now that will go to the wire. The phrase comes from those pre-war reporters in the US who telegraphed their copy. When it didn’t get through, or they’d never filed it, being too lazy or too drunk, they would blame the technology and say, “It’s down to the wire.”

Dead men walking. This is when the pundits decide to hold a seance in the studio, taking advantage of Alan Shearer having sent us all to sleep. It also refers to Pellegrini of Man City and Hiddink of Chelsea. They have known for ages they’re dead parrots, not long for this life, with their successors lined up even while their bodies are still warm. I think a moment of silence is called for. “Dead men walking” refers only to football. Must not be used in connection with other activities, such as media. When someone is sacked on a newspaper, they immediately get sent home on gardening leave, just in case they manage to introduce a spot of subversion into the classified ads, such as: “Five underpants carefully kept; make up; red dungarees; offers considered, Kent.” (The first letters of each word give it away, tee hee.)

World class. The number-one phrase when they can’t think of any other synonyms for what was quite good. As well as goals, you now hear of world-class throw-ins, world-class goal kicks, world-class haircuts
and world-class pies in the press room at half-time, yum yum.

He’s got a hell of a left peg. That’s because he borrowed it from his mam when she was hanging out the washing.

He’s got it in his locker. The fool. Why did he leave his left peg there? No wonder he keeps falling over.

And the sub is stripped off, ready to come on. So it’s naked football now, is it?

Old-fashioned defending. There’s a whole lexicon to describe brutal tackles in which the defender kicks someone up in the air, straight to A&E.

Doing the dirty work/putting himself about/an agricultural tackle/left his calling card. Alternative clichés that every commentator has in his locker for when yet another world-class, manic, nasty, desperate physical assault is committed by a player at Sunderland, Newcastle and Norwich, currently scared shitless about going down and losing their three Bentleys.

Opened up his body. This is when an operation takes place on the field, such as open-heart surgery, to work out whether any Aston Villa player has got one. OK – it is, in fact, one of the weary commentator’s nicer compliments. He can’t actually describe what the striker did, as it was so quick, so clever, and he totally missed it, but he must have done something with his body, surely. Which isn’t even correct, either. You shoot with your feet.

Very much so. This is a period phrase, as popularised by Sir Alf Ramsey. He got it into his head he must talk proper, sound solemn, or at least like a trade union leader of the times, so instead of saying “yes” he would say “very much so”. It’s having a comeback. Listen to Glen Hoddle – I guarantee that between now and the end of the season he’ll say it ten times, whenever someone has interrupted and he wants to get back to the aperçu he was about to share with us.

Most unpredictable Premier season ever. Or so Sky is telling us, on the hour, meaning “since last season”, which was the most unpredictable one since, er, the season before that.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism