Consider Alex Massie’s latest snippet in The Spectator and see if it reminds you of a huge fat fcuker, who lies constantly, is a total pain in the arse and who costs the British taxpayer hundreds of thousands of pounds each year:
*Made, if mermory serves, in Eamonn Doran’s nightclub in Dublin, circa 1996. This was an evening that culminated with the discovery of George Foulkes slumped unconscious in the cloakroom. In fact, the noble lord (as he is now) had made a kind of nest for himself, using punters’ jackets to cushion his comfortably-sized frame and, once awoken, needed a pair of helpers to guide him back to his hotel. Mr Foulkes had been addressing the Dubin University Soccer Appreciation Society and refreshments had been served. Before retiring to the cloakroom he had been in fine voice, belting out the Hearts song while lurching across the dance floor to the bemusement and, it must be said, amusement of all present. Unlike some of the society’s guests, however, Mr Foulkes did not sleep with any of the members.
There is no truth in the rumour that he had a homosexual relationship with the soon to be former Speaker of the House and that was why he was popping up and down on every TV channel in the country the other week.