EXCLUSIVE: Slog signs Conservative Party Grandee Farquinelle Warwick-Hunte

slograndeeWarwick-Hunte….prolific diarist

Dark stalking eminence grise Tory horse diarist set to bring his mediaeval nouveau-riche insights to bear.

December 15th 2014

Dame Celia Bajère-Gazeure having given me advance notice of an intended visit yesterday evening, I dismissed Old Rope the retainer and set about defrosting some of last year’s oysters, while chilling a bottle of the ’84 Krug. Celia is a cyclical sort of gel, and usually her soi-invitée messages preface matters of a conjugal nature.

But being a sensitive fellow, I noted immediately on her arrival that she was wearing knickers, and a somewhat glum visage. And so horizontal gymnastics seeming unlikely, I quietly put the aphrodisiacs away, and rang Rope to tell him his presence would be required after all. He can be a bolshie chap at times and – as he protested that he had already commenced his supper – I gently reminded him of the clause in our zero-hours contract allowing me to sell all his grandchildren to a Malaysian Hedge Fund in the event of any undue truculence on his part. He was back in a trice.

It seems Celia is concerned that Dark Forces are fracking under her house. This is indeed disturbing news, as I thought I had agreed with that cad Osborne at our last donations meeting that all subterranean activities would take place in Socialist constituencies. When I rang him to complain, it was yet again clear that he’d been at the Poppy crop, but eventually I spoke to his next door neighbour and received a blanket denial from the Prime Minister. A blanket denial from Cameron is about as comforting as a sign saying ‘This way to the Showers’, but I suppose it is all I shall get for the moment.

Impressed as ever by my access to the Opium Dens of Power, Celia began to show signs of carnal moisture, and so Old Rope was dismissed once more. The man slammed my door behind him, muttering darkly as he did so. He really is a ghastly old curmudgeon. I think I may eat him, slowly braised, on Boxing Day. Or possibly confit him in goose-fat ready for use during the colder days of January. We shall see.


Although I have always found it regrettable that the United States of America rejected our civilising influence, I am in awe of the ability of their more dysfunctional citizens to wipe themselves out at regular intervals. I fancy this stems from the admirable policy allowing all Americans uninhibited access to arms: because whether intended or not, it does seem to act as an effective and regular cull.

So it is that I read in my electronic Daily Morrow today of a military veteran in Philadelphia who has shot dead his family and neighbours. Only the right sort of army training could’ve produced such an efficient result. I fancy there is a lesson for us all in this.