The perpetually thirsty Paul Staines and his rabble at the Guido Fawkes blog like to call out others for alleged stalking, but are clearly not adverse to a little of their own. And Staines’ tame gofer, the odious flannelled fool Henry Cole, likes to brag that, as a so-called Contributing Editor of the Spectator, he can wheedle his way into parties just by letting hosts know of his not inconsiderable presence.
I can't be stalking anyone, cos I'm on telly!
Well, yesterday evening, the Fawkes rabble were informed that media campaigning group Hacked Off were having a gathering near Brighton, to presumably set out their stall to the Labour Party on the occasion of the Conference. That they had been so informed was broadcast via the MediaGuido Twitter feed. But the bad news later in the evening came from Cole alone. Oh what a giveaway!
We're going to a party ...
So what had the Fawkes folks been up to? Well, one of their number had apparently been dispatched to try and blag his way into the Hacked Off gathering, which is believed to have been hosted by Steve Coogan. This “Plan A” was, it seems, an instant failure, with the Fawkes representative reduced to stalking the house in a vain attempt to find out what was going on inside.
... we're going to get in ...
Having been apparently made as welcome as a turd in a swimming pool, all that was left for the Fawkes rep was to invent something – anything – to justify the excursion. And it was at this point that Cole gave the game away, telling “Hear no-one has turned up to Steve Coogan’s private Hacked Off party at his house near Labour conference”. So it seems it was Cole on stalking duty.
... er, no I didn't
And the stalking had yielded nothing. But worse was to come: that Tweet was in itself a fishing expedition, hoping to get someone who was at the gathering to pipe up “yah boo bogbrush features, I was there and can report that so were A, B and C, so you’re wrong”. But takers of bait there were none. All Cole has received is a few credulous souls repeating his Ron Hopeful act as fact.
So, Hen, would you like to know who was there? Asking nicely? Saying please? Well, here goes ... er, how the bloody hell should someone typing away in Crewe know? And, let’s face it, even if I did have the faintest scrap of information about what happened chez Coogan, or didn’t, the flannelled fool would be the last person on this earth who I’d be sharing it with.
Henry Cole is desperate to know something, anything, about Hacked Off’s gathering, if only to burnish his credentials with that part of the Fourth Estate to which he and his boss have so shamelessly sold out. But his quest has been a total and utter failure. The Fawkes rabble clearly didn’t get a sniff, Cole was reduced to consoling himself watching Newsnight, and he didn’t even get Steve Coogan’s autograph.
Still, it’s excellent spectator sport. Another fine mess, once again.