Jon Snow was at Glastonbury. While he was there, among his kind of people, he joined in with the chant “Fuck the Tories!” Nobody with half an eye on his sleeve, where he wears his heart, pumping blood red with Corbynism, believes otherwise. Snow says he has no recollection of that, but of course he would say that. Blame it on the adrenalin, blame it on the hallucinogens, blame it on the booze; he hasn’t denied it. Did it happen, did it not - it doesn’t matter; we’ve all already made up our minds.
Those on the left want it to be true because it’s what they want, too. Those on the right want it to be true because it exposes him, once more, as not the neutral, dispassionate reporter he wants to appear. We all like to think we’re impartial when it comes down to things we should be impartial about, but we’re only human. Representing a news outlet there is a fanciful idea that a professional can do it without bias, but he’s only human.
Besides, this was in his spare time; this time he wasn’t being paid to be the mouthpiece of morose anit-liberal leftist opinion; he was just enjoying himself. Which is a rare thing, I’m told as grumpy old Jon Snow can be a prickly character off-camera. Let’s face it, you’d be grumpy if everywhere you went people shouted out “You know nothing, Jon Snow!” In his village he is known as a curmudgeonly old grouch but filled with like-minded killjoys, he generally rubs along.
Although there was that incident with O’Malley’s dog. O’Malley used to be a neighbour of Snow’s and when they lived next door he owned an Alsatian puppy, a great big, gangly, long-legged, sharp-toothed rascal of a thing who went through chew-toys as if they were sweets. In his early years this dog destroyed shoes, slippers, towels, blankets; you name it, he ate it... and Jon Snow took an instant dislike as the dog’s happy growling drifted across the garden fence to disturb his revery.
He peered over the fence, glared at the dog and summoned O’Malley to an impromptu conference. “Can’t you do anything about your dog?” he snapped. O’Mally replied, “Sure, he’s just a pup. He’ll grow out of it.” Snow wasn’t satisfied and said so in no uncertain terms. O’Malley was emollient but Snow was having none of it. As he raised his voice, his cheeks grew redder and he delivered a diatribe on social responsibility, the duties of a neighbour and what was and was not acceptable in polite society.
Now Jon Snow likes to sport a Panama and on this particular day a particularly expensive example crowned his grey locks. Mid rant, a gust of wind lofted the hat from his head and it floated off, into the path of the inquisitive puppy. The hat stood no chance and in seconds it was in tatters. Snow demanded recompense. O’Malley just shrugged; after all, the dog was just doing what came naturally and nobody had snatched the hat from Snow’s possession. “It was just an accident,” said O’Malley. “I don’t like your attitude” challenged Snow. O’Malley thought for a moment, then replied “I t’ink you’ll find it’s your ‘at ‘e chewed!”
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