It would be unfair to the equine race to describe this man as a horse's ass. Dogs would puke if forced to break their fast on this fare. It is pure mashed potato. It is worse than vacuous. It is a farrago. A tissue of lies . A spiel of porkies.
He writes (I would rather have my teeth extracted with a lawn mower than quote this, but someone has to do it):
Since 1997, Britain has changed in some ways more fundamentally than new Labour promised. It is a different country - richer, fairer, more confident. I also think it is being driven forward by a new spirit. I call it the politics of "I can". The era of "I can" is the culmination of the long decline of deference and automatic authority. It is the late flowering of individual autonomy and control.
This from someone who might most kindly be described as a New Labour apparatchik. A man who salivates at the idea of automatic authority. An intellectual runt. A man who could give a goldfish a run for its..whatever it had a minute ago but has now forgotten. A spavined mule in the horse-race of intellectual creation, a moped amongst racing cars, a sway-backed, gap-toothed ninny, dribbling and mewling and saying `I can' when not only can he not but the contemplation of the independence of mind and spirit necessary to honestly make that claim would leave him shivering and white with fear. The man is a skipjack, a witless jack-in-office with one eye to the main chance and the other on the lowest common denominator of the voters' aspirations. I say to him `a pox on your ambitions, a pox on your sententious drivel and a pox on your asinine article!'