I return to the revelations of Lord Sewel’s saturnalian tendencies. On Monday night, the coppers battered down the door on his grand a month flat. A grand a month. In Pimlico? Jeepers, that’s what I call a controlled rent. Anyway, battering ram and sniffer dogs, three hour search, and three big evidence bags later, it all looks a bit bad for the naughty near-septuagenarian. Not sure why it took the rozzers so long to respond, but I’m pretty sure Sewel’s neighbours were kept awake by non-stop flushing.

Not surprisingly, opinions about this man are polarised. The one thing that unites people is disdain for his whining about £300 a day, on top of his salary, being not enough to live on. Most people, including myself, think that’s a bit self pitying. This was played out in The Times on Tuesday, and for once I have to agree with this newspaper. Mark that day down in your diaries, because it will be a long time till that happens again. The Telegraph took the opportunity to rake over some cold ashes about other political misbehaviour, curiously focusing most of its attention on the Labour Party.

Others, including the admirable Grace Dent in the i, have a sneaking admiration for the old dog. Certainly my friends largely think the old guy has a better way of looking at life than fretting about how to maximise his annuity plans. Champagne, vodka, fags, coke, and hookers is a lot more fun than looking for tax efficient ways to secure his old age. Even my local librarians, a profession not generally known for its libertarian approach to life, seem to want to give the old goat some respect.

It has to be said he had a bit of a bad start in life. Despite the fact he is Lord Sewel of Gilcomstoun in Aberdeen (crazy name, crazy place), his parents saddled him with the middle name Buttifant. What on earth were they thinking of? Can you even begin to imagine what hell he must have gone through at school? No wonder he’s gone off the rails a bit. Being called Buttifant is enough to drive anybody to drink. Not to mention drugs. And hookers.

Which brings me neatly back to the two women in question. Opinion among my friends is that 200 quid a night means he was being a bit niggardly. I’m assured by those in the know that a really high class prostitute will set you back fifteen hundred to two grand a night. He really was cutting corners wasn’t he? We can tell this from the fact that the bra he wore was orange. Not very classy that.

STOP PRESS. Even as I was writing this Buttifant threw in the towel and resigned. I wonder what Mrs Buttifant thinks about that. I imagine the atmosphere at Chateau Sewel is a bit frosty.

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