John Gibson: Talk posh and the job will be yours

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Looking for a job? Aren’t we all? Here’s one for you courtesy of this column. What you do first is chap on the Ministry of Defence’s door in Whitehall, whereupon you’ll be greeted by a chinless wonder.

Jobs galore. They’ve just launched a drive to recruit 10,000 men and women for the Army, coinciding with the sacking of 5,000 soldiers still with the sand of Afghanistan and Iraq in their boots.

Beyond belief but, hey, isn’t this typical of the Ministry of Dunderheids? Yes, talk to the chinless bod on the door, tell him you’re a rookie, add hastily that you’re an Old Etonian, just like our calamitous Prime Minister, and the job’s yours. Officer material of course. Pays well.

It’s Porty time

You never know what shenanigans they’ll get up to next at Portobello Town Hall. They do say, though, that variety is the spice of life. It was professional (all-in) wrestling, then kick-boxing and now, in one of the latest trends, something called kundalini. Not to be confused with Mussolini.

For kundalini you don a turban and organic sheepskin. Demi Moore is a fan and I’ve asked a Porty person to tell me when she takes a class. I’ll let her borrow my bucket and spade.

Afterwords . . .

. . . Stone me, this is Charlie Watts talking: “I collect things. Books. Not antiquarian books. Signed first editions of mostly 20th century writers. Agatha Christie, I’ve got every book she wrote in paperback. Graham Greene, I have all of them. Evelyn Waugh, he’s another one. Wodehouse, everything he wrote.”

Reading between the lines, smarter than the average Stone.