Pie of the Week: Snowdens of Harden

Britain’s greatest living comedian
Justin Fletcher at Camp Bestival 2009 by StuBramley is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Can a pie turn around the fortunes of the Labour Party?

You’d think not. However, in pies, like post-Brexit politics, there is no logic. Keir Starmer would understand. He’s sitting there watching Justin’s House with his kids, thinking how similar it is to PMQ’s thinking:

“There’s no justice!

“The PM lies all the time, is corrupt, can’t talk in sentences and displays levels of stupidity previously thought mathematically-implausible resulting in more lives lost than the first week of the Somme and lefties still hate me more than him!”

At times like these, even Justin Fletcher (the uncrowned king of UK comedy in my book), might struggle to achieve the weapons-grade levels of chirpiness required.

Starmer, like many Labour activists struggling to come to terms with their reverses, needs something that offers comfort at the same time as widening horizons; something that summons up nostalgia for the innocence of childhood at the same time as the shocked wonder of Stout Cortez upon a peak in Darien; something better than sharing a workplace with Boris Johnson.

Snowdens of Harden

A hot pie from Snowden and Sons of Harden might just be the thing. So long as he had the necessary technique and discipline to avoid the novice’s trap of being lured in by the aroma and going big on the first bite. This frequently leads to a dangerous venting of hot juices, clothing damage and possible hospitalisation from scalding.

Apparently, the PM’s advisers tried to get him to eat one during the 2019 election but it was ruled out as he still has to have his food broken up for him in a dish. Plus, if he smells flesh there’s always a danger he might attempt some crude “charm” with it.

The strain is clearly telling on the face of the Labour Leader. Photo: Jimmy Andrex

The worryingly soft, sweet, yet savoury, assault on the leader of the opposition’s palate might be something he can think about whenever Jeremy Corbyn pops up on Twitter to say that nothing bad that happened while he was leader was his fault.

Or when Richard Burgon (the Cambridge-educated son of an MP, who I once saw at a rally doing what I thought was a really funny Dennis Skinner impression until I realised that’s how he actually talks in public), pops up on Twitter to say something obvious to flesh out his working-class hero pose. Nudge-nudge, wink-wink, knoworrimean, eh?

It is not for me to compare myself with Marcel Proust again, but I suspect Starmer’s taste memory could kick in to give him the will to carry on and not do anything rash, like, say, sacking someone. It would certainly be of more comfort than the knowledge that an acquaintance of mine, Zena Barrie, a gifted writer and organiser of several successful fringe festivals, has written a string of highly charged erotic short stories about and starring the Labour leader front and centre. Ooh Missus.

If you, the reader, have got this far and don’t know who Justin Fletcher is, aren’t familiar with Keats, or have never demanded a hot pork pie in the local butchers then, I’m sorry, but you’ve no business calling Starmer, or any politician, “out-of-touch”. Furthermore, your arguments, whatever they may be, have been rendered irrelevant and will evaporate like the steam that bubbles out of a Snowden’s pie’s perfect circle of pastry ventilation.

Unless you’re a vegetarian, in which case, why are you so interested in pork pies?

We may need to talk.

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