Virtue Is Its Own Punishment.

I Know That The Right Kind Of Leader For The Labour Party Is A Desiccated Calculating Machine Who Must Not In Any Way Permit Himself To Be Swayed By Indignation. If He Sees Suffering, Privation Or Injustice He Must Not Allow It To Move Him, For That Would Be Evidence Of The Lack Of Proper Education Or Of Absence Of Self-control. He Must Speak In Calm And Objective Accents And Talk About A Dying Child In The Same Way As He Would About The Pieces Inside An Internal Combustion Engine.

He Brings To The Fierce Struggle Of Politics The Tepid Enthusiasm Of A Lazy Summer Afternoon At A Cricket Match.

I Welcome This Opportunity Of Pricking The Bloated Bladder Of Lies With The Poniard Of Truth

You Call That Statesmanship. I Call It An Emotional Spasm.

Trade Unions Are Islands Of Anarchy In A Sea Of Chaos.