Jack Straw's Cock

No, I did not say "Jack Straw's A Cock", but I suppose if the cap fits...

Jack Straw, looking like a refugee from a 1968 university campus. In 1978.

A friend of mine contacted me earlier today, via the gift of electronic mail, in order to relate a remarkable coincidence which he experienced last evening. After meeting some of his friends for a nice plate of supper, he travelled from Barbican to Kings Cross/St. Pancras on our metropolis's wonderful underground system. En route, he encountered a stocky, shaven-headed gentleman whom he at first glance took to be Mr. Bob Crow, the leader of the Rail, Maritime and Transport union. The gentleman then turned around, revealing himself not to be "the firebrand trade union militant" (© The Daily Mail).

Thus satisfied that he was not, in fact, in the vicinity of Mr. Crow, my friend alighted the underground train at St. Pancras, ascended the stairs to the main station concourse, and bumped into... Mr. Bob Crow, the leader of the Rail, Maritime and Transport union, "the firebrand trade union militant" (© The Daily Mail). The real one. My friend exchanged pleasantries with Mr. Crow, and alighted his train in a state of some bewilderment at the turn of events.

In my life, I have experienced coincidence, but nothing quite like that. However, it did take me back to one occasion where I encountered a figure from the murky world of politics in rather curious circumstances. I was driving back from Liverpool to London one pleasant Sunday evening some years ago, when I decided to take a "comfort break". I pulled off the motorway at the Warwick Service Station, parked my Jaguar motor car, and made my way to the gentleman's conveniences. 

Whilst at the urinal, I had cause to glance to my left, and there, at the urinal next to mine, was the "Right Honourable" Member of Parliament for Blackburn, and (at the time) Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth affairs, Mr. John Whitaker Straw, better known as "Jack". So surprised was I by the incongruity of the Blairite war criminal appearing next to me in order to urinate, I performed what I believe is known as a "double take", which had the unfortunate concomitant effect of my gaze alighting upon the ministerial penis.

I say "ministerial" advisedly. "Magisterial", it certainly was not. It looked a little sorry for itself, actually. Hanging its head in shame. In which capacity, I suppose, it was abjectly attempting to compensate for its master not having the humility to so do for his crimes against many thousands of innocents in Iraq.

Mr. Straw finished the evacuation of his bladder before I finished mine (several shakes, in his case, bordering on a wank), and scuttled off, pausing only to flick his fingers of his right hand (i.e. his "grip hand", as it were) in an insouciant manner under a running tap for around a second and a half. No soap was applied to either hand at any juncture during the course of this dexterity. At this point, I was grateful that his ministerial portfolio covered Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs, and not Health.

I finished my ablutions, washed my hands thoroughly with soap and hot water (up to the elbows, in fact), and left the conveniences, whereupon mine eyes did alight upon the minister ,striding across the concourse of the building, clutching a copy of The Sunday Telegraph and a bottle of mineral water, both recently purchased, and probably at a cost to the UK taxpayer of several hundred pounds. At this point, he was joined by another man whom I took to be his ministerial chauffeur, and they strode off purposefully towards a  dark blue Jaguar car, to which Mr. Straw was entitled given his ministerial portfolio.

A thought crossed my mind; would it not be fitting, given the relative parity in performance in our similar vehicles, if I were to level my vehicle with Mr. Straw's and then suffer a slight "lapse in concentration" which would result in my veering towards the inside lane and forcing the ministerial Jaguar into the Armco barrier next to the hard shoulder, thus atoning a little  for the injustices perpetrated upon ordinary, innocent Iraqis by the West's insatiable greed for cheap oil? Thus, I dashed across the car park and, in the manner of a Le Mans start I jumped into my vehicle, fired up the engine, and sought out the mendacious member for Blackburn.

Sadly, however, my quest was fruitless; I was bound by the law of the land and my own conscience in maintaining a safe and sensible velocity, conducive to the prevailing driving conditions. It would seem that Mr. Straw's driver had no such reservations, and that he seemingly had mashed his handmade brogues into the Axminster and disappeared many miles down the southbound carriageway, conveying him and "The Demon Headmaster" on their way to Mr. Straw's "grace and favour" Westminster residence.

It is a source of eternal regret to me, to this day, that I did not snatch this precious opportunity to urinate onto the shoes of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. However, I console myself with the fact that my conscience is clear, whilst his hands have the blood of thousands on them, in addition to his own stale, fetid piss.

Do others have similar experiences to relate?