It's Potty Time Again

Various uncharitable commentators, including your now duly chastened correspondent, have found it rather easy to mock at the latest flounce from the front bench by David Davis; however, it now appears that the squealing prima donna may have had the makings of that rare thing in the modern Conservative Party: a grievance that is more or less comprehensible to the average graduate from intermediate-level toilet-training and above. Paper, after all, is the one thing that defines the squealing prima donna's tenure as Minister for Britannic Independence, from the famous fictitious impact studies to the committee copy-and-pastes to what was arguably the apex of his career: that iconic portrait of Davis seated behind a paperless desk, facing down an axis of binder-toting Eurocrats with no more than an arf-arf grin. Yet, even with that record of statesmanship behind him, the first time he managed to hand something in before the deadline his nasty old headmistress not only failed to cough up the gold star, but refused even to regurgitate the jewels of his wisdom for the edification of the other infants. Fortunately, several of the noisier ones are indignant at their deprivation and have incontinently begun the usual protests from all the expectable orifices.