The Visage of George.

Christening my new keyboard with all the letters on for a change. Now everyone can have the occasional unflattering picture taken of them, a moment after their fingers were caught in a car door or in the midst of eating something disgusting, but George Osborne somehow has a face that is permanently unflattering. It’s not disfigurement or genetic ugliness; it’s in the way he wears it, in how his life experience has grown it into being. I mean that’s not necessarily bad, the vast majority of us, whatever our circumstance or age, have reasonably pleasing features that, tastefully captured in a good light, can look attractive in a way that George’s three pink slabs seamed together with the usual features never will. It’s not an expression it’s something writ large in the very fabric of his visage. He’s a walking talking platitude, a bromide cliché. His face is of a parasite written in skin because in all his forty odd years he has sucked off his surroundings, picked ticks from rhinos, fed like a tapeworm off his hosts. His only consideration is whether his host has the capacity to feed him and if not he simply moves on, and on. It’s not opportunity that’s bad, we’ve all had certain privileges, a good education, good food, good friends, family and problems to overcome, but the parasite has a fundamental disconnect between privilege, opportunity and struggle. In fact as we understand the word he has not had these privileges at all; he has simply been fed without effort. All the difficulties that it has been our privilege to be formed by are absent. He has not been pushed around in his mum’s Tesco trolley, not jostled in state primary school, not struggled with a drum kit in his mate’s garage, waited in a dole queue or counted his change in a Late Shopper. It’s all these privileges of struggle that make a face attractive that shape its interest. No, George has a certain poverty moulded into the clay of the one place he can’t cover up.