Polly will feel right at home in Italy

If Polly Toynbee reads the hundreds of comments that her recent puff piece in CiF attracted she won't be a happy bunny. Just as Polly has spurned last year's dour lover in favour of this year's toyboy, Guardian readers have fallen out of love with Polly. The sheer vindictiveness of the left is a wonder to behold. Here at Raedwald Towers we've long known that Polly inhabited some strange parallel universe unconnected with our reality, but it seems the comrades are only just working this out. The overwhelming opinion of the Guardianistas now is that Polly is a waste of ink and newsprint. Perhaps she'll start billing herself as 'Britain's most reviled columnist' and make a USP out of it, but I doubt it. Still, there's always her Tuscan villa to jet off to.

I've no doubt that Polly's carbon conscience compels her to send twenty quid by Paypal to some bloke in Africa every time she burns a ton of aviation kerosene, and in return the bloke will tell her that thirty trees have been planted. Africa must be as lush as the Amazon these days with all those millions of new carbon-offset trees.

Polly won't mind a bit about the intrusive questions, searches and baggage restrictions, the queues or the sullen rudeness of the hordes of new jobsworths that Zanu Labour has put into fluorescent waistcoats; with Blairite Brownite Milibandian zeal she will already have deposited her fingerprints, iris scan and DNA with the police, volunteered for full body-cavity searches and will carry a card indemnifying the police should they carelessly shoot her dead for losing her boarding pass. As her aircraft streaks into London's clouded skies she can recline content in the knowledge that Zanu Labour have made Britain a happier and safer place.

And Italy has done its best to make Polly and ZNL's other Tuscanophile apparatchiks feel right at home as they start their holidays. The twelve year-old gypsies have already been fingerprinted and rounded up into ghettoes into which Italians are encouraged to throw petrol bombs; stinking refuse is piling up in the squares and piazzas, Novara has banned gatherings of three or more people at any time in an echo of a 1920 Fascist edict, and armed troops are patrolling the streets across Italy as Berlusconi tightens his media grip and is making moves to ban You Tube.

And Polly will bliss-out in Chiantishire as she slumps like a block of melting lard on her sunbed, for this is her very Labour vision for Britain; if only we saw David as she sees him, not as a weird looking wonk with a bumfluff upper lip, but as a young Adonis, an Arthur pulling the sword of socialist progress from the stone.