Brown is an unlucky bod, there's no doubt about that. I'll bet he's never once drawn the winner in the office Grand National sweepstake. If he bought a car it would be a Friday afternoon job, forever back at the dealer's having a myriad of faults rectified. Even if his mother had incorporated a whole handful of sixpences in the Christmas pudding, Gordon would take a slice that contained not a single one. In place of that ephemeral jet-stream that wafts characters such as Blair effortlessly to power and success, Brown has had to use dogged, ruthless, ceaseless struggle. He has bludgeoned his way to power through the ranks of more able people who in the end just couldn't be bothered to keep blocking him. It is a lesson in the triumph of brutal mediocrity.
Young Gordon must have been a singularly unattractive child. A Sunday paper commentator characterised him as now repeating his youthful petulant whine - "It's my turn and you're all ruining it". Parents of infant school children in Brown's class with an upcoming birthday would confer worriedly in the kitchen "We'll have to invite Gordon Brown to Kirsty's party. Oh Lord, I'm not sure I can handle the tantrums again. We'll have to make sure he gets the best present."
An uninspired player on the rugby field, Gordon would no doubt play his own game and leave his fourteen team mates to play theirs. Any lack of success would be their fault for not recognising his right to captain the team. More talented - and luckier - players would crack the occasional collar bone. Gordon lost an eye.
At university group assignments, everyone dreaded being put in a team with Gordon. He wasn't particularly bright, but always wanted to dominate everything. If you didn't let him, he'd just sulk and chew his nails and remorselessly criticise everyone else. And it always went wrong. Being in Gordon's group meant getting no more than a B- for the task.
People look for luck in a politician. Napoleon would ask about those being proposed for command "Yes, but is he lucky?" Brown would not have gained a Marshal's baton in Napoleon's army. Brown trails bad luck around with him like a widow's train.
The Times reports this morning that Brown has drafted a foreword for the Cabinet's report to the Labour party, in which he waves the shroud of his newborn child and holds his glass eye up to the light. See, he says, I'm an unlucky sod but I'm Prime Minister and they're not. My way works. You'll have to drag me out of Number Ten by my heels if you want me out. It's my turn.