So, it would appear the Great White Hope of classical liberalism, chocolate addict Mark Oaten, has been caught with his paddy pants down.
I predicted that whoever won the Liberal Party election should watch out for the skeletons in their cupboard; my omniscience told me they would have one. But it would seem that Mr Oaten couldn't keep his trousers on long enough, to win the race first, before his own particular uncontrollable urge leapt out of the bedroom closet.
I have a theory. You might want to try it on for size? No serious politician who hankers for power ever joins the liberals, because there is no real chance of achieving power. But what happens if you are a serious politician who does hanker for power, or at least a substantial taxpayer-fed salary and pension, but who knows you have a terrible peccadillo in the loft, which you know will come out if you ever make it to within a sniff of a real government post?
It's obvious. Join the liberals. Get the salary, get the pension, get on the telly to impress new sexual partners, but know that you'll never come close enough to the throne to worry about that monkey in the loft.
The Liberal Party is thus the party for abysmal losers. And the party for nervous winners with uncontrollable monkeys, addictions, and perversions.
I hope once Mark Oaten gets his HIV test results back, his wife and his children can forgive him for his lies and that he can restrain his urge to be unfaithful. My advice, should he wish to take it, is this: Stop being a politician, Mark. If you surround yourself with an atmosphere of base Machiavellian immorality and organized criminality, expect to become either infected with it or addicted to it. To clean yourself up, get out of the game of politics and go and do something useful instead, particularly if it involves you in getting your hand out of my wallet.
Poor old bloody Gladstone. Fancy having these muppets claiming to be your heirs? What a dastardly shower of poltroons.