Ah Gordon, what a sheer pleasure you were to draw.
Those bramblepatch eyebrows, the vast Yorkshire pudding ears, the sweat-curled, dandruff-dusted collars and of course a wuthering wilderness of jowls.
With his glass eye, wooden movements, clunking fist and a succession of chins which appeared to have been hewn from grey Scottish granite, it is hardly surprising that Bionic Brownie was thought to lack the human touch that his predecessor had in such oily, ingratiating abundance.
I was always fascinated by Gordo’s array of uneasy mannerisms. The way he dabbed his fingers gingerly at the top and bottom of each page when addressing a crowd. The way he involuntarily plunged his jaw down into the ashen folds of his meaty neck after each sentence like a fat woman lowering herself into a bubble bath. But most of all I was captivated by his hopeless inability to mask the trembling rage he felt that during the 10 years in which he had skulked through the back-passages of power, politics had become a game which he was desperately ill-equipped to play.
Thanks to Tony, premiership was now the province of the airbrushed ad-man bleeding synthetic pathos; the crisp-suited, air-guitar-playing, soundbite-spraying bandwagon-hopper. And Gordo suddenly found his ample frame being prodded through rather tight-fitting hoops.
Not only that but by the time Mr Blair finally vacated office to hump the after-dinner circuit, the wheezing mare of public opinion which had been flogged so mercilessly over the preceding decade took one look at Gordo’s prodigious carriage and keeled over on the spot.
He must have envisioned his stewardship so differently. In his runner-up bed in Number 11 he’d have bestridden his dreams as an indomitable commander; iron jaw gritted in grim determination as he steered Britain’s creaking frigate through the foaming waters of an economic tempest.
Instead he became that squinting berk on the now infamous YouTube clip. Babbling like a mental patient and sporting a series of increasingly horrifying rictus-like grins which appeared and then vanished again with such alarming speed that one might almost suppose they’d had been occasioned by a the rectal introduction of a cattle prod from one of his less scrupulous aides. Gordo appeared to be in genuine pain. Mind you, suddenly realising that you’ve been born in the wrong century will probably do that to a man.
Still, in the pantheon of epic jowlists Gordo was a collossus and we salute him.
To see Gordo served up with real panache, check out the unholy genius of Morten Morland.