Labour was declared to be the party for the middle class by one of its bright young things more than a year ago, which led to quite a few mild raspberries being directed in her direction, given that Labour used to be the party that blew its collective nose towards the middle class, back in the days of the soldiers of steel.

But needs must, and since it's the middle class that decides who gets to run this country every five years or so, it's hardly surprising that Labour has been trying to appeal to the aspirational classes (i.e. the ones that perceive themselves, rightly or wrongly, to be below the middle class)

Truth be told, we're all middle class, really, because the country has homogenised and morphed, pretty much. We don't, shock-horror so-called journalism apart, have an underclass to speak of, just as we don't have a cadre of top dogs who lord it over the rest of us and much as it pains me to admit it, I'm as middle-class as the next bloke.

What, you may ask, has brought on this philosophical disquisition into the motives behind Labour's image-tweaking?

Well, it's not the way they seem to try to appeal to each and every current of thought and reaction that manifests itself, not completely, anyway. We've become used to a Labour spokesperson or other leaping with glee onto every bandwagon that trundles by, whether it's anti-immigrant, pro-hunting, anti-City Gate, pro-apple pie and mom or whatever: if there's a vote there, Labour will be after it.

No, what brought this particular piece of whimsy on was a chance remark in an online exchange I was having, about how the current Leader of the Opposition seems to be messing around with his follicles, seeking to have them filled out a bit and looking all youthful-like, and it occurred to me that, follically-challenged as I am, Labour should really be the party for me.

After all, the writing was on the wall in this area even from the tenure of the previous head-honcho down Mile End way.