Even among the creeps, the crawlies and the non-entities foisted by the Tories on an unsuspecting electorate, former party spokesdouche Fred DeLorey ranks among the least appealing.
So unloved is the ginger fabulist that within 24 hours of announcing his intention to replace Peter MacKay in Central Nova in June, the rats were on the blower to my chicken-fucking cousins at Frank in Halifax.
Did Frank know, they inquired, about Fred’s moist and garrulous performance on the night of last fall’s PC leadership dinner?
The purported eyewitness describes a scenario that unfolded Oct. 20 at Cheers bar and grill on Grafton Street (“Good cheap drinks and easy to get laid,” effuses one Google reviewer).
Delorey, taking his considerable ease after main-streeting with the venerable boozecan’s ubiquitous shooter girls, spots a female acquaintance and approaches from behind, surprising her in the traditional Antigonish idiom, with a spirited squeeze of the glutes.
Alas, it appears to be a case of mistaken identity, and much umbrage is taken.
“She jumped, like, a foot away when it happened,” the source recounts, improbably going on to suggest the meat-hooking was anything but the most shocking departure from the much-married father of three’s accustomed conduct.
While it pains Frank to say it, this tawdry vignette just goes to show what an unworthy pretender DeLorey is to the mantle of stickman MacKay, a parliamentarian with no time for clumsy and amateurish grab-ass.
He far was too busy tapping it.
John Turner is 108.