A Labour peer, a friend of our beloved PM, and one of the Labour Party's largest financial backers.
He's a multi-millionaire, and so wealthy that, although he sits in the House of Lords, he's not actually domiciled in this country "for tax reasons".
Not so wealthy, however, that he's above gouging the taxpayer (who don't get any of his money) for a few quid on expenses.
In the recent round-ups, we learned that My Lord claimed around 38,000 pounds in expenses. That must have topped the coffers up nicely, eh?
But why, given that he acknowledges to everyone bar the taxman that he's lived in London for 40 years, was it so expensive to get this chap to work?
Ah well, that's because Lord Paul solemnly informed the expenses wallahs that a tiny flat in Oxfordshire - actually occupied by an employee of his - was his "main home".
When this came to light recently, did the good Lord apologise? Did he dip into his virtually bottomless pockets, fish out some small change and pay the 38 large back? Did he fuck.
He stuck to his greedy guns. He admitted that he'd never spent a single night in the flat, but argued that it was “available” for his use: he could have moved his employee out had he "wished to stay there" – but chose not to. What?
In the face of such pathetic denial - a three year old could've explained better where the chocolate buttons had gone - did the House of Lords give him a bollocking, then tip him upside down and extract the cash? Nah. Fuck that.
He's a Lord. And a mate of Gordo's. And a very generous man, come election time.
Sorry to have bothered you, my Lord. You can go now. And off he went, on his merry fucking way, pockets still bulging with our money.
Of course, Lord Pig of Making-It-Up is not alone.
Lord Rennard, Chief Executive of the Lib Dems, worked full time in London and lived in Stockwell in ... er ... London. So naturally, he claimed over 40,000 pounds for a flat in .. Eastbourne. He's been cleared now, of course. Off you go, m'lud.
And then there's our old favourite, the Queen of the fucking troughers, lets hear it for ... Baroness Uddin of Bethnal Green.
Remember her? Baroness Udders has lived, with her family, in a low rental Housing Association building for years. However, she also has a small flat in Kent. In spite of never having stayed there, and never even bothered to fucking furnish the place, she claimed that was her main residence. Netting herself a cool 100,000 of taxpayers money.
What do the House of Lords think of that? Nothing. Nothing at all. They're not even investigating her, even though the police are.
So why, why-oh-fucking-why, do all these troughing Lords and greedy Ladies keep getting away with it?
This shit happens, and will keep happening, because, according to the authorities, enforcing the rules is difficult because - you'll love this - there is no official definition of “main home”.
With MP's, the 'main home' rules are clear: it's the property at which they spend most nights. Or more accurately, as the home in which they claim to spend most nights, even if the police provide evidence that proves they're fucking lying, eh Jacqui?
At least MP's have to provide genuine evidence, before being let off scot-free.
For my Good Lords, no such vulgarity. They just have to say where they consider their main home to be. If Lord Troughalot says that he actually lives in a Barratt Home in Harlow, even if he states this while relaxing on a plush sofa in an enormous house in Mayfair, then everything's just fine. Thank you my Lord.
The only troughin' Lord who seems - and who can really tell? - to come out of this with any shred of dignity is Lord Clarke of Hampstead. He also claimed tens of thousands of pounds in “overnight subsistence” despite admitting returning to his home within the London commuter belt, or staying rent-free with a friend. But, unlike the rest of the piggies, he does seem a little sorry about it:
"It’s not within the rules. I’m responsible for my own actions .. If I’ve got to go to the wall and my life is finished in terms of political or public life .. then so be it.”
Bloody hell, an honest and seemingly repentant trougher.
We should have the fucker stuffed, and put on a plinth in the lobby, as a shining example to them all.