I SUPPOSE SOMEBODY WILL BE HAPPY.
So it's official then. The jaw-dropping Chancellor will become Prime Minister. Well there's a surprise.
Seems nobody could get enough Brownie points to stand against Brown. To me that says less about his competence to do the job than it does about the number of his colleagues filling their boots at the thought of being listed as his enemies. I suppose somebody will be happy, though, even if it is only him.
I suppose he will win the next election, too. He should. Currently the Blair clone Cameron and his cohorts have decided to announce their disfavour of the grammar school system. It seems that in my lifetime the Socialists have become the Tories and the Tories have become the Socialists. I cannot believe either have executed such a total about face without a liberal measure of vote seeking cynicism. They have not an iota of integrity between them.
However, I seem to remember making a birthday resolution last year that I would never again tax your patience or my blood pressure with politics, politicians or their civil service bosses. As it is there are more than enough Westminster weasels spouting claptrap every day.
ON YOUR BEEB LAST WEEK.
Dalziel and Pascoe finished in even more confusion than it started. Richard E Grant's ability as a hypnotist failed him when it was most needed. Warren Clarke and Colin Buchanan floundered through the quagmire like two actors looking for their parts. Everybody else just sank. Oh well, you can't win 'em all.
Victoria's Empire came to an end with Victoria Wood discovering that big-mouthed radio presenters in New Zealand are no different from those throughout the rest of the world: she then visited Tasmania to learn how colonialism wiped out all the original native inhabitants. By the time she reached Zambia it was clear that a modern English traveller abroad should have learned how to apologize in almost every language known to man. A good series, though.
Holby Blue I missed in favour of Return of the Tribe (an excellent series on Five). I didn't bother to video Holby, either: but true to my word I picked up a Mail On Sunday to find that the excellent Jaci Stephen had given it just a few dismissive lines. I was a bit smug on Sunday.
EGGHEADS (BBC 2)
If I was an Egghead I would decline a contract for the next series unless some changes were made to the current format.. It is clear that every pub quiz prizefighter and every up-to-the-neck-in-debt undergraduate in the country has finally hit upon the magic formula: "If we choose to go first, take on C.J. at Geography, Kevin at Food and Drink, Chris at Entertainment. Daphne at Sport and Judith at almost anything, we stand a good chance of knocking out at least two of them. All we have to do then is applaud noisily every correct answer given by one of our team, applaud even more noisily any incorrect answer by one of their team and play up to the presenter who, from the outset, will be on our side."
No, if I was an Egghead I would stipulate that before I signed for another series the only subject in all the head-to-heads would be General Knowledge. Choice of going first or second would be decided by the spin of a coin. And Dermot, the opposition cheer leader, would have to go. That would even things up a bit.
But, lucky Dermot, I'm not an Egghead and it won't ever happen.
Shame.
THE F.A.CUP FINAL. (BBC1)
There was a scuffling and pattering on the stairs to the top floor and I got up slowly from my chair in the computer room on the first (American second) floor. Well, I thought, if it's a burglar he might be tough and you don't want to go too fast towards trouble.
When I reached the doorway the burglar was coming back down the stairs. It was the large white and tabby cat from elsewhere in the neighbourhood. In my Leader's absence he had been up to her top floor workroom to visit the cat Shadow. My Leader calls him Manners because Shadow regularly leaves some food in the cat dish for him. We don't know his real name or where he comes from. He has been about for a long time but still regards me with extreme caution due to my forbidding stare and habit of addressing him as Wotter-youdoin'ere?
I said: "Wotter-youdoin'ere?"
He took off down the stairs to the ground (American first) floor, out through the catflap and across the back courtyard as though I had put out a contract on him.
Moments later the cat Shadow came down.
He eyed me suspiciously. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened. He just left."
"You sure?"
"Positive. Now, it's the Cup Final on the box. Want to watch it?"
"Bloody hell no, not while it's sunny outside. I'm off for a stroll."
And he went.
He came back in time to see the winning goal, to remark that the Pensioners probably deserved to win this time and to say that he thought by fifteen minutes into the game the new Wembley pitch resembled a cat's used litter tray.
I've no idea where he went to see what the pitch was like fifteen minutes into the game.
Perhaps to Manners's place?
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