Shut Up Gordon. Forever.

And about time too.
Someone's said it.
It's official.
Gordon Brown is the worst public speaker of all time and in all the world.

Every time I hear that man my heart sinks. His lifeless, passion free utterances leave me head banging myself to sleep. "Go away Scotty" I beg but he doesn't, he stays, just to annoy me. He's an irritating, humour free, blundering politician whose patted down hairstyle makes him look like a Victorian murderer. And if that isn't bad enough, when he shuffles his bits of paper around, he reminds me of an awkward, blundering, ham fisted headmaster whose only joy in life is sucking on strong mints.

"Please go" I often say as his mighty elephantine hands continually tap sheets of paper on the despatch box, his irritating lumbering style at PMQ's leaves me calling for Cameron. But the prickly Scot hangs on, both to his bits of paper and his job.
So Gordon Brown, although handsome in a solemn kind of way, is the worst deliverer of speeches ever. He hasn't risen to the task of being Prime Minister, so when he finally whimpers away, he'll be left looking for a new job and possibly a new voice coach.

Thank you very much, I've had my say.

Now Mrs Horsehound's humdrum stuff.

Cooking a fat steak tonight. For pud, a diaphanous slice of carrot cake. Calorie counting...

Will re-arrange a jug of artificial roses, probably put them against the window as opposed to leaning against the wall. They'll look fine pressing their peachy heads against dusty glass.

Some daffodils are opening. Buttery sunlit yellow. Beautiful and simple. Eagerly awaited.