Loss

I wonder if Gordon Brown dreamt as I dreamt last night, that's assuming he slept at all.

My dream was one of loss, a loss so overpowering that my gut instinct was, on waking, to speak out thereby laying myself open to either re-assurance or ridicule.

I expect Gordon doesn't need to sleep though to be ravaged by such raw rancid emotions. His every waking hour must be taunted by fear. Fear of losing his position and fear of his beloved Party being out of government for a generation.

The sickly long winded chit chats between Cameron and Clegg must have the Prime Minister bent double with frustration and grief not to mention rage. He must wonder how C&C would ever be able to maintain a working relationship given they are diametrically opposed on many issues. Opposites attract so the saying goes but a marriage of convenience never really works. The cracks will begin to appear immediately, probably after their first kiss, and one or both of them will wonder why they ever got hitched in the first place. Power my dears Power. That's why you signed on the dotted line.

Meanwhile Gordon shuffles around in the night like an injured animal, his much wanted sleep interrupted by hazy fading pictures of him in his youth, when ideals shone and his night times were filled with hope.

But now the grizzled Scot is being kicked along like road-kill by a deluge of rejection and, perhaps the most unpalatable sight of all, the excrutiating spectacle of his natural allies, the Lib Dems becoming intoxicated and raped behind a veil of blue.

After this most debilitating spectacle ends I hope that all the leaders sleep well and that none of them dream of loss.
For to spend your night dreaming of loss is to make nightmares of your day...

I Am Not A Banana. But I Like Playing With Them.

David Cameron could be a banana.
Michael Gove is probably a closet banana.
Gordon 'I have a large hand' Brown packs a big banana.
Nick 'My middle name is Kumquat' Clegg secretly hides bananas.

The Conservative Party and others are obviously watching American Idol where the very blonde babe loving Ms Ellen De Generes is obsessed with banana. Er...Howz zat work then?

I love banana.
But am not not one.
Yet I have spent a lot of time coming up with ideas what to do with one or two.
Usually involves sprays.

My understanding of the word banana is that it's a slightly mushy derogatory term used to describe people who are bonkers. Or ideas so off the tree that they could be deemed to be so absurd as to be plain daft.


On several occasions recently, mainly when addressing ordinary voters, Mr Cameron has made reference to bananas. For instance: If he takes a particular course, he will indeed be a banana. Likewise on the esteemed Today programme Mr Michael 'I'm well into bananas' Gove also slid his tongue over the 'B' word when attempting to maul the BBC's attack melon Mr John 'I eat coal' Humphrys. Gove lost.

The current obsession with the bent fruit is giving me the pip.
But I love bananas.
I blame banana hating Ms De Generes.

Debate But With No Broken Ankles

Mr Cameron's eerily spotless complexion out shone the others.
His golden face illuminated like a Fra Angelico painting. He was almost radiant. Make-up is marvellous isn't it? And so is the thought of power.
But it was more than just perfectly applied concealer and a well cut suit, he looked Prime Minister material. At last. Although between you and me I feel that beneath the Bullingham club old sort lies a dirty rough boy who's hiding substances in his draws and an electric guitar in his bike shed.
In comparison milky Cleggy looked like a young sandal wearing teacher giving hope to kids in an inner city school. He means well does Clegg but there's something vegetarian about him, something weedy and worthy. I'm sure he means well but he's young and foolish and obviously isn't listening to the likes of Mrs Duffy and millions of others...His amnesty ideas surely doing damage to the man who would be prince..

Stouty Browny acted, but the gruff, moody, surly man was never far away. His terrible smile at the end making me wonder if he was really fit for high office. To hold power one must grab an audience by the throat and then kiss and lick it. Brown is not a licker. He doesn't know how to please neither does he leave punters wanting, clapping and then wanting more, unlike the very smooth Mr Blair, whose acting ability was second to none.

I think the Labour party have a hell of a task ahead not only trying to convince me and others that they deserve my X but they also need to decide whether or not to keep Mr Brown.. Methinks that whatever the outcome of the General Election men and woman behind the scenes are plotting to gag and bag Mr Brown. Gag and bag remember where you heard it first. And if that does come to pass I feel this blog will bulge with posts about possible replacements.

But back to the programme.
It was a good show, David Dimblebum holding court with the dusty panache of a magistrate. The audience were too well behaved though for my liking I've always wanted to see a bit more cut and thrust from LIVE debates. You know the kind of thing, like when John Wilkes Booth leapt onto the stage breaking his ankle...
I wouldn't want anyone important to get hurt but the idea of one of the electorate losing their rag due to Mr Brown's policies would be televised political theatre at its best.

So to sum up:
Last night...
Mr Cameron seemed to have taken something, possibly 100 mg of Brown's Bigot gaffe. He was a new man last night.
Mr Clegg had probably sipped a glass of kelp tea.
And Mr Brown was sore with self-inflicted thrashings.

I loved it.

Today Eco Man Nick was in Leicester talking to a bunch of students. Cool.
Miserablist Gordon was in Hockley unveiling ludicrous posters. I stood still, teacup in hand wondering which Aide came up with the idea. The posters of desperation.I hated them.
Meanwhile Nice Dave crouched down in front of a load of kids. They don't know you David I said. Go chat up their mums.

In other news....I see Fulham F.C. are doing well. My mum used to clean their offices you know.
and
I spoke to a man engaged in drain pipe analysis.

Abandon All Hope...

Just seen Gordon Brown on t.v.
He was smiling. A smile so fake it was painful to behold. And as he stood outside Gillian Duffy's home I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Tonight when he closes his door and the noise of the press and bloggers mercifully recede, he'll be able to share his pain with his wife.

He is, from what I've read and heard, a passionate man with a quick temper and penchant for flying phones. Tonight I expect he'll need to take stock, a deep breath and then find a way through his political Gehenna.

Hell comes in many forms. And for the politician the unguarded moment, the off the cuff remark can send the unwary candidate into their own infernal circle.
I wonder how he'll sleep.

Tomorrow night he faces the third and final Leaders' debate and for that he'll need to perform his political theatre. As an accomplished actor would know the mask must not slip.
It's all in the eyes and smiles Mr Brown but yours scream of insincerity.

God Who Let That Woman In Here?

Thank God this blog isn't mic'd up! (Poor old Gordo)
What a stream of gutter filth you would hear.

i.e.

"Get that rotten cat out of here"
"Are you still here?"
"Look at that flipping paper peeling"
"That was a disaster WASN'T IT?"
"Where's the bloody delete button?"
"I hate this blog."
"DO SOMETHING!"
"Turn off the phones I am out for the rest of the YEAR."
"I'm in a bit of a mood so scoot or die."
"Why do I BOTHER""
"What's the point of blogging/living/shopping/voting?"
"Tell them to go away I am not interested in double triple or quadruple glazing"
"I am so enamoured with him that I want to throw myself at his feet and suck his toes"
"I HATE HIM"
"I look awful"
"Don't I look wonderful darling?"
"I prefer bad weather it fits with my personality"
"Oh I'd love to live somewhere hot"
"God I hate it when no-one comments"
"Oh look a comment, I love you all"
"Why do I insist on having this blasted mirror in the office?"
"I look gorgeous when I pose this way"
"Who's that at the door now?"
"Is he here yet;)"
"I hate that handbag get rid of it"
"Have you emptied the bin, if not why not?"
"You know darn well why I blog, it's cheap therapy"
"GET OUT"
"WHY AM I DOING THIS?"


I see Gordo's put his foot in it.
Silly Scot.
A man not in tune with the punters, especially Mrs Duffy, poor old thing. I've always known politicians are two faced but to have a swipe was unnecessary. Immigration wasn't her main point yet the petulant P.M. branded the pensioner and life long Labour supporter a bigot. We all get ratty but he should be savvy enough to know how a radio microphone works.
Just because he's in his armoured saloon doesn't mean the wireless waves hit a brick wall.
In other words he's guilty of technical naivete.
And that poses the question. What on earth were his media advisors doing when the broadcasters requested that he be rigged with a radio microphone?

Tomorrow night's Leaders' debate should be worth rushing home to...


Cooking tonight:
Cottage pie
Ice cream and cake

Brown By A Distance

And for those of you unfamiliar with horse racing terminology a 'distance' is anything more than thirty lengths.

He came out with his head steady and nostrils flared and was clearly eager to take on the challengers. Yet his opening gambit of self-deprecation had me wondering if this top class stayer had been doped. But as the first few furlongs passed he continued to show his pedigree by hugging the rails not giving the colt or group one runner an inch.

That's enough horse racing analogies.

Sky News, by the way, did a good job although Alastair Campbell was agitated by Ms Burley wanting to talk about 'body language'. A little later Campbell was pleased to be in conversation with the BBC's Emily Maitlis who wanted to chat about policy. The Tories Culture stiff, Mr Jeremy Hunt, made the mistake of trying to duff up Campbell, he lost of course. But it was great theatre. Loved the media room, an asylum of Journos complete with laptops, drink and hysteria. Fascinating.

Adam Boulton presided over the love-in and was so good you didn't notice him. He let the guys get on with it. Just like arsehole Jeremy Kyle who, as distraught couples scream in disagreement over who the father is or how long it is since you last shot up and other familial stuff like that, remains silent as they bleed. Kyle is a low life ponce. Boulton wore a thousand pounds suit...

Next week the BBC host the third and final Leaders' debate and I for one won't miss it.


Ta ta!

GOD BLESS ENGLAND AND ST.GEORGE

A Big Night

Tonight can't come quickly enough for me.

Sky is holding the second Leaders Debate where the three would be saviours of the economy and public services will show their mettle when being roasted by the brilliantly suave Adam Boulton. I'm hoping it's a bloody affair. Because although ITV's Alastair Stewart did a good job I felt we, the public, missed out on what should have been a guts and glory chat. No clapping, booing or heckling makes for sanitised slightly Orwellian viewing. Therefore I hope Sky have the balls to allow the blood and spit to fly.

I love public hangings and I also love showmanship so I bow to the person who managed to get the three men to agree to these live television debates. The first one on ITV1 was spectacularly successful for Clegg, I wonder how he'll fare tonight. I'm expecting much more vitriol from Brown and Camiknickers, after all they can't let the new boy steal the limelight again.

Talking of light...There was a great picture of Gordon Brown in Wednesday's Independent. What makes it worth mentioning is that it was Kennedyesque. Reminded me of the famous photo of Jack, Bobby Kennedy and Robert MacNamara when they were outside deep in conversation, their minds concentrated on the enormity of the Cuban missile crisis.

Black suited Brown looked like he had a crisis too as Andrew Grice interviewed him by the window on the train, the sun highlighting all the white in his hair and all the worry on his face. Shades of black, shades of grey and what do we get? A man possibly on the brink of losing something he loves.
It was a picture worth remembering.

So as I ponder the possibilities of tonight's roughhouse I'll do some stirring of my own...


Ta ta!

I Love Pasta, Old People And Thrilling Political Debate...

Oui, oui.

I could have passed for a French lady yesterday, so chic and petite was I. I think it was the black trench coat and black patent shoes that did it.
And as the late train made its hurried way into London I bit my lip in anticipation of what was to come. I do so love popping in to see mum and dad, their upbeat optimism always managing to dispel any negative thoughts I have about myself. And I have many I'll have you know. But seven hours in their company and I'm rejuvenated. Suddenly anything is possible and the doubts which crush and disable me are shot to smithereens not just by their love but by their belief in me. I think people who have that power, that power to rekindle, re-ignite a fading flame should be honoured and loved. So in my own little way I show my affection and gratitude by taking up cakes and pies and trusting without question their infallible advice.

After the necessary shop where I bought fresh pasta and lip gloss, mum and I rattled on about men. How lovely they are for a day or so but how painful their animalistic tendencies can be. They also get so in the way in the house. We agreed, over tea and strawberry cake, that for a woman to understand a man she must think as a man. Dad laughed.

And then after the sex lesson we all went mental whilst yakking about the upcoming debate. I told them that I had to be home in time for it and dad said how pleased he was that his daughter had taken his advice 40 years ago and had taken an interest in the murky world of politics. He also told me how to vote. On that joyously ludicrous note I picked up my handbag and left, getting home with thirty minutes to spare. I sat down with my bowl of pasta and watched Messrs. Cameron, Brown and Clegg fight it out like a gang of intellectual thugs. I knew from the off that Clegg was a winner, his opening ninety second speechlet had me hooked, the other two paled into the background. Brown came across as stuffy, his hand gesticulations reminiscent of PMQ's. Mr Cameron tried to look Ministerial but there was something missing, he lacked gravitas and just sounded like any other Tory boy. No, Mr Clegg won the debate, although I doubt whether he'll hold on to his new found fame as the election gets nearer. I was most impressed by the way he looked into the camera when answering a question so unlike Brown who avoided the camera's eye at all costs. OK maybe he did shoot a glance now and again but over all he side stepped the one eyed monster like a kid facing a headmaster. Too tetchy and evasive. Cameron looked smooth and clean but wore too much make-up.

As the pasta disappeared I just salivated and the debate could have gone on for another hour and I wouldn't have cared. I loved it.
Winner by a mile: Nick Clegg.
Man Trying to be most Prime Ministerial: Cammy Knickers.
Man on the precipice: Gordo.


So glad I sometimes look chic, so pleased I bought the pasta and so incredibly indebted to mum and dad for making me watch Panorama 40 years ago.

Pastry part 2. And Mr Roux and The blood thirsty kids.

Yes pastry needs to relax because then it won't shrink so much.
And the handling of raw pastry is another vital skill that needs to be mastered. If you're rough and treat it without consideration you'll end up with pastry that's fit only for the bin. So gently gather it in your hands and touch it only as much as you need to. Be kind to it, don't take out your aggression on half a pound of shortcrust, take it out on your bread dough because bread dough needs to be pounded.

When I was little in 1972, I was terrible at pastry, it not only looked terrible it tasted terrible. Weekend after weekend I made pale looking apple pies so in the end I drifted towards trifles. With trifles I only needed to use my artistic skills, I didn't need to weigh flour and marg and get oven temperatures correct. I'd happily spend half an hour creating a strawberry trifle with slices of shop Swiss roll, tinned strawberries and ever so slightly scorched custard. The topping would be whipped double cream then I'd let fly with the hundreds and thousands. Which although looked pretty, tended to melt leaving rivers of chemical colourants all over the cream:(
Tasted nice though.
Now my trifles are much more splendid. But we won't go into that now.

I've been enthralled by the latest series of Masterchef on BBC2. A group of young chefs are fighting to work for Michel Roux Jnr. I'm fascinated by their preference for serving up raw meat. Each chef has dished up chicken, quail, venison and all of it has been raw. Not decently rare mind you, but bloodily raw. I am amazed at how professionals can continually make such blunders. It's no good the plate of food looking stunning if the customer/guest/friend throws up at the sight of uncooked flesh. Ghastly.

This afternoon as I watch Mr Brown fight for his political life I'll be making some Minestrone soup and garlic bread. And also two apple pies for the old dears in London. I'll freeze them (the pies that is)) because I won't be going to London till Thursday and there's nothing worse than less than perfect pies:)

Big Day For Gordo

If the polls go against him, whispering back benchers and unhappy cabinet colleagues might do something. Something like sending him an email suggesting it's time for him to go.

Politics is a rotten business.
The sight of the insanely chirpy Hazel Blears bombing along to the train station after handing in her viciously timed resignation letter was ghastly. There's something very nasty and slightly marbleless about the red headed biker girl. I wouldn't have her round for tea that's for sure. I get the feeling she'd be my bestist friend then prattle to the neighbours about my mirrored ceiling. Bitch.

Alan Johnson is being talked about as Brown's successor. Ex-Trades Union leader of some repute. But would I or indeed could I vote for a man who looks like a car salesman?

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.

Gordon Brown was good.
He not only warmed us with his passion he showed his teeth too, and that was very wise, especially when people think you're a pushover.
So well done Prime Minister.
Now I make a Swiss Roll.

I Wish I Was In Manchester

Today Gordon Brown will be addressing the assembled head nodders in the newly named 'Manchester Central', this fantastically handsome building is on a site which, in the 19th century, was called St Peter's Field, and in that space at that time people would meet to debate. And so me wonders what on earth the Labour Party is doing there?
They don't do much debating any more, well not on the telly at least. I've been watching the goings on and a duller more morose conference I have never seen, and I've watched loads.

But a few sparks might fly today because the Prime Minister is making his big speech and I can't wait to hear what the once bulky but now rapidly shrinking Scot has to say...in his defence.

Some commentators are saying it's make or break for him, I think they might be right. He has had and is indeed having a stinker of a time what with all the economic hullabaloo currently deafening us.
I wish I could leap onto a train and dash up to Manchester and then grabbing him by his tailored suit, pull the great man into a side room and then oh so tenderly impart unto him some hard won Londonite wisdom and also a fair old whack of sound economic advice, but I can't. I mean, I can't even even sort out my own fiscal affairs or get to the bottom of what makes people tick so what the country would be like in my hands is anyone's guess.
So I'm afraid Gordon will have to do without me.

However there is one thing he absolutely must do, with or without me, and that is to try and re-kindle the dying flames of the Labour party which is I'm afraid to say, currently and finally gasping its last breath, it's a bit like a once grand candle which is now fagged out and dripping its last pathetic drops onto the stately sideboards in Westminster.
In other words he's got to deliver a corker of a speech in fact it has to be finest speech of his political life, if he wants to keep his job that is.
And you know what?
I'm not sure he can do it, he speaks nicely of course but he doesn't have the table thumping qualities of a Blair or Thatcher, because time and time again he fails to woo the crowd. He can't do a Neil Kinnock and rouse his supporters with his creative uplifting rhetoric. Gordon addresses shareholder meetings and that's all.

Methinks they won't be screaming for an encore after the last words fall from his lips because he isn't a star.
No, Gordon Brown is not a star in the shimmering political firmament, he is, I'm sad to say, an insipid forty watt bulb. In the basement.

The multitude of moaning minnows on the backbenches will be hanging on every word of course, listening out and hoping for the resounding clang of a determined, triumphant and fist-punching-the-air oration from their leader.
They won't get it.
What they'll get are a few hundred well chosen words delivered in the now famous Brown drone.
What Gordon needs to do to really rally the jittery waverers is to blow their socks off with a Obamaesque speech. But Gordon isn't Barack. Gordon is er...Gordon. He doesn't do barnstorming speeches, he just talks in that heavy-thick-with-whisky type voice and shuffles around sheets of paper.
But...and there's always a but, the man is very handsome in a Heathcliffe/Rhett Butler sort of way so on that count and on account of me being a woman with a classy taste in men, I wish him well.

When Gordon preaches to the wavering multitude I'll be sat, (as they say up north) watching and listening to his homily and as I drink my tea I'll be secretly wishing that he 'does a blinder' (as we say down south).

Underneath the shy private Prime Minister I think there's an even shyer more private man.
And I love that.
Gertcha Gordon me old mate!
So from the old chair of an old romantic this is Glo Horsehound signing off.

It's All About Boiling

I'll bet all my handbags that Gordon Brown's face is in his porridge this morning because, according to former Home Secretary Charles Clarke, "Labour is destined to disaster"
Thanks Chaz, I'm sure the beleaguered boiling-with-rage Prime Minister needs to hear that.
I'm going to stick my neck out and say that Gordon Brown will be booking a removal van in the next few months.
I can't write any more about Gordon because I'm getting in a lather, and I can't get in too much of a lather on account of me having a lot to do in the kitchen today. And sensitive delicate flowers like me, shouldn't have choppers and boiling saucepans in their hands when they're overwrought.
I need peace to cook.

So I'm going to take a deep breath now, put on gauntlets and try to get Monty out of the wardrobe, (can't have him in there in case he strokes my new woollies.....) then I'll enter the kitchen put on a plastic pinny and Radio 4 and make a huge bucket of carrot soup and a dozen spicy apple fingers.

Also chalked on the board is :
Make Strawberry cake for the old people
Write sensuous love poem
Do something about my beard.

Number 13 for Number 10!

I won't be leaving the country in September or October on account of the political chop suey currently being cooked up in the greasy rat infested kitchen known as Westminster.
This glutinous smelly mess will be kept simmering until one or all of the main cooks in this sour and sour mix of back stabbing has the bottle to do something.

Head chef Gordon Brown really needs to grab hold of his junior colleagues and either dunk their faces in hot oil or chuck them out of the kitchen all together, because a discontented kettle of cooks spoils all broths.
And this paying customer, that would be me, is hungry for change and when I'm hungry I'm grumpy and when I'm grumpy I'm apt to change handbags and political parties, so Gordo had better do something and quick, because I've had enough.
He either does the decent thing and resigns or else he'll suffer the ignominy of being dragged out screaming by his chopsticks, the man has no other options.

Mr Brown's arch rival, David Miliband has been swinging his chopper about hoping to slice off the head of our great leader, but plucky Brown, bless him, skilfully continues to dip and duck avoiding David's mighty blade. But how long can old duffer Brown keep dodging the axe, that's what I want to know.
Come the October revolution, I mean the October conference, I will be splayed on top of my big telly like a spatch-cocked chicken looking down into the sweating heads of our great cooks.
I'm already sick with excitement...

If Gordon Brown manages to extricate himself from this messy chop suey I will personally, yes personally, buy him the entire menu in the Lim Lam Chinese takeaway, Rochford.
He looks like a special fried rice man to me but if on the other hand, he continues to take a battering, he may prefer to get his hands on some Chicken Balls, I think he might need them.


Other non-political thoughts:
Looks like rain, dear.
Make Coconut Fingers.
Woollies need a wash.
Writing of a ficticious love letter
Knicks knacks need a wash.
Meatballs and Giant Cheese Scone for tea.
Rains here.

Goodbye.

The Blackest Show on Earth

Speculation over the future of Gordon Brown goes on.
Gutless nameless backbenchers continue to natter to the media like a bucket of old women whilst calmly awaiting the beheading of our great leader.

Wouldn't it be nice if these servants of the people did the honourable thing and just shut up.
I can see them all now, crouched amongst the empty House of Commons beer bottles, their unworthy heads full of concern over the cost of next years holidays and the prospect of having to go the job centre.
Brown has to go.
For their sake alone.

Blair's tongue has been lashing out too, and about time, it must feel kind of good for the ex-P.M. knowing he was right all along.
Gordon is a suburban bank manager with not an ounce of gravitas, star quality or chumminess. He is dull.

And Cherie must be doing an evil head spinning jig at the thought of old codger Brown being crucified and pelted with custard pies. You know I just had a thought, politics is a wicked nightmarish circus full of bizarre self-inflated clowns whose maniacal overblown opinions about themselves leave the rest of us in weeping in the sawdust.

The stars of the blackest show on earth condemn us, the paying little people, to a life of never ending pain.

I say bring on the horses.

Going Down

I wonder what Gordon is doing now, sharing breakfast with Sarah I expect.

His hefty head drooping onto his chest as the worry over his leadership weighs down heavy upon him.
I feel sorry for the beleaguered Scot in a way, because here's a man who waited in the dusty wings of politics for thirty years hoping for the top job, finally he gets his massive hands on it and look where it's got him.
Nowhere.

He's being torn to shreds by both big and little critics, the big ones coming in the shape of the unions, the little 'uns in the shape of trembling pasty-faced backbenchers who are are sobbing into their hankies because they believe that with Captain Brown at the helm they're going to drown come the next election.
Like the rats they are.

The former Chancellor he has one major disadvantage.
He lacks charisma.
As I wrote yesterday, he's not a performer like his predecessor Tony Blair, Brown may be a great guy with his chums, a positive comedian no doubt, but when it comes to setting the political stage ablaze, he fails miserably.

Prime Minister's Questions appears to be quite distressing for the P.M. because although he occasionally gives as good as he gets, he usually fails to execute a dazzling performance.
He doesn't steal every scene, and his stay-at-home tea drinking political groupies are left throwing missiles at the telly as he hangs onto the dispatch box, often leaving David Cameron to claim the bouquets.
Gordon should have remained an understudy.

His monthly meetings with the press are just as excruciating, and I should know because I've watched every one. His hands continually fiddle with sheets on paper on the lectern, his right hand constantly shuffling and patting, while his left smooths and props up the aforementioned bits of A4.
He looks ill at ease.
He looks nervous, and when he smiles that corker of a fake smile, I throw up.
'Don't do it Prime Minister' I beseech, 'Please be kind to yourself'. Unto thine own self be true and all that.
He can't hold an audience, there's no doubt about that, and his attempts at humour are pathetic, bit like a new guy at work trying to ingratiate himself with his colleagues.

Some people are in the wrong job and Mr Brown is one of them.
So as the nervous Prime Minister chews his nails and cornflakes I have one bit of advice for him. Go.


The painting is 'The Raft of the Medusa' by Théodore Gericault (1791-1824) It was painted between 1818 and 1819.

Gloria on Gordon

He's in trouble.
The suited and booted vultures are not only circling overhead they're talking to each other too.

Concerned aspiring colleagues are talking of clawing his house keys away from him, leaving him with nought but the clothes he stands in.
Political nature red in tooth, claw and ambition.

Because as Gordon checks his watch and soaks up the rays of a fine English summer whilst drinking beer, Cabinet hoodies huddle round sturdy tables salivating over the sound of popping champagne corks and his return.
They're gonna have him.

What shall I do Sarah, he says, I don't want to lose my job?
But Mrs Brown isn't listening she's tanning herself and thinking about book signing sessions.

Whenever asked about his current problems he says the same thing, sounds the same and looks the same, never do I see a Blairesque performance.

Brown is a shy man who looks uncomfortable in front of the camera, he's not a show-off.
He's not an actor.
He's not a star.
He's a Scot.

Labour are taking a pounding at the moment, and it's all Gordons fault.

The electorate can't afford meat no more and for that he'll lose his job.
It's over.

He's My Tuna Lover

Fed Monty canned Tuna at 5:30 a.m. wearing a red winter dressing gown. That's me, not Monty.
Drank too-milky tea at 6 a.m. and tutted and huffed.
Listened to Farming Today and had a tremendous urge to jump on a cow.
Looked in mirror and saw a grumpy big eyed brownish face with a couple of spots. Wondered if I was a cow.
Listened to the Today programme and wanted to phone someone to complain about interruptions and giggling.

Brown's been battered again, this time by the S.N.P. in the Glasgow East by-election. The Scots are not daft. I'm wondering how much longer the bods at Labour H.Q will allow Heathcliffesque Brown to remain in the top job. I think he's a liability, a handsome liability, but a liability nonetheless.
I wonder what he looks like in a wet white ruffled shirt?
Talking of wondering:
I wonder where I can get some cheap Tuna.
I wonder what I'm going to wear today, will I be pounding my mean village streets in combats or will I be dancing to the Punchbowl pub in a flimsy floral frock?
I just don't know.

Tall proud Scottish misery guts Andy Murray is playing today. I wish the Brit well.
I'm trawling through poems to take to the Poetry Group....In August. I've got a lot of poems!
Monty is sitting by his bucket. I think he wants more Tuna.

Have a smashing day everyone.

Move Over Gus!

Bins.
Not one, not two but three.
The council wants me and hundreds of other innocent folk to run outside with our shattered light bulbs, cat litter, tea bags and egg shells and put all these delightful things into different bins.
Now I'm all for helping my planet but if I get any more bins I'll have to move Gus! (see pic above)
Let me elaborate a bit more.
I had a few bits left of my fried lunch today, (had sausage and tomato) I also had lots of teabags and grass cuttings, (been mowing and gasping)) uncooked ribbons of dough (been making a cherry pie) And after each of these wonderfully mundane events I had to go out to the bins and drop these various bits and bobs inside the various silly bins.
I blame Gordon Brown...

Gone are the days when all my rubbish went in to the one big bin, now I've got to dance between all three of the blighters, and I'm not so nimble any more so it's more of a waltz than a jive! Another thing is they are all different colours and that is such a blight on the Horsehound landscape.


Things I've done recently:
Slept for eight hours
Recorded a ghost story for this blog which I wrote a long time ago.
Discovered Coconut Oil is good for my knees
Discovered that one of the aforementioned my knees is turning a bit inwards.
Bought the most boring blouse ever.
Got a fabulous perfume from Mum and Dad. 'Beautiful' by Estee Lauder. I could still smell it on my clothes even after I'd washed them. That's some scent!
Made Samosas and was a bit heavy handed with the spices and then dreamt about distraught pigs on aeroplanes crying into pillow cases!
Tip: Go easy on Coriander Seeds

Back to the bins, I wonder how many men and lorrys will be required to take away my cornucopia of rubbish. Absolute nonsense that's what it is, but I suppose planet Earth is worth fighting for and she is all we've got, so bring on the bins!