David and Nicholas

Columbine and Harlequin in the Palace of dreams.

More like two frisky colts in a stable of muck.

And so it goes on.
The actor's scripts may change, but they're all dressed in the same sickly garb.

The election for a new Labour party leader will be grist for my blogging mill.

A mix of old and young darlings will be up for the job. But only one gal. The ever present Harriet Harman. I can't remember a time when she wasn't in my face. I even know that she likes a Cottage loaf stuffed with minced meat, old family recipe apparently. I know this because it turned up in a book about famous people and what they like to eat! Famous!
Ms Harman is famous for being married to Jack Dromy. And for being around a long time and for being a woman and not for anything else. Although bitching out of the way, she did do well as a stand in for the late Mr Brown at PMQ's. But leadership/Prime Ministerial material? No.
I can't see a lady whose married to a Union man and who comes from a posh background and who enjoys a nice meat and bread pie ever jiggling the keys to Number 10.
But then again...

I just saw Mr Clegg aka Columbine waving a limp wrist outside the aforementioned Number 10.
His manner was one of disbelief. Yes Cleggy, you rotten turncoat, you've wriggled your way into a decent little job and there you are arm in arm with the Boy Wonder. AND YOU CAN'T BELIEVE IT!
Well neither can the rest of the country matey.

The struggle for the Labour leadership will be fought between clean boys...The Milliband Brothers, Ed Balls and, if they decide they want to dirty it up, Mr Jon Cruddas.

Meanwhile a broken but dignified man leaves for the hills. I think that the history books will paint a kinder picture of Gordon Brown.

Now I have to get to work on my floor.

Ta ta!

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.

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.

Another Day Graced By Sunshine.

Which is just as well because I needed to walk almost down to the seafront on the lookout for clear round nose pads.
I got them eventually, being served by a bubbly girl with purple streaks in her hair.
On the haul back I popped into the 99p shop to buy another laughing Buddha, the previous one being decapitated by some unknown force, foxes or badgers probably. Becoming headless reminds me that I too can be a clot in the garden having knocked Jessamy the gnome off the step. Not having the heart to put him in the recycle bin I kept his head and hung it from a conifer branch. Picture coming, possibly at the weekend...

Talking of pictures and stupidity I photographed a giant strawberry today. The said berry was from a Sainsbury's punnet of 'basic' strawberries. I needed the fruit on account of me making a luscious strawberry cake for mum and dad. I'll transport it to London very carefully.
Anyway this giant strawberry is as big as a bulb of garlic and I thought it would make a good photo. So click and it was so.

I don't know if I'm imagining it but all I keep seeing is Nick Clegg. And each time his forehead appears to be getting higher and higher. Or do I need a sight test/drugs test/insanity test?
Talking of heads Mrs Brown was on the telly earlier standing very close to Mr Brown and she too had facial issues which bothered me. Over her left eyebrow a deep furrow was clearly visible. Was she worried that someone might say something awkward to her husband or was she just terribly uncomfortable in front of the cameras? Whatever it was she did look a bit queer. Just nervous tension I expect after all when hubby is fighting for his political life wifey is bound to look a bit taut in the eye area. I like her though.

Mrs Cameron, aka Sam, just rubs me up the wrong way. There's some thing about the gir'ls hairline that brings to mind witchcraft and the dark arts.
On the Liberal front, Mrs Clegg is nowhere to be seen. She works apparently and has no time to travel on battle buses with her better half, the man who will not hold the keys to number 10 but might enter via the back entrance.
Liberals are the most annoying of all politicians but I give them 10/10 for perseverance. While I'm on the subject, if Liberal M.P. Sarah Tether looses her seat she could always sign up with a talent agency as a Queen Victoria lookey-likey. She was on Question Time recently and my God as she sat perched on her little chair I almost fell to my knees, so majestic was her manner and hair.
She may be tiny and slightly overweight rather like the original Queen but Cleggy wants to watch out because our Sarah is after his job, mark my words...

Oh God what am I doing writing so much I have duties to perform.
Being served tonight at God knows what time are Italian style chops, mashed pots and something green.
For pud: Ice cream and mini chocolate castles.


Ta ta