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.
