In a hurry.

Well aren’t things all rosy? This week has been fairly un-monumental but I have got a few little things to get off my chest.
1. I don’t like to say I told you so but I was right about Diane Abbott. She has pretensions to be the Home Secretary of the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland but she hasn’t got the simple wit to jot down a couple of big numbers before an interview with a man possessed of a juxtaposed surname. Listening to the interview and hearing her hiccup and dribble and fail spectacularly was wonderful and awful at precisely the same moment. She couldn’t run a mile let alone a country and for that reason she’s out.
2. I’ve just seen an appalling advert for Sky Mobile featuring the singular talents of Mr Tom Hardy. I think I went off him around the Mad Max point, which was a grossly overrated slice of vehicle and amputee porn – a strange mix if you’re not into both. Or maybe I haven’t forgiven him for ruining all the other bits of The Revenant by method mumbling to the point of incomprehensibility. I have almost no doubt that Hardy is a nice chap but he takes his day job far, far too seriously. That in itself is not necessarily a problem but it rapidly becomes a huge, yawning problem if you decide to take acting really seriously and then plonk yourself in a Sky advert, look like a pillock and roll over for what must have been a disgusting packet of cash. If you ever struggled with the line between art and greed then now is the time to look.
3. Paul Nuttall. Paul Nuttall. Paul Nuttall. Read that name again because it’s quite likely you won’t hear a lot more of it once the grown up election has blown over. What’s so brilliantly crap about Paul Nuttall isn’t the fact he’s a pretend politician, or a half racist or that his party have just lost pretty much all they ever had. No, the best bit is the quote he burped out yesterday, as he gazed out over the battlefield of limbless corpses that were once his colleagues – “we’re a victim of our own success”. If you’re waiting for some harsh, sarcastic surgery on that rotten cliché then you’re out of luck. You can just read it as many times as you like until it dawns on you that only an supreme fool, a high priest of morons, could say it and in doing so snatch greater, much more stupid defeat from the jaws of what was a pretty spectacular defeat in the first place. Well done Paul.
That’s it for now, I’m in a hurry as we’re off to see Mum for her birthday and then we’re going to pick up a kitten to fill the vast black hole of hair and squeaking left by the passing of Little Miss Fluffy Knickers. And her arrival will most likely inspire some more words. 500 hundred words in 17 minutes. Ignore the mistakes.

G B Hewitt. 6.5.2017

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