Bully for You

'Miss the next one and I'll
snap it in two.. Did I
mention I used to play?'

Great. Another ‘gate’. This time, it’s ‘Bullygate’, with one of Gordon Brown’s top civil service aides having taken the age old advice to anyone who feels under pressure and told a teacher. Good for him. Of course, no one would care about any of this had Andrew Rawnsley not decided to serialise his felicitously timed expose of life in the cut and thrust of the Brown administration. Whilst my (albeit unqualified) impression of the Prime Minister isn’t one of a man capable of inducing knee-quivering fear, I’m not sure I’d feel completely secure if ever his lazy eye angrily shot my way. He did play rugby after all, as he seems to be so fond of telling us, and anyone who has spent so much time with ‘Knuckles’ Prescott must have picked up a few tips. Fists, however, do not seem to be his chosen bullying tactic. A Cray-style grabbing of the lapels is more his style, plus an innovative take on cyber-bullying by lobbing a Blackberry across the cabinet table.

I agree that some level of control needs to be placed on workplace safety; no one wants to turn up for work every day fearing they might have a photocopier planted on their face, but seriously, come on; if you enter a life of civil service, working at very summit of politics, you can’t expect it to be all smiles and biscuits round the boardroom table, surely? I’m actually a little relieved to hear that Gordon Brown loses his temper every now and then; it makes him seem (a little) more human. If we carry on like this, every artillery private in the army will take their drill sergeant to a tribunal for asking them to get down and give them twenty (though I’m told in the Navy that means an altogether different thing).

Away from politics, Cheryl Cole has left Ashley. I’m a regular listener to Woman’s Hour and therefore a staunch feminist, and so I allowed myself a whoop and a ‘You go girl’ when I heard the news. The only question remains what to do with the 2 million unsold copies of her album that conspicuously remain with his surname plastered over the front.

The most hilarious news since Derby County announced they were donating 2000 items of kit from their club shop to Haiti, was the report that results from the latest BA strike ballots were delayed due to the Royal Mail van in which they were travelling breaking down. Of course it would have been funnier had they been on strike too, but then I wouldn’t have received today’s pile of junk mail that I live for. It comes as no surprise that the overwhelming majority voted for strike action; you cannot freeze pay for cabin crew when make-up and Brylcreem prices continue to rise above the level of inflation. It’s simple economics.

It was announced this week that at the current rate, a quarter of Scotland’s population will be obese before you can say ‘deep fried pizza’. This piece on BBC news was dispatched with the obligatory ‘on location’ piece from a Scottish high school, where a number of rotund and freckly youths exposed the startling revelation that at lunchtime they prefer to eat ‘chups’ to veg. Hardly news. It now just leaves first minister Alex Salmond (no slimmer of the year himself) to announce in the Scottish Parliament the positive news that over three quarters of Scottish people are of a healthy weight. My advice; order a side salad with your battered Mars bar.

Elsewhere, the government are proposing to cut funding for Homeopathic treatments, meaning that deranged hippies can no longer pick up their sunshine pills via prescription. Apparently, empirical scientific and results-led evidence is required to justify these things nowadays. Supporters of the treatments have denied that any success of these medicines is due to the placebo effect, maintaining that effective results can be delivered from a process that claims to increase the potency of a substance via its heavy dilution. Now I only got a C in Chemistry, but that’s not right, is it? Then again, it’s no more ludicrous than teaching Creationism in schools. Hell with it, let’s trial everything on the NHS. I prescribe Guinness and kebabs…

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

He does. I'm telling
you, he really does
look like a pterodactyl


Poor old Andy Murray. To add insult to injury, after losing his second successive Grand Slam final, he wept like a small child in front of millions. An uncontrollable overflow of emotion, you might say. Or was it? Seemed to me like Mr Murray has been taking acting lessons, performing with a the lump in the throat and a moist eye the fist-to-mouth, turn-from-the-mic-in-grief-stricken-humility move with decidedly more precision than any one of his many unforced errors this morning, or evening depending on your hemisphere. ‘I can cry like Roger, I just wish I could play like him.’ Oh come on, surely that was scripted, considering the most you normally get from the moody Scot is an eyes-to-the-floor monosyllabic grumble.

I felt most sorry for Sue Barker, who, with a beaming smile at the beginning of the coverage, looked every inch like she had been finally provided with her raison d’etre. Henman seemed pleased to be out of the house too, providing the kind of nuggets of wisdom we have become accustomed to from the most easily caricatured man in tennis. Apart from perhaps Boris Becker who, occupying the same sofa (incidentally in the MOTD studio hastily prepared with different coloured mood lighting) looks more and more like a pimp every time I see him.

I don’t want to take anything away from Federer, he was, is and always will be in a class above Murray. I was surprised to read that going into the match, Murray was ahead in their head to head standings, but when it mattered, Federer was sublime. The perfect sportsman? As good a candidate as I can think of, especially as it’s highly unlikely it will ever emerge that Roger has been knocking off his training partner’s wife, unlike some model sportsmen we could, and now can, name.

That brings me nicely onto the sorry case of JT. There’s a bizarre financial element to all this, to do with his extra-curricular sponsorship deals that plunges the whole affair (excuse the pun) deeper into ignominy. To conduct an affair with the wife of your friend and team mate is one thing, but to insist on its cover up primarily to protect your extra-curricular income, on top of the £150 odd thousand per week from Chelsea, is pretty rotten indeed. Strip him of the England armband? I don’t think so; most of the reprobates lining up to snatch it from him are hardly model citizens themselves. Rooney would rather pay to use other, more elderly armbands, while Ashley Cole would leave his armband at home while he took another one to a hotel for the night. Joe Cole would leave his at the bar whilst he went into the toilet to have a fight, and Gerrard would shove it down the DJ’s throat after his second successive song request had been ignored.

No, I would allow Terry to keep the captaincy and just let them all get on with it. As penance, a televised bare-knuckle cage fight between him and Wayne Bridge might suffice, though with sanctions on the sponsorship. We as a nation should rise above all this nonsense and do what the English are famous for, and what makes us proud of our great nation. At this Summer’s World Cup, we should all get behind him and the team, giving them our unwavering support. We can then quite justifiably lynch him when we crash out to Portugal in the quarter finals.

Managing. Just.

The Manchester City player in question
knew he was in trouble with the
manager after passing out in the
gutter and allowing the line painter
to run over his pristine new
away shirt

I heard Steve Bruce say a little while ago that no manager is truly safe in his job and is only ever six games away from an ignominious sacking, facing the frightening prospect of being left with only a multi million pound pay off for comfort. A nice little earner actually, and a tactic that Bryan Robson has been using for years.

Yes, the Premier League managerial merry go round does not stop to let anybody off. Gary Megson was the latest to be bundled off leaving him bruised and bloodied, the wary eyes of Rafa Benitez following his crumpled form as he continues to whirl at breakneck speed.

I do feel a little sorry for Megson, though none could defend his woeful season, leaving Bolton dangling precariously over the relegation precipice having failed to keep a clean sheet all season. I feel for him because he just looks so damn depressed all the time, and this push over the edge might just leave him on suicide watch. It’s hard to describe his character satisfactorily, but if he were a colour, he would most certainly be grey.

Robert Mancini on the other hand is certainly not grey. In fact, he is positively blue and white, judging from the scarf he so conspicuously insists on wearing. His tailor must despair. City could use their manager’s sartorial stylings on the pitch; their away shirt is frankly ridiculous and looks like a reject from Roy of the Rovers. Mancini’s blue and white may just carry a slosh of Chianti, having revealed that he takes a fairly liberal attitude to his players dining habits before a game. Pizza and wine; revealing that the Italians are still the easiest nation in the world to stereotype. So much so, I wouldn’t be surprised to see him ride onto the Eastlands pitch on a Vespa when they face United tomorrow night. It will be interesting to observe the erosion of his impeccable appearance that life in Manchester will inevitably cause; hopefully by April he will have switched to a trenchcoat, wear his hair plastered down round his face and develop a Gallagherian swagger.

Rafa Benitez has less of a swagger these days; his is more of a defiant meander. It’s hard to believe that only 12 months ago, Liverpool had one eye on the Premier League title. It was suggested to me, when Gerrard failed to show for the second half of last week’s disastrous FA cup tie with Reading, that he probably joined Torres in the media suite to check lastminute.com for a one way ticket to Madrid. It was a proposal that made me smile considering every fourth advertising billboard flashing around the ground was for visitspain.com.

What is most perplexing about Liverpool is just where all the good players are. Despite Benitez’s 180m odd expenditure in his 5 year history at Liverpool, even a cursory glance at the squad roster reveals that only a handful are much use. It’s far more fun to name the bad ones; so Lucas, El Zhar, Babel, N’Gog and Insua, please stand up. Or just do something, rather than passing the ball to the opposition continually as Liverpool are wont to do of late.

Manchester United have had a blip recently too. The cup exit to Leeds was a shock, and though they fielded a depleted side, not even Rooney and Berbatov could make any difference for home side. Credit to the Leeds players though, who deserve to be playing at a much higher level and can hopefully piece together a decent cup run this year. Alex Ferguson gave an excuse I’m sure, though it seems, from the last press conference I saw, that his famous Scottish droll has finally become totally intelligible.

For me, Arsenal are the dark horses this year. If Fabregas can stay fit, there’s no reason they can’t mount a serious title challenge. As for the fourth spot, if Liverpool can take the gun from their head they may, just may be able to prize the final Champions' League spot if Spurs and Man City fall away towards the end of the season as I suspect they might, and if Villa don’t fold like origami in March like last year.

Elsewhere, Adrian Chiles of MOTD2 is beginning to look like Ray Mears after a week in the woods, though admittedly without any shortage of food. And forget the title race; the receding hair lines between pundits Lee Dixon and Alan Shearer is a far more gripping competition, with only a few follicles separating both as the season passes the halfway mark…

The Final Countdown

The FA has announced that it will investigate
allegations of hairpulling during the recent
intercontinental five-a-side tournament

The inexorable count down continues, whilst the steely faced correspondent stares sternly back at me. The whirlwind of speculation and conflicting reports whips up frenzied doubt and wide eyed disbelief in the masses across the nation who sit, like me, transfixed by the history unfolding before their eyes. The conveyor belt, heavy and luminous with breaking news flickers across the bottom of the screen as my eyes wildly follow it back and forth, back and forth. It confirms, it denies. The suspense, the contemplation of how our very existences will be shaped by the next few decisive minutes, hangs over me like an anvil ready to fall and obliterate the hopes and dreams of all in its path. And then it happens; the countdown reaches zero. As I close my eyes and hold my breath, it… cuts to a commercial break….

Yes that’s right, the apocalypse. Otherwise known as the transfer deadline day; followed by the second in glorious HD Technicolor by Sky Sports News. In truth, it was one of the least busy or interesting deadline days in recent years, but let’s not allow that to ruin our fun, shall we?

Sky Sports must have a broom cupboard where they keep emergency reporters (who incidentally all look the same) to bring out on such occasions as yesterday. Once dusted off, they stand like idiots outside the gates of every stadium/training ground in the country. Unfortunately for them, Premier League transfers were a little thin on the ground on deadline day, and instead they had to resort to deducing like sleuths the covert signs and meanings in the cars and people that went through the gates. At one point, I’m sure, the entire cleaning workforce at White Hart Lane were minutes from being unveiled as the new all-Polish defensive line up for the 09/10 season.

There were a couple of interesting movements yesterday, however. Harry Redknapp snapped up Kranjcar from Portsmouth, reportedly at a bargain rate, and Everton brought in Heitinga from Atletico Madid for £6m to plug a hole in the rapidly diminishing morale tank at Goodison Park. There were a couple more hardly worth noting, but other than that, it really was down to the chaps at Sky to fabricate the rest.

The excitable man outside Spurs’ training ground revealed that a vehicle had just passed through the gates, which may or may not have borne the initials of Matthew Upson, and that this could well mean the West Ham player would sign for Spurs before the end of the day. No more was heard of this rumour, and for all we knew the vehicle in question turned out to be a UPS van.

David James’s actions were watched closely all day, with zoom lenses picking up his afro every now and then popping up above the walls of Fratton Park. Again, nothing.
There was even wild speculation at one point that David Bentley was about to sign for Man City. I really hoped that there was some truth in that one. Not because of what his signature would do to boost City’s title hopes, but because of the potential hilarity of watching as his Mum gave him a lift to Eastlands following his driving ban last week. Alas, no joy there either.

All this was presided over in a very professional manner by the studio team; the spotlight of speculation was cast effortlessly from one corner of the country to the next by the handsome, stoical bloke and the blonde woman who as much as she tried, could kid herself no longer that she was hired for her sporting knowledge or journalistic skills.

As the deadline loomed, it became far more interesting to watch the gathering crowds of chavs in the background of the reporters’ shots, and in the case of the some of the more far flung pundits, the growing fear in their eyes as they began to be hemmed in by bmx bikes cycling in ever decreasing circles.

And then it happened. The picture was switched to Big Ben for the massively over-egged finale as the countdown reached zero, using the annoying ‘atmospehric’ effect of gradually monochroming everything but the clock tower, one that Sky Sports must have patented, such is its overuse. And then, when it was all over, the transfer anorak, who had for most of the afternoon been waiting patiently in the corner of the shot, informed us that because of paperwork and work permits, most of the confirmed transfers wouldn’t be announced for probably another hour an a half, and the bubble, which BSkyB had been desperately been trying to construct all day, burst with a wet pop.. Roll on January for more drama…

To Win, or Toulouse???

Bob had visited Calais so often that the
transformation seemed to him very gradual

How does a Frenchman play poker? What exactly is a fox dog? Is my 5 iron cursed? Not fundamentally vital questions to most, but all highly relevant ones during what was a beautifully varied, and more than a little sweltering seven days holiday in Southern France.

Two families, united by marriage and the common goal to seek refuge from Britain’s barbecue summer, boarded the 12.30 flight from Gatwick to Toulouse; “Wait” said the wisest of us all, “maybe that’s the arrival time.” Oh God...

We were all grateful then, that EasyJet ensured the flight was delayed for over two hours. Once En France we headed to our remote cottage in the heart of the Gers region. By remote, I mean that the few houses that huddled together between the Triffid-like armies of sunflower fields, constituted the second largest settlement on our local map.

No shops for miles then, and so immediately my vision of the bicycled, bereted Frenchman lost his baguette and garlic string. Nevertheless, we hastened to the nearest store, and performed a large shop with the mindset that only ever possesses the holidaymaker. Out went the staple goods and fresh veg, and in went the wine, cheese and cooked meats. Our good health ensured then, we proceeded in a purely British fashion to ‘planning’ our relaxing holiday. Slots were allocated, schemes hatched and requests placed for numerous activities that, considering the soaring temperatures, were questionable in their sagacity, as the conspicuously absent locals during mid-day hours proved.

By far the most audacious of these was the golf trip. The men’s day out was planned for an early morning departure to avoid us being labelled mad dogs, or worse, Englishmen, later in the day. This early start was made absolutely impossible however, as the breakfast croissants didn’t arrive until after 10am.

It was almost certainly the hot weather that led to my defeat in the inaugural ‘Chambord Open’. I have tried but failed to fathom any other reason why my swing would desert me on the 4th, and come crawling back, panting, as a mirage on the shimmering horizon of the final hole, by which time my score card read like a cricket innings. Plaudits go to my brother James, who (somehow) kept his game and romped to victory, really pulling it out of the cool bag.

The ladies’ day sounded much less exerting, with a tour of the shady local châteaux wine cellars followed by extended tasting. Why didn’t we think of that?

A large part of the holiday was spent preparing food, and much of the remaining time spent eating it. If barbecuing is an art, then we were treated to the Sistine chapel by what can only be described as brother-in-law Nick’s ‘creative vision’. My donation to the culinary gallery was the ‘Rustic Risotto’, although even the alliteration couldn’t sway the critics from the barbecued masterpiece.

It was a week of intense competition, and the crushing disappointment of losing out in the Chambord Open spurred me on to narrowly take the Poker title. Five year old nephew Sebbie swam a personal best to usurp the swimming crown, which although thoroughly deserved, speaks volumes about exertion levels the rest of us were able to produce in the sweltering conditions.

Genetically incapable of failing to seek out a bargain, Lily and Lara managed to find a car boot sale/market in the midst of the arable surroundings, and it must be said that even a Frenchman’s cast offs can seem more stylish than the British High Street at times. This rural rummaging was juxtaposed with myself and Nick roaming the streets of the largest town in the area feverishly searching for a Wi-fi connection. We found one, amazingly, but not without some very confused looks from the locals. What exactly is the French for Wi-Fi?

My thanks and regards go out to each and every member of the vacationing clan. Here’s to next year!!! (Although maybe somewhere with air-con, hey Mum?)

I have hitherto neglected to mention that we were staying near a town called Condom. The very place that modern day contraception was born (or rather, wasn’t). It has been hard to sidestep the gags, and accept the applause that my restraint deserves. Merci, et bon soir…..

5 Things I Hate about London..

The Met has rejected plans to introduce a new fleet
of response cars, dismissing the proposed vehicles
as 'too slow' for the demanding needs of the force

Firstly, despite the negative tone of the title, it must be noted that I love London. There is far more to love than to hate in this beautiful city. The day this balance is swung is the day I move away (or when I purchase my rock star estate in Surrey, whichever comes first). Despite this, there are a few people, places and inanimate objects that annoy me to the very core of my being in this our nation’s capital. Here are 5 of my most (or least?) favourite things to hate, in no particular order.

1. Americans

A bit obvious perhaps, and one that could be perfectly justified amongst anyone’s top 5 most annoying things in any context. This particular gripe however, is aimed at the American tourist. Cliché I know, but find me a stereotype that is more true to its name (besides a drunk Irishman) and I will give you ten bucks. I’ll even get it out of my bum bag whilst making sure that my socks are pulled up to my knees, and negotiating my way round a huge stomach. All the while, my baseball cap and t-shirt sporting the name of an obscure national park in Colorado will beautifully accompany my immaculately trimmed moustache. ‘Well Gee Whiz Kathleen, they’re changing that darn guard again’.

My advice; to avoid the disdainful treatment you will inevitably receive, do what any sensible American should when abroad – sew a red Maple leaf to your cap or bag.


2. The London lite

Or the London Paper, or any other of the free rush hour rags, filled exclusively with puerile nonsense. I originally thought that competition between these gutter press rivals would drive them both into the ground, but that seems not to be the case, with some 1.5 Million Londoners' each day feverishly swiping a copy from the first garishly overcoated man to thrust one in their face. Yes, I have read them both on many occasions; often unavoidably, as ‘Swine flu to kill everyone tomorrow’ stares me in the face from every angle on the train. To think that these publications constitute many Londoners sole news intake during an evening, or even all day, is unnerving. If an alien craft took a copy of the ‘Lite’ away as a sample of life in London at the beginning of the 21st century, one of two things would happen. Either they would be appalled at the degeneration of a once proud and literate nation into celebrity spotting, sensation lapping halfwits and obliterate us all, or in many years time we would discover distant planet inhabited by Wags, with Cheryl Cole as its Messiah.


3. Zone 3 and beyond

We've all been there. 'We're having a party, come along, should be great fun!'. And it no doubt will be, except it's in Finchley. Or Earlsfield. Or somewhere else you’ve only ever heard of when staring at the tube map on the train and trying to construct obscene anagrams from station names (maybe just me). In fact, Morden and Cockfosters can officially boast more visitors per year than the London Eye, due to drunken revellers waking with a start at the end of the line, dribbling onto their London Lite.

There's perhaps a touch of snobbery in the roll of the eyes and tutting that follows an arrangement to visit 'the outer limits', but it's not just a matter of reputation. There's the travel to take in to account. For some reason, after a drunken evening, it becomes entirely impossible for a group of friends to agree on the time that the last tube runs. Not wanting to cut the evening short, everyone settles on the most liberal estimate, and then the inevtiable moment comes. Underground closed then, and time to consider the night bus.

It is perfectly possible to spend up to 3 hours on the 'N's and feel just as far from home as when you began. And you might be. There’s a good chance you’ll have to change at Trafalgar square, and as anyone who has suffered the interminable wait on a Saturday night knows, every bus running through there is either at capacity or close to it, with the convergence of hundreds of confused and drunken Londoners continuing their odyssey from the wilderness of zone 3 and beyond. Either that, or you'll fall asleep and find yourself being woken by a youth in Lewisham who will ask you less than politely for your wallet and phone.

'Hey, great party last night, thanks! Next time though, let's meet at London Bridge.'


4. ‘Extreme’ Sports

Now, this is a complicated gripe and will not be popular with the hordes of 'out there' Londoners that love nothing more than either flying, strapping themselves to or otherwise interacting with some contraption, with or without wheels, and who as a result look totally stupid.

The first is rollerblading, the Mecca for which seems to be the stretch of path opposite the Albert Hall on the south side of Hyde Park. Why, I've no idea, perhaps a homage to Victoria’s husband, who famously espoused the adoption of foreign customs into England. Not everything ports as well as Christmas trees though. Not even Prince Albert would countenance the ridiculous behaviour of these Lycra-clad skaters, whirling themselves around in what they see as streamlined, graceful and cutting edge manner, but to everyone else looks like they are suffering an uncontrollable and rather camp fit. It is Torvill and Dean, without the pretty costumes (though often with the 80’s hairstyles). I’m sorry, but this is not LA, and neither are we extras from the OC. Oh, and to the lunatics that choose this method of transport to get to the office; yes, your workmates mock you, and whether you know it or not your boss has put you top of the pile for potential redundancy.

The second instance of ‘extreme behaviour’ I have an aversion to is Kites. Or Kite Boarding, or Extreme Kites. Call it whatever you like if it makes you feel anything other than a little foolish for indulging regularly in a pastime designed for small children. Some men get away with it; their passion for flying kites can be successfully masked by taking their own kids out whenever there is a blustery day. As the epicentre for kite flying tomfoolery seems to be Blackheath, then that is nearly every day. So, what about the men (for it seems to be exclusively men) that do not have little ones to vicariously re-live their dreams? Well, they strap themselves to a big skateboard and go mobile, no doubt up-ending joggers and small fluffy dogs in the process. I have already heard the counter arguments. ‘It’s no child’s play, you should try it, you have to be tough to control these things, they’re pretty hardcore.’ Yes, yes, but still a kite.


5. The Metropolitan Police

Not the whole force, but certainly elements of it. Their cars, for starters. I understand that there are probably more criminals per square mile in London than in Strangeways, but does that necessitate a (huge) fleet of gargantuan BMWs to chase them with? Surely, with the traffic congestion London enjoys, a Smart Car would be a more sensible choice for weaving in and out of the rush hour traffic? Not to mention the £30k price tag. Also, if someone can offer me a reason as to why many of the cars are silver, other than an elitist display, I’d like to hear it. That sums up the Met; bigger and better than any other force in Britain. Or so they would have you think. The flaws begin at the top and seep downwards, with Sir Ian Blair having been embroiled in more dodgy dealing and malpractice than Peter Mandleson, and special ops squads that get everything right apart from shooting the right bloke.

And then there's the PCs. Picture an English Bobby: Helpful, jolly, approachable and almost certainly sporting a moustache. The Met officer is none of these, and instead employs a steely faced, supercilious glare, brandished liberally at anyone who cares to arrest his line of sight. All the while, Metcop has his hands tucked into his Teflon vest in a universally recognised pose of authoritative toughness. How he expects to reach his belt and access the plethora of torture instruments required to violently apprehend a random black youth with his hands in his vest is anyone's guess. It has become less ‘Ello ‘ello ‘ello, and more ‘Armed Police, on your knees’.

I realise that policing in the capital is a far more gritty and dangerous than, say, Norwich, but has the age of the British copper, polite and courteous, really been sentenced to the past? There has certainly been a visible difference in police attitudes since the 7/7 bombings, and perhaps it's necessary for our officers to adopt a tougher stance, but somehow it just doesn't feel very British. Can't we all just be polite and get along in the orderly fashion we are famed for? Ask the G20 protestors and see what they say.


So, I feel liberated having got a few things off my chest. What annoys you about London, or any other town for that matter? Answers on a postcard to 10 Downing Street to provide David Cameron with at least a vague idea of what he's doing when he moves in.

Exclsuive - "Election fever not contagious"

Many voters are accusing UKIP of
misleading them, after it emerged that the party's
primary mandate is not, as many expected, an
invitation for the electorate to have a little
sleep.


In case you’ve been living in a cave, (or in Switzerland) there has recently been another revolution of the European parliamentary merry go round. Considering the turnout of the electorate, the coverage given by television and the press to last weekend’s elections has been somewhat disproportionate. More people watch Eastenders each week than bothered to get to a polling station on Thursday, but we don’t see David Dimbleby anchoring a fully interactive-digital-via-satellite extravaganza charting the rise and fall of Dot Cotton’s popularity levels, do we? More’s the pity.

Needless to say I watched the coverage on BBC1, and quite a spectacle it was too. No wonder the journalists from television centre have been haranguing the Labour ministers about when a General Election will be called; they just cannot wait to bust out their newest CGI vote analysis experience. Forget John Snow and his ‘Swingometer’ – here we have Jeremy Vine pirouetting around a three-dimensional and interactive computer generated white room with more statistics at his disposal with a waft of his digitised hand than most Government departments could leave on a train in months. If you didn’t catch it, I’m sure the BBC hasn’t made it awfully difficult for you to find it online. In fact, it is so futuristic in a James Bond kind of way, that it might even find you.

And so, the computery bells and whistles confirmed to us what we already knew would happen to the Labour vote. To be fair to Brown and co, despite the drubbing, they kept their end up in London reasonably well, although I am convinced that the omnipresence of Boris Johnson will boost Labour’s vote in anything political (if even subconsciously) as long as the walking blonde disaster exists in city hall. BNP supporters will no doubt tear themselves away from beating immigrants long enough to celebrate Fat Hitler (look at his picture again, and draw a moustache) Nick Griffin’s victory in the North West. He will join party colleague Andrew Brons, who will both presumably sit huddled next to each other in fright inside the European parliament building, suddenly aware that they are surrounded by their worst nightmare; a bunch of angry foreigners. Good luck chaps.

They won’t be alone however. There has been a big swing towards the right this time around, with almost all of the socialist parties in continental Europe losing ground to centre right and beyond. Hungary has even elected a few strange looking military fascists in bodywarmers and Boy Scout neck scarves. How menacing. Aside from Germany, France and Italy, this swing to the right has been against the ruling party. Whether this is a just a ‘vote for somebody else as we’re all broke’ reaction remains to be seen, but a huge recession is never going to favour the party in power at the time (isn’t that right Gordon?).

For all its hot air, the Conservative party achieved a smaller gain than expected. It was Ukip that really stole the show, with a Kilroy Silk-free sheen that attracted much of the protest vote from the expenses scandal to land it second place overall of total votes cast. But the plaudits must surely go to Sweden’s Pirate party, who amazingly won a parliamentary seat lobbying for nothing but the freedom to share music over the Internet. This was in response to the closure of file sharing site piratebay.com and the imprisonment of its creators, and it does beg the question; what exactly does a Swedish computer geek with no real agenda do day in day out at the European Parliament? Will he even turn up? Or will he use his 70,000 Euro salary to actually buy his music and render himself obsolete?

Now all is said and done, it is back to work for the MEP’s. If the wage doesn’t prove enough for them, there is always the 200 Euro daily rate for actually turning up. That should pay for lunch. Back home in Blighty, we will all seek a vaccine to help treat our election fever, and hope that we can become immune for the next strain come the general election. Things might not look so good for him, but Gordon Brown should count himself lucky. At least he’s not stuck in a virtual statistic room until it happens like poor old Jeremy Vine.