Still Feeling Perky

No sign of life-threatening germs yet at London Acres. But from my upper balcony, across the meadows in the far distance I can see the granite outline of Penryn. Even this small Cornish town is now encrusted with Swine Flu.

I've been finding out what to do about H1N1. One idea seems to be to stay in, avoiding everybody in the world until the middle of next year. Though I'm not the most sociable being, I find that a bit of a dull prospect. On the web of course, there's masses of advice on staying healthy; if you followed it all you'd end up being the fittest you've ever been. We're also told, Corporal Jones-style, not to panic. There are helplines and e-doctors to assist us; I wonder how much calls cost?

There'll be plenty of the new Tamiflu wonder-drug to go round. No-one will be kept short. But hang on - Tamiflu won't cure us. It only alleviates symptoms, so if proprietary drugs are cheaper (is Tamiflu free?) we might as well buy Asda Smart Price paracetamol. Except, that would involve going out.

At least Salman Rushdie should be alright.

Boomtown Rats

American forces recently ended their permanent presence in Iraq's major cities. A grateful Iraqi government promptly declared the pullback National Sovereignty Day.

America's work is done; the world's policeman is moving on. Iraqi authorities are set to take full control of the new democracy. At last, stability has arrived in the region; all calm on the streets, all contracts in place. Hollywood is standing by.

The exact phrase used by the US administration for its exit strategy is 'pulling out'. Well excuse the vernacular but to many people, pulling out is what you do when you've fucked something.

According to United Nations statistics meanwhile, Baghdad is now considered safer then Mogadishu. Mission accomplished, then.

Blowing Bubbles

He flew so high. The whole world is in mourning over the Prince of Pop's premature passing. A truly great musician (couldn't play an instrument), extraordinary vocals (annoying), peerless dancer (OK, fair enough). Away on a pile of prescription drugs, allegedly. No more unusual antics with his little friends, or inevitable acquittals. No more contractual obligation albums. Aged just fifty, Michael Joseph Jackson has died.

Tickets for his final comeback tour, now cancelled of course, are becoming collectible. Refund or souvenir? It's a difficult choice to make.

Those left out of his will are transparently bitter, their greedy, furious eyes captured by the never-ending media coverage. Now wait for the shameless fight over the cash machine: album and media royalties, merchandising, music rights.

Already, RIP memorabilia has mushroomed. We can choose from T-shirts, badges, posters, even fridge magnets. Oh, and watch out for circulation-boosting conspiracy theories peddled by the fourth estate.

The poor lad. For years, he hadn't looked himself.

Tears For Blears

Hazel Blears, the traitorous Red Dwarf, has admitted cruelty in her recent comments about Gordon Brown. But apparently, she didn't mean to sabotage his struggle to stay in office. She has grovellingly apologised for the timing of her resignation - on the eve of the European elections.

She concedes too, that she shouldn't really have worn a brooch bearing the slogan 'Rocking the Boat' during her Day of Reprisal. 'The effect on the party is something I will regret forever,' she now claims tearfully.

Of course, she gives reasons for her behaviour. These are to do with other people.

Pressure, she says, was put on her by the Daily Telegraph. Er, well, a big fat £13,000 payback for expenses improperly claimed suggests there was some reason for the Telegraph's stance. And fancy waving the cheque around on telly - like Father Ted's Mrs Doyle in the Mainland episode.

Because of the media, pressure was also experienced by her family, she explains, which was terribly upsetting - on her husband, and her 'dad'. Note the touching use of the diminutive to tug at our heart-strings. Works well, doesn't it.

Partly because of Blears' antics and the terrible publicity to Labour, in the north-west of England the insane British National Party was able to snatch MEP seats.

Next Thursday, the Dwarf faces her Salford constituency, and possible de-selection. So, is this latest peroration an act of contrition, or merely a shameless attempt to keep her seat? And even if her remorse is genuine, who would want representation by an MP with such lack of judgement?

Miss Blears has said she will not return to the Cabinet. A view presumably shared by Chuckles and his remaining satellites.

It's A Girl!

Madonna's wangled another child from the Malawian authorities. At last we can sleep easy, as the pop diva expands her family while the country's judiciary graciously steps aside.

Mercy: 'Do you have AIDS, mummy?'

Madonna: 'Sure kid, they're over there, just out of shot. Now, look up at me trustingly.'

Madonna, the Red campaign led by Bonio, Tony Bliar's star-studded Africa Progress Panel. Genuine attempts to help Africa, or self-serving publicity platforms?

Now, you may not like Bob Geldof's robust approach, but he was first to put Africa's medical and financial plight in front of the world, and his work raised a lot of money. How the money was spent, of course, is another matter. But perhaps he has a credibility the others lack; is his ungracious gruffness a sign of genuine reluctance to benefit personally from his campaigns?

By the by, the story goes that Paula Yates used to spend a lot of time at home in the nude. Cooking, housework, watching telly, all in the buff. An odd quirk, you might say. But then, being married to Bob Geldof is probably enough to put anyone off clothes.

Because I'm Worth It

And another. This time it's Caroline Flint, glamour-puss, fashion model and former part-time Europe Minister. A close friend of the Red Dwarf, today Flint has claimed Chuckles has a two-tier government and treats female ministers as 'window dressing'.

The timing of this realisation is interesting. Three days ago Flint promised uncritical loyalty to Brown's tottering regime. Then came Cabinet musical chairs in which she was passed over. It's almost as if sour grapes drove her decision to resign, but in today's Telegraph, she denies being a wrecking ball.

'I want Labour to be re-elected and I still support the Government', insists the stilletoed assassin. She then goes on to explain at unnecessary length her views on wider sexism in the workplace, political and otherwise. This is an insultingly obvious attempt to move away from her specific motive in sledging Brown, and toward less controversial, more comfortable boilerplate. Transparency in government indeed - though not for hard-hearted Flint.

Bye Bye Babes

So. The Red Dwarf spitefully stabs Chuckles immediately prior to the European Election. A fantastic move, unprecedented. She's leaving the Cabinet, going back to her roots. Pass the Henna. I won't miss that plucky, chipper walk, the grin of almost demented gaiety. Vote for Hazel Blears if you will. She's a ball-breaker. I might like that ...

Squirrel Nutkin's off too. I don't want to rake up the past, but it seems perfectly reasonable to me that Jacqui Smith's unfortunate husband orders hard-core pornographic films. In his position so would I. It's just that I'm not keen on paying for them. For him, I mean. Obviously.

Beverley Hughes: another ginger, another goodbye, another limo back to Manchester. We could play book-ends, or something more interesting. Her expenses transgressions are relatively minor compared with Blears', and she's leaving for personal reasons. Let's hope they aren't as personal as Smith's.

In passing, I learned the other day that on his departure from office, all records of Tony Bliar's expenses were shredded. It's nice to have a good clear-out from time to time.

Happy Daze

I don't usually put jokes on this blog, but my friend Dave The Bass has kindly made a contribution that I can't resist.

A man died and went to heaven. As he stood in front of St Peter at the Pearly Gates he saw a huge wall of clocks behind him. He asked, 'What are all those clocks?'

St Peter answered, 'Those are Lie-Clocks. Everyone on Earth has a Lie-Clock. Every time you lie, the hands of your clock will move.'

The man pointed at the first clock. 'Who's is that?' 'That's Mother Theresa's. The hands have never moved, because she never told a lie.'

'Incredible,' said the man, 'and the next one?' 'The Queen of England's. The hands have only moved twice, because she's only told two lies in her entire life.'

'Where's Gordon Brown's?' asked the man. St Peter replied, 'Gordon's clock is in Jesus' office. He's using it as a ceiling fan.'


One of the joys of this joke is its flexibility.

Home Alone

Amid the scandalous revelations of MPs' second-home expense claim abuse, one clarion voice, free of guilt or shame, rings out clear, rising clean and pure above the frightened parroting of 'within the rules'. A crusading force for good gives the British people hope that integrity and truth will see off the rabble of hypocrites falling over themselves to apologise for having been found out. It's the Harriet Harmon Show!

As the bad news broke, the fearful shysters began to dribble and roll their eyes, but by contrast Ms Harmon was a model of composure. She was the only senior Labour figure brave enough publicly to discuss the wrongdoings of honourable members.

Appearing on TV, Harriet wept openly at the deceit and shamelessness of the cheats, while informing the nation with absolute conviction that she has never ever claimed any money or allowances for her second home. This only served to emphasise the wickedness of those party colleagues (particularly her many enemies) who had made extravagent claims, an effect she presumably had overlooked.

A little research throws some light on this behaviour. Harmon is not eligible to claim any money at all for a second home. 'I come under a different system because I am an Inner London MP', she grudgingly admitted when pressed by baying media interrogators.

Who's a lucky girl?

Cows and Pigs: Fever Pitch

In 1990 the BSE crisis raged. During that period of 'Mad Cow' disease, tens of thousands of infected animals were slaughtered and burned. But the Agriculture Minister of the day, Tory John Gummer, publicly fed his four-year old daughter Cordelia a beefburger, in a ghastly publicity stunt designed to reassure us beef was safe.

Gummer's action was widely pilloried and led to a lasting mistrust of government pronouncements on health scares. Inexplicably his career remained unscathed, though I'm pleased to report the Norwegian Minister of Environmental Affairs, Thorbjorn Berntsen, described him as 'the biggest shithead I've ever met.'

Today we have swine fever. Which Cabinet Minister's child features in the above image taken this very morning? Is it the child of a Minister at all? Or a Catholic Minister, perhaps? Or is it some other child?

Will the image appear on Government information leaflets to be pushed through letterboxes across Britain?

A prize will be awarded for the most interesting and original suggestion as to the child's identity.