Song For Gordon

Gordon Brown, PM at last
Takes us down, into the Doldrums
No sense of fun
Dour and glum
Always a frown
With Gordon Brown

Every time, just like the last
Lies and spin echo the Blair years
Loves the EU
Freemason too
Always a frown
With Gordon Brown

Doo be doo
Be doo be doo
Be doo be doo
Be doo doo doo doo

Doo be doo
Be doo be doo
Be doo be doo
Be doo doo doo doo

Gordon Brown, not long to go
Billions lost, let the banks cheat us
Throughout the years
Crocodile tears
Financial clown
That's Gordon Brown

From an idea by Hugh Cornwell.

Fat Of The Land

Britain's population is the fattest in Europe. In Britain, 24% of the people are medically obese. Yet every day we throw away millions of tons of food. Do fat people come out at night and eat from bins?

Scotland is the worst affected area, where fatties flourish most. You have to wonder what they'd be like up there without all that heroin. Recently I was queuing in a fast food emporium in Perth. The guy in front asked for a 'burger mate, nay shite.' This meant, 'I'll forego the salad garnish, tomato, lettuce and so on thanks, just give me the processed-flour bun and the black rubber thing in the middle.' In Scotland, five-a-day is for the entire country rather than for each person.

Junk food isn't good, it's poison. You can't just exercise it away. It takes four hours to run off a bag of chips, and that's not including stops for snacks. Yet we continue to buy terrible processed food from places such as Iceland and Aldi. Surely not everyone in Britain is poor and too lazy to cook?

Of course, fat people are easy targets. Literally. But it's hard to believe that dietary common-sense has so completely gone out of the window. The odd apple instead of the usual meat pie in batter. A little less crap food, a little less blubber. And that replica sports kit will start to actually look quite good. Well, no it won't. But you get my drift.

Snail Wail

Adam Crozier, chief executive of Royal Mail, has set the scene for tense talks with leaders of the Communications Workers' Union. Today he called on them to 'shut up' and stop making 'nonsensical' claims about the effects their current strike is having on postal delays and backlogs. He wants to get back to the negotiating table and reach an agreement.

Well he might. Crozier is ex-chief of the Football Association, and before that Saatchi and Saatchi. He has more practical experience of tough business decisions than the flat-cap brigade on the other side of the picket fence will ever amass, or even begin to appreciate.

The Daily Mirror has recently drawn the attention of its er readers to Crozier's '£2 million home in leafy Surrey', to his £1.3 million-a-year salary, and to his Jaguar. Yet Crozier and his management team have to face Billy Hayes and Dave Ward, officials of the CWU whose views sound like a third-rate replay of newsclips from the 1970s winter of discontent. Crozier earns his money. Today, how many electronic options are there to posting a letter? This strike will do tremendous, perhaps terminal damage to Royal Mail.

In a short-lived, disastrous rebranding exercise, for sixteen months over 2001 and 2002 our national postal service became known as Consignia, before adopting its current title. Maybe it should revert to its previous name; have a look at the old logo above. Is it a plughole?

One In The Eye

Gordon Brown is now so weak that to criticise him would seem almost like bullying. He has the face of the kid your mother made you play with, the face of a dog at the vets. But just as MPs from all political parties turn toward preparations for the next General Election, once again the creature rises from its crypt - not Brown himself, rather the subject of honourable members' expenses. Enter Sir Thomas Legg, the auditor charged with bringing the Commons to book.

Following Sir Thomas's findings, we learn today that Brown is to repay £12,415, wrongly claimed for cleaning and gardening services. Casually trousered, the amount of money many people take home in a year. How Hazel 'Bride of Chucky' Blears must be clapping her chubby little mitts at such revelations.

Another of the so-called Bliar Babes, Brown's former Home Secretary Jacqui Smith, has just apologised to the Commons for breaching expenses rules. Smith had designated her sister's house in London as her main home, a move that allowed her to claim public money for the mortgage on the family home in her Redditch constituency. The one with the husband and the artistic hard-core films. Her apology was so sincere it was termed unreserved, rather than just the ordinary, sorry-lite version.

Lib-Dem leader Nick Clegg has also been caught out. At first sight, Clegg's personality is like an old woman's cushion that's been left out in the rain for cats to piss on. Yet all is not quite as it seems. Here is a man who improperly claims over £900 for gardening expenses, over a three-year period. Nearly a pound a day. He's bolder than we think. Even more surprising, during his keynote speech at the squabbling Lib-Dem Conference recently, Clegg announced he wanted to be Prime Minister. Well, good luck with that one.

Country Phial

A lovely day here in Cornwall. London Acres is bathed in warm sunshine, across the field the river twinkles; peaceful silence broken only by birdsong. Time to go out then.

In the nearby lane, I met an elderly lady; she was snaffling blackberries from the hedgerows. The old soul was chatty and enjoying the warmth. She was also on the lookout for sloes.

I nipped back for two carrier-bags. What better than to gather succulent blackberries during a gentle afternoon stroll around the nearby fields, an amble down to the path by the river. Both have blackberries galore - lovely with a dollop of cream, or in a pie. And also, the sloes.

Christmas has many disadvantages, but one compensation is sloe gin. Smooth, sweet, sticky, it brings comfort, a warm fuzzy swaddling as it slips down; the loathsome period recedes. Of course, you have to know to make it, so here are some instructions.

1) Collect lots of sloe berries - don't leave it too long, get out there over the next couple of weeks or you'll find they've started to turn. Good luck with this bit if you live in Newham. In fact, good luck generally.

2) Buy two 70 cl bottles of Asda Smart-Price Gin.

3) Get two empty 70 cl screw-top spirit bottles from your friendly publican.

4) Prick each of the sloes a couple of times.

5) Fill each of the four bottles half-full with gin, and a third-full with sloes.

6) Bung in a load of sugar, but leave a bit of space at the top of each bottle.

7) Give each of the bottles a really good shake. Oh, put the tops on first - sorry.

8) Place the bottles upright in a warm place. Inspect them monthly. Add more sugar, give them a bit of a shake. Put the bottles back unsampled.

9) Christmas Day. Drink four 70 cl bottles of sloe gin. You may need a friend to help you with this bit, eventually.

Show of Hands

What's been happening in the world of politics over the summer? It's usually a quiet time, but a few gems have emerged that we could touch on.

Nick 'Camel-Toe' Griffin, failed anorexic and leader of the British Lunatic Party, was pelted with eggs outside Parliament and forced to abandon a press conference. That's democracy for you. Police are poised to interview around sixty million suspects. An inspired media reporter revealed that following the assault on his person, Hitler-esque Griffin was 'whisked away'. But why eggs? Surely instead, samosas. Preferably frozen. Or just bricks.

After her over-publicised collapse from nervous exhaustion, 'popular' Scottish singer Susan Boyle received a comforting telephone call from none other than ... Gordon Brown. An attempt to show his caring side, perhaps. Or was it the beginnings of a support group?

Finally, because I've been wrestling with my MA thesis over the summer, I have yet to investigate Peter Mandelson's latest appointment. In particular, I'm keen to identify the democratic process by which he became Business Secretary. I'm assuming that, like (nearly) everyone else in Chuckles' er team, Rasputin has received a ringing endorsement from the electorate. It's just that I don't remember any such process taking place. I wonder what I'll find?

One Year On

11 September was the final day of my MA in Professional Writing. All work complete, thesis handed in. I've had a truly happy year, a wonderful experience. I'm so glad I left my job and took the plunge. The course was absorbing, fulfilling, fun. My fellow students were a great crowd, a real mixture but homogenous to the end. I've made some good friends; people I would never have met had I stayed in industry, with knowledge and views I was thrilled to encounter.

My tutors were fun, supportive, at times inspirational. For my thesis I had a terrific supervisor. I can't fault this course. My only difficulty was that there was so much on offer, so many options, extras, additions to the core activities, that I just physically couldn't do every single thing I wanted to - but that's hardly a complaint.

We had a lovely final day. Lunch at a local Italian in Falmouth. An afternoon meandering into a barbeque at our Course Leader's house, the place where a year ago we'd come together during our group 'getting to know you' project at the outset of the course. Full circle then. Now, with all this knowledge and experience crammed into my head, it's time to earn a crust in the outside world. The next challenge.

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.