I fear I may be dying. They say the forefinger is the first part of you to go. They don’t? Well they should. I fear the slow but sure decline of my erstwhile faithful right index digit following some mystery wildlife encounter of which I wasn’t even aware until alerted by an explosion of puss that would have been rejected from ER on the grounds of excessive gruesomeness, portends the worst. Anyway, I don’t want to live any more if my chief instrument of accusation is faulty.
Speaking of pointing the finger, British Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy has produced her first official poem, published yesterday in one’s beloved (and much missed) Guardian. Here it is,
How it makes of your face a stone
that aches to weep, of your heart a fist
clenched or thumping, sweating blood, of your tongue
an iron latch with no door. How it makes of your right hand
a gauntlet, a glove-puppet of the left, of your laugh
a dry leaf blowing in the wind, of your desert island discs
hiss hiss hiss, makes of the words on your lips dice
that can throw no six. How it takes the breath
away, the piss, makes of your kiss a dropped pound coin,
makes of your promises latin, gibberish, feedback, static,
of your hair a wig, of your gait a plankwalk. How it says this –
politics – to your education education education; shouts this –
Politics! – to your health and wealth; how it roars, to your
Conscience moral compass truth, POLITICS POLITICS POLITICS
* * *
Mmmm. I sense dissent. My views on the suitability of Gordon ‘Scrooge McDuck’ Brown to run anything other than a lukewarm bath have been exhaustively proffered here over the last couple of years. What I simply don’t get is how anyone could have been daft enough to invest in him any kind of hope in the first place. So you can imagine how far I am from being able to grasp the latest pale imitation of a putsch in British Labour. Did they rent their long knives from Ryanair then?
Loyalty is normally a quality to be admired but in this instance I fear it may have been seriously misplaced. Simon Hoggart (Guardian – where else?) points out that the Tories hold no reservations if they think a leader is likely to lose them an election. It’s off with his/her head. The left prefer to wallow in self-inflicted inertia and pray to St Jude rather than scout amongst the other 350 or so eligible candidates for someone with a little common sense and a modicum of humility when their leader does an Ahab. I’m glad I don’t live in the
While attempting to discover the exact number of Labour MPs in parliament so that I could approximate it accurately, I stumbled upon this Australian educational webtool.
Closer inspection of the scintillating content revealed these links to related material,
- Constitutional monarchy
- Prime Minister
- unwritten constitution
- HP Sauce
- Black Rod
- Intelligence and Security Committee
HP Sauce? Who is this, the Chief Whip? Kids around here are also routinely told that
Kevin Rudd must be on the suicide pills as he’s currently drawing the worst from the PR manuals of both Tony Blair and Gordon Brown. The winning combination of an overpowering aura of shiftiness accompanied by a perpetually raised eyebrow and the doggedly unfinished sentence in response to every media enquiry has well and truly soured the romance now. Just to be on the safe side, he’s unleashed a barrage of the most cringe-inducing ockerisms known to soundbite history. It was a strewthfest guaranteed to visit one in nightmares for years to come. I must dig out that Lonely Planet Guide to Mexico.
By refreshing contrast, Deputy Prime Minister Julia Gillard has proved herself a queen of the quip, commenting on the prat spat between Tracey Grimshaw and Gordon Ramsey in The Australian,
‘I understand from the publicity that Gordon Ramsay is a good chef,’ Ms Gillard said.
’I think perhaps what he should do is confine himself to the kitchen and make nice things for people to eat rather than make public comments about others.’
Sauce for the gander…
* No need, Mexico has now come to Victoria.