Whilst astride the hallowed pot of porcelain, engaged in preparatory manoeuvres, I came across an article that introduced a new "thought-herring" into the polluted pond I loosely term a mind.
"Great Scott!" I exclaimed, alarmed that news of this ilk could have made it into the sports pages. I was, of course, holding my copy of The Daily Sport
back to front; a realization that did not take hold soon enough to prevent spilling my tea and dropping my shortbread.
Apparently, the United Kingdom is in the final death throes of a general election.
The pond rippled, the herring gasped and I read on.
* * * *
Messrs Brown, Cameron and Clegg have all hit the campaign trail with gusto in the past couple of weeks, giving their all to convince a skint and disenchanted nation that they can turn things around.
And I'll tell you what? I think that this time, we've learned some stuff
For example, Labour showed us that Prime minister Brown doesn't have the faintest idea where to find the off button on his microphone; a shortcoming which led to the astonishing revelation that the British are, in-fact, a nation of bigots
! (Or is it just the elderly British? Like the generation who vanquished the Hun
, thereby preserving freedom and democracy in the first place?)
Not to be outdone, the Conservatives countered with the breath-robbing fact that David Cameron has a wife to go with his grin. (He also bears a passing resemblance to Pepe the ice cream man from down our road).
Many have even postulated that his lovely spouse is the reason why
he grins. Me? I'll continue to assert that the dazzling smile is a result of Mr Cameron's plans for an honest, wholesome future and the betterment of our nation.
And last (though by all means least) there's the Liberal Democrats.
Their leader, Nick Clegg didn't really present us with anything of note, other than proving beyond doubt that lino salesman should never enter politics.
There is some confusion regarding the lino thing, though. I read somewhere that the linoleum trader might actually have been Nick's dad, Norman
Clegg who, upon retirement, has taken to stumbling around the Yorkshire country side in the company of two equally doddery retirees named Foggy and Compo.
As a result of the publicity generated by Nick's having no chance whatsoever of becoming Britain's head-honcho, their meanderings have been documented for posterity by the BBC in a program entitled "Last of the Summer Wine". During the show the trio converse about aching joints, haemorrhoids, aching joints and the days before they all smelled of piss.