The one thing I hate most about Mondays is the lack of news. You pick up a paper on a Bank Holiday Monday expecting to be enlightened (hey, a cynic can dream) and what do you get:
- Babies aborted for not being perfect
- German Pope says prayers at Auschwitz
- Blair scrounging again
- Nick Faldo about to pluck wife no.4 (from golf bag)
- Brown’s billions ‘sovietising’ the north
I could go on, but I won’t. It’s all the stuff we read about yesterday. A re-hash of the hash. But if I’ll pick one out, it’s the Prezza Plays Croquet while he was “meant to be running the country” story.
It’s not so much the croquet that the class-warrior should have spurned that gets me. On that premise, I wouldn’t know how to play chess or bridge or be able to ride a fox to death, only the latter I haven’t tried because I don’t look good in red.
No, it’s the “meant to be running the country” stuff. What is that all about? Do we expect our stand-in leader to be 24/7 sweaty-browed with a hairy finger poised over the nuke button? Or dozing by the phone expecting a call from GWB? Perhaps doing an eni-meeni-mini-mo as to which donor gets a seat in the Lords?
Nope. As far as I can tell, the country gets by and by with no hand on the tiller. I’m with Blognor Regis on this one — Mountain meets Molehill.