At the end of the day

I couldn’t think of a serious conundrum to write about tonight. This may mean we’ve solved them all, but more probably reflects creeping exhaustion. All that driving yesterday, followed by all that shouting and yelling later. Funniest comment thread of the lot came from the bloke who dismissed thoughts about the meaning of infinity as ‘inconsequential’. It was probably from Dr Who, but I’m not sure which one.

It’s warmer here in South West France, but just as wet. There is no mud like French mud. The First World War was all trenches because most of it took place on French soil: thus the only alternative to arriving in Berlin with boots that weighed eight tons was to dig in and lob shells at each other. In the second lot, Hitler sat everyone inside tanks, and invented Blitzkrieg to ensure the Wehrmacht moved too quickly for the mud to stick. But even he never bothered with Vichy, because by the time he got to Paris, you could barely see his moustache for the caked-on clay. Mud is France’s version of the Russian winter. It is the safest barrier we have against rampant Islam. That’s enough on mud.

I’m pleased to see the Welsh and the Scots teaming up in their joint bid to be NotEngland. It kind of makes it clear where we stand on all this nationalist thing, in that we are England, forever guilty about NotEngland. And they are NotEngland, taking 40 billion quid of our very English money each year and calling us names and wanting to be free of us but not the money just yet please, because we’re not quite ready. In Scottish NotEngland, 1 in 2 either work for or are paid for by Government. In Welsh Not England, the figure is 1 in 3. When they bugger off, England’s bureaucrat/layabout quotient will fall to 1 in 7. Speaking personally, I’m all for it, but the loss of unproductive citizens has nothing to do with this view. I just want to see how NotEngland’s going to work, once they realise that there’s no market for kilts in Wales, and not much of a gap for arsonists in Scotland.

Do you know, when I saw what that policeman had done to vivacious 26-22-28 G20 Protest-Pin-Up Nicola Fisher’s shapely thighs, I was so shocked I nearly Googled Grandma. It seems unbelievable that so much harm could be done by one harmless cattle-prod, but this was as nothing to the scars the underprivileged policeman himself has suffered since birth by having the name Delroy Smellie.

“He didn’t have to hit me” said Knockout Nicola, “He could have picked me up and moved me out of the way”. Looking at the video 37 times throughout the day on BBCNews Channel, I must say I got the impression Smellie already had his hands full actually Nicola, but what with that and the name thing, you have to applaud the Met’s desire to get him reinstated. It’s good to see affirmative action doing something useful at last.