There are times, I think, when the gods who order our puny human affairs take their lead from Hooting Yard. How else to explain this magnificent headline?
MP Blunkett injured in cow attack
Incidentally, it is somewhat disconcerting that the BBC feels it necessary to qualify the numinous Blunkett name with the designation “MP”, as if there might be other newsworthy Blunketts in the known universe. There are not.
I am going to go on a little trip now. I will be gone only for a couple of days, and will return in time for this week’s Hooting Yard On The Air at teatime on Thursday. I live in hope that a brief change of scene, and the thought of that cow, will loosen up the cranial integuments, the knotting of which has caused such regrettable silence of late.
I have rarely been drawn to admire Mr Blunkett, but one cannot help but respect the way he was so quick to use this potentially fatal incident as source material for a series of jokes. “I know the public are furious with politicians, but I didn’t realise the anger has spread to Britain’s cow population, too” he said: “A few more inches and Labour would have been facing another unwelcome by-election”
Good luck untangling those cranial integuments. The resulting silence is indeed regrettable.
My belief is that Hooting Yard is floating around in the uppermost, jelly-like layer of the sky, and artifacts fall to earth from it now and then. (See Charles Fort’s theories on Genesistrine.) Normally these artifacts fall on Frank in narrative form, but sometimes they fall physically in the form of ornery livestock, duck islands and truds.
Thank God that the pelting has let up for bit, Frank.