The calling of a general election means that for the next month the ether will be clogged with a miasma of vacuous twaddle. This sceptred isle will ring with the outpourings of brain-dead pointyheads and vox pop riffraff alike. And I shall lap it all up, with the enthusiasm of a cat pouncing upon an injured starling.
But but but. Much as Hooting Yard readers may faint with pleasure at mentions of cow-attack Blunkett and diminutive Great Helmswoman Blears and those curious little Milibands, I have been asked to make a solemn promise not to babble about such tosh. This means that you will be deprived of thirty-odd days of a Hooting Yard Election Watch, unless of course I crack.
Apparently, if I do crack, and break my vow, and start bloviating on matters electoral, I am likely to find myself in a similar position to this hapless peasant:
… which is a reminder to readers with more money than sense to take part in the auction.