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.
Speaking as one who, if provoked, may be forced to bash, I would like to plea with fellow readers for silence and beg them to refrain from fainting with pleasure if and when Mr Key cracks…
These whisks have a conspicuous heft. Paranormal theories aside, they look as if they are made from depleted uranium or some other super-dense substance.
Heaven forfend that I should have to programme my cardboard isolation helmet to filter out any attempted Hooting Yard election commentary from my consciousness.
I suggest a preemptive bashing to remind Mr. Key of the consequences of lapsing Ms. Cradledew.
(use the really BIG whisk.)
Hmmmm an absentee ballot or not? It probably isn’t my place to stick my oar in.
As an exile who gets all his news of Britain from Hooting Yard I’m delighted to see that it remains, unchanged and unchanging. Somewhere a chap can still get a filbert and bee-borage puff pastry pie, a hogshead of good ale and still have enough change from his silver threepenny bit to throw in the gutter where working class persons may fight over for ones entertainment.
But as I get old I start to miss those faces that I always associate with election coverage. Ludovic Kennedy, The Pundit, O Is He Dead Then? And don’t get me started on the godlike genius of Robin Day.
If I add the word ‘Swing-o-meter’ and the name ‘Snow’ can we draw a line under this?