The Corbyn v Cameron Prime Minister’s Questions looked like Flashman the school bully being gently lectured by a man who was more disappointed than angry.
Who knew a political earthquake would look like a faintly irritated modern studies teacher who exudes an air of sadness that the homework is not completed and potential is being squandered?
Mr Corbyn had dressed for the occasion in his parents’ evening suit and tie. I half expected him to ask David why he was such a nasty boy to the children who are disabled, or ethnic, or who’s mum and dad don’t own extensive estates in Scotland with full shooting and fishing rights.
It was a nice touch to turn the ballot box battle into an “Ask The PM” slot, but what about the questions Jeremy didn’t ask? There were bound to be some. Come on, who wouldn’t want to ask about alien landings in Milton Keynes and who has the file on the Loch Ness Monster?
I’ll bet loads of people suddenly saw their chance to get a word in with Flashman. Why did Jeremy not raise the question from Elizabeth, who lives in city centre London? She says she’s fed up working, but feels she can’t retire, and so she has to keep rattling on, opening parliaments and Olympic Games and visiting sink estates in Solihull to view their bid to be “Best Window Box Town in the West Midlands”, although she did have a nice day in the Scottish Borders recently on the new railway line. She says she also has to look after her husband Philip, who hasn’t worked for years. Why is this poor woman still working, Mr Prime Minister? Why don’t we just pension her off?
Or Jeremy could have asked this question from Nick, curiously, not emailed in, but scrawled on a page torn from a lined jotter, smudged with what looks like tears. Nick says his political career was ruthlessly done in by, well, oh dear, David, he says it was you. Why are you giggling? Think this is funny, do you? I notice your partner in crime, young George, isn’t laughing. That’s because he’s taking notes on how to bump off your career, so you just laugh all you want, David.
Before you run along into the playground, I think Boris wants a word in the boys’ toilets.
Area 51’s a long way from here
Couldn’t help but notice with the above secret information question that the Americans seem to have better conspiracy theories than we do.
Why, it would be worth all the bother of campaigning to be President just to haul the CIA in at 8 o’clock, day 1, to say, “Lads, put the nuclear codes down, ante up right now, Area 51, the Bermuda Triangle, Bigfoot, did we land on the Moon and who shot JFK?” All we’ve got is a bloke who saw a spaceship in woods near Livingston and UFOs above Bonnybridge. Seriously, we are going to have to work harder at this, people.
You’ll notice I left Nessie out of that. Only an idiot would argue she is a figment of a conspiracy theorists overwrought imagination. Nessie rocks, Nessie lives, Nessie exists. Is it still tourist season?
Now I feel down in the Dumpies
SEEKING fruit-tree inspiration, we took a trip to Culross to the Palace and Gardens.
Culross is a triumph of edible horticulture. If you’re looking for ideas for a trip this weekend, pop across, especially at this time of year, when the trees are just dripping fruit.
Be aware. They have these chickens called Scottish Dumpies (I’m not making this up). These chickens have more attitude than jammy-wearing teen girls shopping in Tesco, and noisier than pre-teen lassies who have just been told their boy band has split up.
The Dumpies are vaguely scary, but they do look
tasty . . .
And secondly, if you think you’re part of the fruit-growing family because your one tree has managed to generate six apples, be prepared to feel a bit deflated.
I need a lesson in core values
The first year we planted our apple tree, we were chuffed beyond measure by the crop, which was one apple. We were so pleased that we couldn’t actually bring ourselves to eat the apple, and so it gently mouldered away in the fruit bowl until I had to dispose of it in the compost heap.
This year production has soared to near a half dozen. Behold, I announced to the Yorkshire husband, this is the good life. No longer forced to buy apples from the big supermarkets. We’re living off grid, man, self-sustainable in apples for the next six weeks, if we only eat one a week. This tree is paying for itself. This is gardening I like.
Husband pointed out that apples are currently available for about £1 a bag. Tree cost about £25. That’s the sort of financing PFI hospital builders like.