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as polling day in the general election gets closer the unnattractive notion of a so-called ‘hung parliament’ looms ever bigger in the rear-view mirror.

of course, most users of the interweb will be blissfully-unfamiliar with the concept. (in the uk we have not endured anything of this kind since the depressing, so-called ‘lib-lab pact’ of the late 70′s).

for the benefit of those lucky enough not to have been around to witness it, this tragic passage of politics amounted to little more than a fractious and unholy alliance with the clapped-out, unreconstructed socialist donkeys of james callaghan’s labour party clinging desperately to power at the hands of the long-marginalised liberals, under david steel.

so what kind of parliament or indeed government would likely emerge if no party wins an overall majority next week?

well, much against their hopes and preferences, no matter who wins most seats, no liberal democrat will be occupying number 10 downing street.

and yet, the other senior departments of state having been progessively stripped of importance over recent years, it seems the only cabinet position worth fighting over would be that of chancellor, in this situation surely the prime target of the admittedly over-rated vince cable.

but could or would his party-leader countenance such an appointment while he himself was consigned to some bit-part? hardly.

so some hard-bargaining is on the cards before long: and no doubt some hard words.

if only i could be a fly on the wall; or some sap would forget to take his microphone off. sadly, he won’t be there to assist.

the striker cuts through our defence,
what’s happened to their common-sense.
if only we had played a sweeper
it’s goodnight if he beats the keeper

who’s number one, but now looks bigger,
close-up, a bloody scary figure.
“to hell with getting smacked again,
i’ll take a dive and get a ‘pen’.”

he trails a leg, he waves a bit,
then falls down like a sack of shit.
see how he writhes, and looks distressed,
how sad! the ref is unimpressed.

just waves him up, and gives a warning.
(the linesman can’t stop himself yawning)
and still he’s asking for the ‘pen’
“i’ll likely never walk again!”

and though he pleads for the award,
the arbiter is getting bored.

oh no, a card is coming out,
he’s gob-smacked! what’s all that about?
the stand arises in ovation,
he’s been sent off for simulation.

not before time muppet. and don’t come back neither.

whilst chatting with some canadian visitors recently, talk turned to the subject of a famous wrapper. (what’s that about then?)

well, for the avoidance of doubt i should say that our subject was christo, the legendary installation artist, and self-styled wrapper of buildings and such, like the reichstag, or the pont neuf, as distinct from other bullshitters like eminem, jay-z et al, rappers of unsavoury lyrics.

speaking of bullshit, the main point of discussion was, perhaps surprisingly, neither the obvious, how could such a seemingly ordinary individual repeatedly separate enough otherwise apparently sane bystanders from their cash as to be able to fund his habit of wrapping random structures in improbably dismal fabrics, nor, for whom, apart from himself he thought his ludicrous stunts were providing amusement, but rather the prosaic question, what was our hero’s nationality?

needless to say, despite my feeling that the answer was ‘austrian’, i deferred to wiser counsels that the celebrated textilier was undoubtedly of the french persuasion. (every day’s a schoolday

imagine then, if you will, my jubilation (alright then, my mild amusement) when later, whilst visiting wikipedia, the fountain of all knowledge, on unrelated business, i grasped the opportunity for a quick, speculative poke around the christo department where i learned that the great man was in fact born in bulgaria! (ya know, where the wheat comes from. just kidding)

and further that, following an extended period of statelessness he misguidedly applied for, and was granted american citizenship.

so it would appear that his only obvious connection with the land of the frog was that he went there and made a bit of a mess!

so he can’t be all bad then

à bientôt mes petits choux-fleurs.

on a lighter note, i see that one of the few discerning members of the italian general public has seen fit to gob his fearless and irreproachable duce in the mouth with a die cast model of milan cathedral.

despite reports that the attacker is a nutter i cannot but heartily congratulate him on his choice of both target and missile.

Barack Hussain Obama — Nobel peace prize laureate? What’s that about then?

whilst i trust and believe that Obama is a different, and altogether more palatable kettle-of-fish than his deranged predecessor, this award, apparently the result of a nomination submitted to the committee only nine days into the recipient’s presidency seems, shall we say if not over-generous, then at least somewhat premature.

perhaps with no other worthy candidate to hand they simply lobbed it his way to avoid the inconvenience of having to record excess inventory in the peace gong department for this year. who can tell?

to his credit, i note that he has already pledged the prize-money to charity and hope that despite its unfortunate timing the award will in due course prove to have been well-merited.

mine’s a pint of creme de menthe Barack.

well we all like a laugh, but the report on the demise of mg rover takes the cake on so many levels i barely know where to start.

first: this toothless piece of tat has cost the hard-pressed taxpayer £16 million and yet has failed to finger a single wrongdoer.

second: the most strident critic of the report, and its subjects is lord mandelson, a guiding light in moral probity and my very favourite arbiter of truth and goodness. and the best he can do is tell them he thinks they should apologise.

third: this third-rate bunch of spivs, under the gaze, nay with the assistance of the government achieved a feat usually reserved for the more-gifted though similarly morally-bankrupt operators known as asset strippers.

to strip assets on this scale from a company long-recognised by it’s german owners to be a vast liability is a feat which almost by definition suggests impropriety. (how much is a car company which you can buy for £10 and get a vast interest free loan to run it worth? come on; the clue’s in the question.)

so how do these maggots justify taking over £40 million out of it while it’s dying on it’s arse?

hilariously, throughout the day, national news channels have referred to mg rover as the uk’s last remaining volume car manufacturer, whilst assorted industry pundits have sought to justify this plundering by suggesting that these “rewards” were consistent with the industry norms.

in reality, by contrast with the world’s genuine volume car makers, decades of woeful mismanagement had left the group looking like something under a railway arch. depressing to say the least.

how fortunate then that we now have such genius at our disposal in the financial services sector that we need no longer concern ourselves with such grubby enterprises as making things that others want to buy.

“where you been boy? oh, down the job centre?” ‘yeah. all centre, no job! but they’ve got new chairs; and a yucca plant. oh, and uniforms. musta cost a fortune!’

“come across john towers or any of his lousy cronies down there? no, thought not.”

okay, so we qualify for 2010 world cup finals. engerlernd, engerlernd, engerlernd! that’s what i say.

and we qualified without dropping a single point, 24 from 8, and with two matches to spare. now i grant you we emerged unscathed from a bunch of no-marks who would have struggled against our womens team but let’s not be churlish. a win is a win is a win.

in all fairness, who could fault the team’s record under the enigmatic Fabio Capello. i grant you the great man’s english is practically impenetrable to the native speaker but we don’t pay him to give lessons in elocution, now do we? and as fortune would have it our trusty squad, linguists to a man, seem to have understood which way the maestro wants them to kick it.

but i must concede i’m slightly less bullish about the finals next year, when, fresh (knackered surely) from the exertions (we are talking about football here, aren’t we? oh go on then let’s pretend it’s hard work for another minute otherwise i won’t know what else to write) of the 2009-10 domestic season our heroes will find themselves sweating in the heat of the dark continent as the gloves come off against the likes of italy, brazil, spain and germany.

still we can take comfort from the thought that most of the top players we hope to face in the later stages of the competition will have had similar build-ups to our own players, if only because most of them play their club football in the english premiership!

i’m almost sure there’s a pearl of wisdom glistening somewhere in this pile of drivel but, do you know, i just can’t be arsed to dig it out.

make an effort yourself, for once, muppet.

following the football authorities’ entirely reasonable response to the blatant cheating of his player eduardo this week, arsene (i did not see it) wenger warns us that the introduction of tv reviews of play would be opening a dangerous door.

where to, froggie. somewhere where you would finally have “to see it” kicking and screaming if necessary?

i refer readers who have the honesty to “see it” to my earlier doggerel on the sickening subject of simulation in football.

they, like me are happy to call it cheating. and no doubt some rather-less polite names.

bonnet de douche mes amies.

so, the all-conquering aussies waltz off back to matilda clutching the coveted ashes trophy. all hail to the mighty ones, for they truly are the kings of the world!

what? oh shit, it was all a bad dream. in fact, after a series of lack-lustre test performances, these colonial ne’er-do-wells have been rightfully dispatched by their english betters back to the antipodes, there to ponder on the copious shortcomings which have led them to eat their words, unbarbied. very tasteless i’m sure.

as i recall, i remarked to a less-astute observer (are there any others?) midway through that magnificent final day “ponting has the look of a man who knows the game is up”.

to be fair to the little snapper, albeit through gritted-teeth (and on this occasion agreably battered lips) ponting took defeat like a man, and the great sportsman that he is. (at least i assume that’s what he did. the batting legend speaks at such a prodigious rate that i suspect, probably due to the poor health service development in his home country he was vaccinated with a sewing machine needle).

but i digress.

to tell the truth, in circumstances where common-sense would have seen more-educated nations repairing to their bungalows for extended bouts of wound-licking, these plucky if ill-advised, post botany bay, convict-bred also-rans have it seems, made the foolhardy decision to remain in the uk with only the prospect of further ignominious defeats in the upcoming one day series.

one has to admire their pluck, if not their intellect!

cheer-up diggers!

see ya! wouldn’t wanna be ya

what is it with this poxy england test side? they amass a huge lead and foolishly fail to enforce the follow-on. what the hell’s that about?

oh but they go on and arse this lack-lustre opposition from down-under. down-and-out more like.

bring’em on for the third test! where’s your bowlers you bunch of girls? left ‘em all back in ramsey street? easy street more like.

ship out diggers, the dingoes are pissin’ on your swag.

(none intended, obviously)

ta-ta!