swipe me, what a turn-up! i’d have been more surprised if he hadn’t invited them: it’d be rude not to, surely? anyway he wants another crack in 2015 doesn’t he?

no the story here is twofold.

firstly, the hapless bookie who was filmed trying to flog access to our charismatic leader. forgive my inadequate paraphrase, but if i recall his pitch was along the lines of “form an orderly queue here and don’t even bother unless you’re seriously well-wedged and don’t mind parting with plenty of it sharpish”. how charming.

how could an individual of such unfeasible acumen and experience do something so stupid? i really have only two printable words for him: stephen byers. oh go on then two more: sarah ferguson. give me strength.

second, and more importantly, the matter of cameron’s judgement. an early bad sign was the appointment of “andy” coulson. personally i would never put anybody who styled himself “andy” in preference to an adult name in charge of anything more important than the prime ministerial lavatory paper, even if i’d been sad enough to style myself “dave”.

and what about emma harrison, his “families tsar”. never mind the missed targets, feel the £8.6m dividend.

grow-up man! it’s all so tacky and embarrassing. there, feed that through to the no 10 policy unit.

oh, while i’m here, i found myself wondering, long overdue i admit, whether sam and dave like to cut a rug at their select soirees? and if so do they like good music?

as a bit of a fashion victim myself i’m only to aware of the danger that my adoring public might one day turn on me for abusing my more than generous wardrobe budget, particularly in these straightened economic times, but gordon bennett, would some kind soul please throw this tedious creature an oddment?

anything to give us a break from the endless recycling of these two, admittedly charming linen numbers. you know, the one in pillar-box red and the other a fetching nappy-contents mustard. could have been a job-lot from halfords. you can’t have missed ‘em. seriously that fetching criss-cross high-waist effect, admittedly irresistible at it’s premiere just ain’t doing it for me anymore.

when were we first dazzled by these entrancing little confections? was it perhaps while the eminent boffin was alerting us to the dire possibilities of a mass outbreak of recombinant cjd in about 2001? it seems longer.

beguiling as they may be to the casual observer, for the newsnight regular paxo’s mere mention of her name has you wondering “which will it be tonight?” surely enough already!

and as if the repetition weren’t bad enough these rags are beginning to look like she’s kipped in them. for a week. or two.

don’t misunderstand me here. i’m not suggesting she should blag any of maitlo’s spangly little are-you-kidding-i’m-off-clubbing-straight-from-here numbers: come on, we don’t want to scare the horses, but surely a modest effort from time to time would not seem unreasonable?

perhaps a quick root around gloria hunniford’s capacious ragbag. or a riffle through julia somerville’s “woollies for the charity shop” pile. hurry-up and choose woman before i move on to ann widdecombe’s titanic cast-offs. (see what i did there?) that’d learn ya.

alright i’m embroidering it for effect now: hey, maybe she could try that. well it’s a thought.

anyhow can’t stop : just clearing out last week’s wardrobe for ebay.

see you saps on the runway.

(can’t be bothered to crowbar-in olive branches or wooden horses, sozz) anyway here’s those proposed referendum options in full:-

1. bail out
2. bale out

wake me when it’s over

how many ill-advised trips does it take to get from imbruglia to imbroglio?

wotjamean any clues? oh alright then

imbruglia: an antipodean popette/looker

imbroglio: a confused or perplexing political or interpersonal situation

obviously there’s no correct answer (yet) but give yourself a point if you said anywhere between 18 and 40.

despite my unimpeachable scientific credentials i have long resisted the temptation to expose this so-called “Special theory of Relativity” as the ill-thought-out tarradiddle it really is.

finally, it seems, the intellectual elite demands no less and reluctantly i oblige.

it seems that a few jonny-come-lateleys at cern are finally getting the picture. big al screwed-up big-time and got it all badly wrong!

some, even some better qualified than i, perish the thought, have been heard to suggest that e might in fact be more likely to equal the cube root of my auntie maggie’s cat’s arse.

not so special now is it, big boy? anyhow, nobody likes a smart-arse. oh, and get a hair cut.

every day’s a schoolday.

that’s all folks. david brent has left the building.

newsnight’s maitlis; what a poppet,
but what’s that dress sense all about? just stop it!

though oft in cold and winter gloom her
scripts suggest a sense of humour.
but the trick which seems to most enamour her
is pointing her left shoulder towards the camera.

what a shame for brian paddick, less charisma than a haddick.

theresa may, mp god bless her
is something of a random dresser