Lord Immaculate's Manifesto

One doesn’t like to grouse, but some nights – most nights, dammit – going to bed is as pointless as a professional football contract. I know the science fellers and fellerettes are convinced we all evolved out of monkeys’ arses or whathaveyer, but I feel sure my bloodline took a diversion through the primordial belfry – that is to say, evolutions’s Chiropteran nursery – because it’s so much easier to sleep when one isn’t supposed to. Y’Lord could easily dispense with conscious daytime activities altogether. There’s clearly a nocturnal tendency in these genes. In fact, I have it on good authority that some of Lord Immaculate’s ancestors were definitively bats.

Now if only I could arrange to pay my sleep debts in a hot, crowded theatre, ideally during a performance of Hamlet, I know I would nod off in no time at all. Sadly even the bedrooms at Immaculate Tower don’t have the kind of space to accommodate a stage, an auditorium, and the combined egos of a troupe of Shakespearean actors, so I have to make do with the sound of passing drunks like everyone else. Nightcap, anyone?

Lord Immaculate: a creature of the night. And a raised finger to the day.

Interesting comments from former warlord Tony Blair this weekend, as his popular Iraq farce enters its 11th year on the Middle-East’s version of Broadway without any sign of cooling sales.

“It’s not on me and Master George. If you want to blame anyone for the troubles in Iraq, quite frankly it’s down to the failure to invade Syria. It’s not too late, you know!”

And on the BBC today…

“Full invasion (phwoar!) or sissy partial invasion, either is better than the alternative, which is not invading (boooring!).” – Tony Blair.

I may have paraphrased slightly.

“Never a good thing for a commentator to be speechless,” says the BBC’s commentator. I beg to disagree.

Remember that World Cup/Euro tournament when there was a red button option for listening to the live football stream without any prattling? I liked that a lot; stuck in one’s memory.

When I’m PM, the first thing I’ll do, even before that other thing, is to make the blissfully commentator-free red button option a lawful requirement of all sports broadcasts. Imagine…no John Motson. No John Virgo. No Mark “Here Come The Four Horsemen” Lawrenson. You’re welcome.

When the apocalypse arrives the BBC have the ideal commentator in Mark Lawrenson.

Yes, that’s my post in its entirety. Short and not sweet.

You can expect more completely unwelcome World Cup observations from y’Good Lord, since one is a passionate footie know-all.