Why does the cat always bring the half dead sparrow to your feet? Flapping, lifeless, bleeding from new holes. Conjures up that little bit of bile from bowl to mouth doesn’t it. Puss peers towards you, so proud of their gift, expectant of reward. An invitation into the house to sit by the fire. ‘My, what a catch I’ve caught this time, it can’t fail to impress, admittedly last weeks dismembered toad was perhaps a bit over the top but I’m onto a winner with this claret covered feather. Snuggling up in owners lap in no time’ Tabby purrs under his breath.
But we just don’t want these mangled remains, oh no we don’t little tabby cat. The bird was fine in the first place, flying high, graceful. No concern of ours yet no doubt fulfills its purpose, whatever that may be.
This mess on our doormat; this bloody heap. Neither grace nor purpose. A wing, a beak, all parts are present but it’s such a mess little tabby, such a bloody mess. What’s more, it’s now on our doorstep and now we have to worry about it. We shake our heads and curse. Not angry, just disappointed. Tigger spies a door mouse.
And so ‘Blue Blood Dave’ has vowed to match Labour spending plans (Guardian). On the doormat in front of me is a bloody mess. Match? Match? Since when is that a strong enough argument to get in the house? You bring me what fundamentally amounts to the same amount but in an untried, unfamiliar structure and I’m supposed to be happy. Where is the bird that flies higher, faster? No little tabby cat, Rover stays inside tonight.
And what do we get from Labour? ‘Brown announces plans to revamp politics’. Revamp politics! Now that’s what I’m bloody talking about. Forget all this ‘we’ll be just as good as the other guy’. Not even ‘we’ll be better than the other guy’. Oh no no dear voter, apparently it’s perfectly reasonable to inform everyone that we’ll be playing a new game from now on. Always the perfect prefect, the Times Head Boy wanted this story and by golly it got it. New rules, new regulations. Until next week when they need to shout something else from the rooftop. Isn’t it exciting, you never know what the hells going on? I’m sure it’ll settle down soon, I’m sure they’ve got a plan for a bit of stability, are able to just run a country. I mean just how much more reinvention can we take? Wham! There goes Basra. Bam! Take care Tony. Crash! There goes the monarchy, oops! Sorry that’s next week
Poor little tabby cat, shut inside whilst all the fireworks are going off. Just for tonight, tomorrow is another day.
It seems someone has taken a cheeky swipe at Head Boy and they didn’t like it one bit. Not content with announcing a change for democracy, the Times, itching from its weekend constraints, has decided it’s about time to change the way the world looks. ‘Times atlas shows how world is changing’. Chest puffed out, Head Boy parades around the room.
Would someone please just stroke their ego a little bit before they take a crack at the legitimacy of religion.
4 years we’ve been in Basra, 4 long years. ‘What was achieved?’ Asks the Independent, who today takes the award for ‘please ask someone else’ question. If, 4 years ago, our goal was to sit in a palace and fight with those we sought to aid, finally sneaking out on tiptoes, swearing blind that ‘we’re not going nowhere guv’ each time someone asked. Then yes, job done. Pat on the back for one and all.
Grandpa had a long weekend. What with the hefty roast dinner and the grandkids circling his feet, he’s feeling tired, out for the count; hasn’t stirred at all yet today. Rest easy Grandpa, come back firing on all cylinders tomorrow.
Someone should probably just go in and check on him, you know, just in case.
The Daily Mail is worried about immigrants and the Sun has some breasts on page 3
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