You never said you'd write about this rubbish...

A radio presenter was telling us yesterday that we all call John Prescott "two shags" these days. Well, I don't. I never called him "two jags" either. In fact, I've never had any reason to call him anything as I've never written about him ever (damn, I've blown it now) and have never met him. I'd think I'd opt for John if I bumped into him, leaving the Daily Mailesque tired and uninspired nicknames to those that like to think they're hilarious/newspaper editors. Strikes me there's a witch hunt going on here. So, there's only one way to solve it - a dunking. If he drowns, he can stay in office and, perhaps, even get Dorneywood back; if he floats he has to go. You read it here first, but it will probably be in the Daily Express tomorrow. Now, I don't care for politicians myself, as they're all, quite obviously, lying cheating scumbags. But, if we must kid ourselves that we live in a democracy, I'd rather those that were elected run the country and set the agenda, however absurd and injust it all might be, and however many women they may have sex with along the way, rather than let despotic newspaper editors and owners, who, I'm certain, are as equally prone to corruption and the manouvering of their sexual organs in the direction of people that aren't their wives and husbands, run the show. At least we can vote out the politicians we don't like. Whereas we get the media we deserve, do we not? Ooh, it's all got a bit political. Excuse me while I go and sit in the sun and read something dull, like a novel or summat. Or Heat.

Listening: Jarvis Cocker - Running The World