Liz Jones Drones

If there is one person on the planet who always gets my dander up it is Daily Mail columnist Liz Jones. She is something of a pantomime villain in my life, I ADORE hating her. I relish how her stupid, self-obsessed columns, completely devoid of wit or irony, always manage to raise my blood pressure. The righteous indignation I feel after reading her nonsense sets me up for the day. She is journalistic Berocca.

My main objections to the daft, crazy-eyed bint are:

1. She pleads poverty constantly. Usually in the same 'pity me' column she mentions how she feeds her colony of feral cats M&S prawns and whines that her £1.5 million country pile is still languishing on the market, thanks to the credit crunch. She constantly, with astonishing crassness and insensitivity, draws parallels between her situation and the lives of regular, low-income and unemployed people around the country.

'Ahhh yes, I understand extreme poverty, why just last week Squeaky the cat had no Creme de la Mer for his nose and the hens had to make do with organic Alpen for their breakfast.'

Liz recently bitchily sniped that she was sick of 'paying for other people's children' via her income tax (which funds schools, child benefit and the like).

'You chose to have them, pay for them yourself!'

Yet, in the very same column she berated her local bank for refusing to increase her overdraft limit so she could buy pet food.

You chose to have them Liz, pay for them yourself!

2. Liz hates other women. I recall how recently she complained that, as a magazine editor, she despised working in a field that was 99% female. Women employees are (according to LJ) self-obsessed, emotional half-wits who do nothing but 'moan, bitch and complain'. This from a woman who has built a whole journalistic career on moaning, bitching and complaining - indeed Liz writes a column entitled 'Liz Jones Moans'. 'Ah,', I hear you say, 'but Liz Jones Moans is probably a piercingly insightful critique of contemporary culture, a forum for fierce political debate'. Hardly, Liz's recent moans have included;

1. Catherine Zeta Jones' shiny forehead at the Golden Globes.

2. The lack of hair conditioner in hotel bedrooms.

3. Julianne Moore, who recently admitted she liked to wear her yoga clothes all day, which is apparently letting 50+ year old women everywhere down, with her slattern-like sloppiness. (Go Julianne, is what I say, I love a day spent in my velour 'Mavis Riley' lounge pants)

The guppy-brained, inanity of Liz's fashion columns always amuses. In recent weeks she has feverishly announced women's emancipation from the cruel 'stiletto' law. You know, the law that compelled us all to wear 8 inch heels. Were you not aware of such a law? Funny that. Neither was I.

'At last, after torturing ourselves in cartoon heels, flats are back'

Apparently, thanks to some cove called Karl Largerfeld, women's 'decades of torture' are over. He has decreed we are allowed to wear ballet-pumps. God bless you Karl. You have freed us from our bunion bondage, our sprained ankle suffrage. You, and Ms Jones, are truly modern day Pankhursts.

So ladies, thanks to nutjob Liz's fearless reporting from the front line of Paris Fashion Week (I wonder if she wore a khaki flak jacket, like Kate Adie in Beirut) we can celebrate the life-changing news that flatties are now legal. I don't know about you, but I am feeling a little emotional. To think, that such a change could come in my life-time. ***weeps***

You know, it is not often that the North East is at the cutting edge of fashion (tragically, shell suits are still big here). It is an even rarer occasion when a meek and lowly primary school teacher is ahead of the trends, but Liz, some of us have been wearing ballet pumps for years (they are £9 in Tesco)! I don't imagine many teachers, nurses, doctors, social workers etc etc have ever spent a day in 8 inch heels.

After reading Liz's bonkers 'flattie-gate' column I pondered what revolutionary proclamations she would be making in her next fashion piece. Something along the lines of,

'Gentleman, I am thrilled to announce a bold new fashion trend for Spring/Summer '11. Cast aside those terribly uncomfortable doublet and hose. Behold these new-fangled, life-altering garments called TROUSERS.'

This week's fashion column was equally as daft. Liz was giving us all an education in how to wear the 1970s look.

'Avoid turbans, anything gold, jumpsuits and hotpants.'

Phew. Just as well I read that Liz. I could have made a right tit of myself at the SOHK parent's evening in my Sikh go-go dancer outfit. Liz, yet again, you have saved the day!

I even had a mini-attempt at being Liz Jones myself, on Twitter. Here are my fashion tips for February ladies,

'Avoid badger skin leggings, platform boots and trench-coats made of kippers.'

You know, I think I could be good at this!

Today's irritations

1. How, when dying my hair (a lovely bitter chocolate colour) I have also managed to dye:

• The walls and floor of the bathroom (do you remember the shower scene from Psycho?)
• Several fluffy towels
• My right big toe (which, when combined with green nail varnish makes me look like I have gangrene)
• A vintage Laura Ashley duvet cover
• My i-pod earphones (I was listening to Tears for Fears whilst dying)
• My underwear

I know this is becoming a boring refrain, but the first thing I would do if I was not poor would be to go to my hairdresser ever two weeks and let him do the hard work. Sadly, I have to now dye my hair. I have a few (ahem) Betty Boothroyds. I think you know of what I speak. I am just grateful I didn't inherit my Dad's genes. He had totally white hair from the age of 28.

2. I don't want to vote for any of the Labour leadership candidates. I am torn between the two Eds, but I never respected Balls whilst he was in charge of education ( keeping up with his daft initiatives was the pedagogical equivalent of patting your head and rubbing your tummy). Ed Milliband has a slight speech impediment and looks like he spends his evenings in a tent in the back garden, reading Dr Who manuals and scoffing Wagon Wheels. I don't like David Milliband either, he's too smooooooooth. He's got that irritating veneer of metrosexual smarm (just like Blair, Clegg and Cameron). Choosing between the Milli-band of brothers is like choosing between Harry Potter and Adrian Mole. There is part of me suspects that both of them are still virgins and wear days-of-the-week underpants. I want a real man as leader of the Labour Party. Preferably a pipe smoker and a whippet owner. Someone with integrity, gravitas and a touch of eccentricity. Where are the Tony Benns of our age?

3. Speaking of politics, do you recall Cameron's pledge that there would be no cuts to frontline services in education or health? Well, that's a joke. Our school has been told that although its core funding (for staff, pencils and loo roll) remains the same we will face a 75% cut in all of the grants we once relied on for 'extras'. These were the grants Labour awarded to schools like ours, schools that serve the most deprived and challenging of communities. They funded breakfast clubs, trips, music lessons, after-school clubs etc etc. This funding announcement coincided with one about the government's new flagship 'academies'. They will be receiving extra millions, as a 'reward' for their excellent academic achievements. It is of no surprise that these new academies are based in leafy, middle-class areas. So, the new government is taking money from the poor and giving it to the rich. Astounding.

The Tories believe that we live in a meritocracy, that all children are born equal, and have equal chances and opportunities to succeed in life. It would be wonderful if that was indeed true. However, I would love these Oxford-educated Tory twats to come and spend some time in an inner-city school. They might see that for children brought up surrounded by crime, chaos, poverty and abuse, learning is not always a priority. They might see that for those children, progress will always be slower. They might see that teachers in these schools have to work twice as hard. This doesn't mean that teachers or children are failing. At least Labour appreciated this, and injected extra resources into these schools and communities to try to redress the balance, to compensate for the inequity.

OK. Party political rant over. Now back to business as usual: namely the abuse of fanny rats and BMW drivers.

4. I suddenly wondered today whether Rochester has acquired a personalised number plate for his BMW. That really would be a cuban-heeled step too far. I don't think I could ever forgive such gratuitous ostentation. Madam Noir and I, discussed the issue over tea and scones today (a cherry scone for me, slathered with inch-thick butter). I think I have come up with the perfect plate for the peg-salesman of the year.

PEG KING 69

5. I am going through a very granny-esque, 1970s food phase. I am devouring stews, dumplings, corned beef pies, scones, hot pots and the like. And, I have become reacquainted with proper, claggy onion gravy (preferably over mashed potato, or seeping into Yorkshire pudding). I plan to start an internet campaign to reintroduce thick and luscious gravy to the word and outlaw the pretentious abomination that is 'jus' (shudder). I have already thought of the perfect name for my gravy blog. . .

The Persecution of the Jus.

6. I did consider making Wayne Rooney my 'Fanny Rat of the Month'. However, to be fair, I can't help but think that would be an insult to fanny rats everywhere. A fanny rat never has to pay for sex, he relies on a his suave wit and debonair charm to woo his victims into bed. A kerb-crawling, illiterate thug with a face like a chewed toffee is not, and never will be a fanny rat.

Blaguards, Miscreants and Womanisers (BMW drivers)

Life truly does deal blow after blow. I've spent the summer bank holiday weekend:

• Window shopping in Newcastle with Madam Noir. A lovely experience (especially as cheese scones were involved), but in order to cheer me up she perkily asked me what I would buy if I was not facing imminent bankruptcy. On hearing her question my mind was instantly filled with the beating wings of beautiful things: Bobbi Brown shimmer bricks, Lola Rose beads, cashmere jumpers, Barbara Pym novels, rose petal meringues, bottles of damson gin, a new car free of dog drool (thanks Cyril) and rust. I was rendered speechless by the enormity of the question. It only served to depress me. All I bought today was an M&S pork pie. And even that was a disappointment.

• Hiding in bed. It is cold here. I cannot afford to switch on the heating. Last winter my utility bills were £200 per month. So, like one of those balaclava wearing pensioners featured on Panorama, perpetually huddled in front of a one-bar electric fire, I am spending my time cocooned in bed, betwixt flannel sheets and my beloved electric blanket. It is where I am now. The only grit in the oyster is . . .

• The ongoing failure of my mission to teach the dogs how to make me a cup of tea and serve it to me in bed. This must be possible. It MUST be possible. I hate having to get up and make my own tea. If brainless bozo Nick Clegg can run the country, if Katie Price can write a bestselling novel, if NASA can send chimpanzees into space, then surely to God a lurcher can be trained to brew a decent cup of Yorkshire.

• Two depressing, utterly depressing disasters this weekend: my dishwasher is broken, so I am facing a future of domestic drudgery. Oh, and someone/something has smashed a pane of glass in my sitting room window. I can only assume it was ANOTHER attempted break-in. Either that or one of Sunderland's obsese and drunken seagulls (they dine on Greggs' pasties and brewn ale) has crashed into my beautiful art deco stained glass. I can't afford to get it fixed. I have had to make my own temporary repairs with cling film and sellotape. I can't bear the thought of another break-in. I want to move. Back to the 1950s preferably.

• I visited my elderly Uncle Stan yesterday. It was torturous. I endured several hours of listening to impassioned tirades about immigrants, gypsies, muslims, single mothers and gays. Oh, and capital punishment, of course. Capital punishment for immigrants, gypsies, muslims, single mothers and gays. During his hate-filled monologues Uncle Stan positively shakes and fizzes with venom, usually with his flies still open. Thank heavens for the calm and sensible influence of Aunty Margaret, who kindly agreed to accompany me.

And now. I have saved the best till last. I had some rather shocking news of Rochester this weekend. I told him that I had seen his brother, Senor Boldon, recently. The elder Brother Grimm pulled out in front of me. (I am referring, of course, to a vehicular rather than a sexual maneuver.) I made some throwaway comment that,

'I was pleased to note that the Lexus Lothario at least indicated first, which is more than many of his sort do (I refer of course to ex BMW drivers).

Rochester's response? 'I have just bought a BMW. What does that make me? Uncle Stan sounds okay to me.x'

DEAR GOD!!! Rochester driving a BMW! Well, dear reader, I had to point out the error of his ways. This was my response.

'Whoa there bonny lad. That was 3 sentences you wrote there. Pace yourself now. I’d hate for you to get repetitive strain injury from all that typing.

Do you really want me to spell out what is wrong with a BMW. Are you serious?

I discussed this very issue on my blog some time ago here

Basically, BMWs are driven by arrogant, sneering, middle-aged Tory business men who are lousy in bed. Or is it lousey in bed? No, lousy ( I meant inept, rather than lice-riddled). BMW drivers are a complete cliché. Have you really got one? Whatever next, a Jeremy Clarkson leather jacket and perm and 22 year old girlfriend?

The equivalent behaviour for a woman to owning a BMW? Well if I started having Botox injections, got a spray tans, wore ‘fuck me’ shoes and hung around in wine bars drinking Chardonnay and feeling the arse of every teenage waiter who passed, then that would the equivalent to a man owning a BMW.

Also, why are BMWs made without indicators? My Ford Focus has indicators, and it was a quarter of the price. Then, there is also that irritating BMW advert about how they manufacture ‘joy’. (vomit) I thought you were a tortured misanthrope at heart? Surely you should have been on the look out for a car manufacturer that bases its campaign around gloom, misery and despair. Possibly a Volvo? They are much beloved of the suicidal Swedes (the accoutrements for gassing yourself come fitted as standard with a Volvo). I can’t take this in, Rochester. This is harder to come to terms with than that picture of you looking clean-shaved in a suit and tie.'

He has not replied to that yet. Maybe I have gone too far. Especially as I added a footnote, wondering whether he would be able to take a BMW dogging. (It surely lacks the requisite seediness).

Ah, I did laugh today in Fenwicks. Whilst browsing in the cosmetics department, trying on Bobbi Brown lipsticks and attempting, surreptitiously, to give myself a free manicure at the OPI counter, I noticed that you can now get your eyebrows 'threaded' there. Why anyone would want to have their body hair attended to publicly, in the middle of a heaving department store is a mystery to me. Especially when the demonic-looking ladies make you sit in a dentist's chair, attack you with a cat's-cradle of dental floss and leave you looking like some sort of red-browed baboon. Well today, there was a man in the hot-seat, getting his brows done.

'Obviously a man of the female gender.' I noted to Madam Noir. 'I wonder if Rochester gets that done now he is a BMW driving, suit-wearing metrosexual.'

We silently gave the matter some thought.

'Blimey. With his monobrow they'd need dental floss as long as the Great Wall of China. The shop floor would resemble the grooming section of Crufts!'

A budget thought . . .

Oh dear. A 2 year public sector pay freeze. 20% VAT. I am hoping and praying that those amoral, Machiavellian Lib Dems feel proud of themselves. Here is hoping they find their backbones, and their consciences and revolt against this despicable alliance. I imagine Lib Dems up and down the country are feeling terribly uneasy. I think those naive souls who expected that the more savage right-wing ethos of the Tories would be softened by this alliance will feel utterly betrayed.

I've read a lot of bullshit about public sector salaries over the last few days. Apparently, we in the public sector earn more than out private sector counterparts. I even read some tosh in the Daily Mail that cleaners in the public sector earn £40k! I mentioned that to Mona, one of our school cleaners today. She thought it was hysterical. She earns little more than minimum wage.

Let me say this. Of course there should be equity in the salaries of those in the public and private sector who do the same job. If a recruitment consultant for a blue chip utility company earns less than a recruitment consultant for a local council, then that is patently unfair.

But.. . . please, someone tell me.

Which private sector job is equivalent to that of a teacher working in a challenging school?

Which private sector job is equivalent to that of oncology nurse?

Which private sector role is equivalent to that of a social worker specialising in child protection?

What, in the private sector, is the equivalent of a police officer?

These are 'life and death' jobs. These are people who keep our society together. These people make a real difference to everybody's quality of life.

I can tell you this, after 11 years in the private sector I moved into teaching. I have never regretted it, it is a job I absolutely love. In fact, teaching is my life. But, after 3 years of teaching I am still earning substantially less now than I did in my previous job. Yet I have never worked so hard in all my life.

So much for the Tories and the Lib Dems valuing teachers, valuing education. How long till the first industrial action, I wonder?

Notes from a Shambles

Outstanding

Well. This week it was time for my much dreaded lesson observation from Pompous Pilate (our oafish headteacher). The man is, as you know, King Cunt of Cuntopia. He relishes lesson observations. He adopts the persona of the most pedantic, pen-pushing OFSTED inspector and gleefully rips all of our best efforts to shreds. This is ironic, as the beetrooty boor has on numerous occasions confessed that as a teacher he himself was only ever 'average'. Modesty is not a quality usually associated with Pompous, but this critical self-assessment is usually a preface to him proclaiming his particular skills lie in 'leadership'. I pray to God one day we get the chance to rate him as a leader. He will certainly be put in the OFSTED 'special measures' category.

Anyway. You may recall, in my first lesson observation last summer I was rated a 1/2 (good with outstanding features). In my last observation I was given a '1' ( all-round 'outstanding'). BUT, last time I was assessed with my gifted and talented literacy class. To be honest, they are so enthusiastic and keen to learn that they almost teach themselves. I was more uncertain of a positive outcome when teaching maths to my class of guppy brained nitwits. Yes indeed. This is the class that I have spent an entire year teaching 2p+2p=4p.

The lesson was to be on measuring length. Not leaving anything to chance I had spent the entire week prior covering this very subject. I'd knitted some terribly sweet snakes that the children could measure. I'd even designed an activity entitled The World's Longest Chocolate Bar. I'd gone to a lot of trouble. Thankfully, it all went terribly well. I was very proud of my class (for once). The result was another OUTSTANDING rating.

Later that day Pompous called in to my classroom to see me. He was there to pay me another compliment. After assessing the whole school's results he proclaimed that my classes had made the most progress that year. Consequently, it appears he is giving me first choice of classes next year and he will allow me to do my own 'creative curriculum'. I can teach what I like! (I kind of do that anyway, as I think he suspects). So, it will be Sylvia Plath in literacy, Nick Cave in Music, Dogs Playing Pool in art and Fanny Magnets in Science! Oh, and maybe I could set my new class up with a blog. What a fascinating project that would be. Its name? Notes from a Shambles, of course!

I am beginning to suspect that Pompous is indeed in love with me. All I do is scowl at him and treat him with venomous contempt. Maybe Cosmo was right - , cool indifference wins hearts every time. I was probably just too darn nice to Rochester. I never wanted to scowl at him. . . I just wanted to cook him cauliflower cheese, rest my head on his shoulder and feel his stubble on my skin. He made me smile, not scowl. Until, of course, he ripped out my bleeding, tortured heart and stamped on it with his suede Val Doonican slippers. Then he made me cry. The bounder. I can't do 'cool indifference', I'm afraid, but it is a skill I need to learn. Are there nightclasses in it?

McFireman gets his carriage clock.

This term my class has been studying a different artist each week. They have then been producing work in that artist's style using a variety of mediums: pastels, acrylics, collage, watercolours. The purpose is to sell the children's work at our forthcoming Summer Fayre. So far we have studied Cezanne, Van Gogh, Paul Klee and (my favourite) Henri Rousseau. It has been a great project - I'll post some pics of the work completed soon. I am planning a very messy Jackson Pollock day next week! My rationale for Pollock is that even the most cack-handed imbeciles within my class will be able to dribble onto a blank sheet of paper. Hell, that's how most of them spend each and every lesson!

A couple of weeks ago I asked McFireman for propositions of other artists we could study. His suggestion of Rubens, with me posing, did not go down too well. He also made some rather snarky comments about 'pearls before swine' and why was I bothering with such high-brow topics on my sink estate ruffians. Not long after that McFireman and I stopped communicating altogether. He was just too prickly. He was retiring this year, after 31 years in the fire service. I imagine there would a be tumultuous mix of emotions about leaving, after such a long time. I asked him if he was viewing the prospect with joy or dread.

'What a stupid question.'

Was his snippy reply.

So, in terms of relationships, I am back to square one. No doubt I will give internet dating another go over my summer holidays.

Aldi Absurdity

I am still on a budget, so I am still shopping at Aldi. I actually get a perverse joy from how ridiculously cheap things are there and am beginning to learn what is good (bread, fruit and veg, household stuff) and what should be avoided (butter, cheese, meat).

Of course, the clientele can sometimes leave a lot to be desired. I overheard a truly hysterical conversation there this week, between two shellsuit wearing dolehounds.

Woman: What's lamb mince? Is that the same as beef mince?

Man: Dinna. Just mince innit?

Woman: Aye, but its beef isn't it? Lamb mince is beef.

Man: Isn't it made from lamb, like?

Woman: Ere' you're a stupid twat. How would they get beef mince from a fucking lamb? You're stupid you!

Dogging, of the non-lurcher kind

I do love looking at my blog traffic reports and the keywords searched in Google that brought people to Parma Violet Tea. I did snigger at the recent Google search oddities.

* 'Michael Gove spinach supper'
* 'South Shields dogging sites allotments'

I suspect both interweb ne're do wells were slightly disappointed to have been signposted here. I expect I failed to meet their needs!

I do wonder whether the South Shields dogging search was Rochester though (it is his home town). He has possibly taken up a new hobby (Sudoko is not really his thing). His 12 year old Nissan Almera rust-bucket would look right at home rocking in some moonlit, litter-strewn lay-by. I just hope the swarthy rogue has tidied it up a bit, last time I had a ride in his Noddy car I was distressed to find a mousetrap in the footwell. Can you imagine the injury that could cause on a dogging excursion? Dear God! Some flabby, sweaty, be-anoraked fool could certainly get more than he bargained for there!

Fanny Rat of the Month

A Lib Dem fanny rat, oh, the shame! Lib Dem Chris Huhne has been conducting an affair for over a year. The feathery stroking (see my critique of Lib Dem sex here) has even taken place in the marital bed. The spineless, duplicitous, chinless, tree-hugging Huhne was caught by the News of the World. When confronted with the impressive amount of evidence the paper had amassed the quivering minister confessed.

"I am in a serious relationship with Carina and I am separating from my wife."

Ahhh. I see. If it is 'serious', then that makes it OK. Interesting though that his decision to separate was only forced by the exposure of the affair. I hope his wife has made a bonfire of his C&A sweaters and slashed the tyres of his battery operated Prius.

Carina, Carina. . . you will never now know, is he with you now because he loves you, or because his wife chucked him out and changed the locks?

I know this NOTW investigation is not exactly Watergate, but I was pleased to see another smug, sanctimonious Lib Dem exposed. Mind you, the headline 'Huhne gets his Clegg Over' was not quite in the same league as the paper's classic 'Paddy Pantsdown' (Paddy Ashdown's affair). I seem to recall that quip kept my dad chuckling for about 4 years.

Grinderman

What exactly does Nick Cave have against the North East of England? Last time I saw him in concert I had to travel to Glasgow. Although, that effort was greatly rewarded by the sight of the scowling vampiric cad sporting a hairnet the following morning at our hotel. Oh - and the shopping in Glasgow, of course. I bought myself a beautiful Dower and Hall blood- red garnet ring. I was not as poor in those days.

I was emailed tour dates for Grinderman this week, but was devastated to see that yet again Cave is avoiding me. I am not quite as fond of shouty, angry and fuzzy Grinderman as I am of the darkly romantic Bad Seeds, but I would still love to see them. However, I was also disheartened to see that Cave has shaved off his silent-movie villain 'tache. Consequently, I shall no longer be able to indulge in my favourite sexual fantasy: that of being tied to a railway track by the velvet clad cove whilst he sweeps his cape, twirls his 'tache and laughs demonically. Life truly is one disappointment after another.

I suggested to McFireman that he go see Grinderman in Glasgow. Their particular style of pornographic angst seemed an appropriate soundtrack to his burgeoning mid-life crisis. McF seemed less than impressed. I asked him if he was planning on going.

'Only if there is a fire at the venue.' he retorted. Yes, he is as prickly as ever.

I told him, following my day trip to Teesdale this week, that I felt I had discovered a place that I'd love to live, somewhere I would feel at home.

'Where is that, Transylvania?' he queried.

Michael 'By Jove' Gove

As readers of my blog will know, I have no time for metrosexual, effete feathery strokers. I have even less time for chinless, Tory, metrosexual, effete feathery strokers. Have a look at our new Education Secretary. Michael Gove.

I can't help but wonder how long this guppy-lipped, goggle-eyed wimp would survive at the School of Hard Knocks, or indeed at my local comp.

There has been much criticism of Clegward’s government for the absence of women of the female gender. Dare I suggest there is an TOTAL absence of men of the male gender.

Sigh. Oh for a few more John Prescotts. Can I share with you JP's picture from his Twitter page? It always makes me smile.

Maybe this will be my new benchmark for politicians: could I imagine them in charge of a class of delinquent Year 10s? If not then they won't be getting my vote.

Just a note about the resignation of GB yesterday. I found the whole thing terribly moving. I really do think we have lost a man of innate decency. I liked how he admitted his discomfort with the pomp, status and ceremony that accompanied the job, and how he was only interested in the role's 'capacity for doing good.' I think Clegg and Cameron (Cleggward) would both do well to adopt some of GB's humility, and his ability to acknowledge his failings. Humility is an under-appreciated quality, so much more attractive than Cleggward's sanctimonious hubris. If only GB had been so erudite, warm and human during the election campaign.

By the time GB was speaking about Sarah and his boys I found myself weeping buckets. That line about how being PM was only his 'second most important job' (second to being a husband and father) was just beautiful. I hope and pray it wasn't written by one of Alistair Campbell's cynical focus groups! And, then his precious boys came out - those boys who have never once been used for political point-scoring, unlike the Cameron's children, who are forever being filmed eating their Cheerios and brushing their teeth.

I do believe that GB was only ever motivated by a desire to serve and a desire to make Britain a fairer place. I know he has spoken of his aspirations to find a new career in the charitable sector. I hope he does that, I can't imagine him going down the tawdry, self-aggrandizing Tony Blair lecture-tour route. I think he has more integrity than that.

It was a depressing thing though, to wake up to a Tory government again. I think that working in the public sector, as a teacher, I am going to feel the changes very acutely. We are all facing £6 billion pounds worth of cuts to public services: schools, hospitals, social care. It is a worry. I was motivated to join the Labour party last night, but then had a rethink. I am not sure I can afford the fees!

I've just been watching Cleggward's first press conference. What with the bucolic, rose-garden setting and the the beaming smiles of the two loved-up protagonists there was more than a whiff of gay wedding (minus the release of 100 white doves). Their jolly japes and cheery banter was vomitrociously cheesy. It made me long for a bit of Gordon's terse grouchiness, as dour and dreich as a November Sunday. How long till the Cleggward divorce, I wonder?

My favourite quote of the day though came from India Knight's Twitter page, about John Snow's interview with David Cameron.

'Snow making Clegg sound like a guinea-pig. Where will you put him? What will he eat? What about holidays?'

Dr Faustus

Two days after the election and things are no clearer. I was, of course, impishly delighted that Nick Clegg's party did so badly. I don't trust the chinless cove. He is an atheist, you know. I don't like that. I think it is a good thing, a humbling thing, for a politician to believe he or she is answerable to a higher power. I know my belief does not really stand up to much scrutiny. After all, Bush was a god-botherer, yet that didn't stop him sanctioning torture, approving the death penalty and invading Iraq. But it still troubles me that the only 'higher power' Clegg is answerable to is his wife.

McF just emailed about the crackpot team of Lib Dem troubleshooters sent in to kick off talks with the Tories:

'did you see their negotiating team? Slightly dishevelled; ill-fitting suits; sensible shoes and ties with dodgy knots. Lentil casserole anyone?'

Ha! I didn't see that. But I can picture the scene: a gaggle of stuttering, rumpled Adrian Moles, about as intimidating as a confederation of librarians. They needed to go in with style, swagger and menace, Reservoir Dogs, NOT Reservoir Squirrels.

I do find the idea of the Lib Dems leaping into bed with the Tories extremely distasteful. I think Clegg will sell his sorry, sanctimonious soul for a bit of power, he will sell his party down the river. How can a so-called 'Liberal' party even think of such a union? True Liberals should be up in arms about such a sell-out. They should start a revolution. Of course, a Lib Dem revolution is a flaccid and bloodless affair. It simply entails a few sternly written letters to the Guardian. But, when really roused, they may emphasize the letters' important points in bold type! (gasp). Those fearless, crazy mavericks!

I don't know why Clegg seems so anti-Gordon Brown and anti-Labour. I think he is just drawn to what he knows - Cameron could be his brother, they are both elitist, public school boys at heart who don't have a fucking clue about how hard life is for most people. Oh, for a normal, working class-hero PM. A man with carpet in the bathroom, corned beef in the fridge and a whippet in front of the fire.

I am beginning to find it all a bit tedious. Why can't they settle this like men? One-on-one combat, stripped to the waist, wresting each other in a dusty, sun-dappled barn somewhere.

My predictions:

• Cameron in Downing Street by Tuesday
• A tenuous and unworkable Tory-Lib alliance (one that will be deeply unpopular with both parties' core supporters and therefore will be hugely destructive)
• David Milliband will beat-off Ed Balls to become new Labour leader. Yes. That sounds rude (snigger)
• A new election, probably by the end of this year.