David Cameron is a Muppet...

Yes, yes, hardly the most sophisticated of political analysis, I realise. About as in-depth and adult as probably my last party leader-related 'Eureka' moment - that is, realising Charles Kennedy was none other than poor young Bobby from King Of The Hill.
Nick Robinson and Tom Bradby must be feeling uneasy already...

Yet what struck me most from this week's entertaining-as-ever Prime Minister's Questions were not Tony Blair's dismissive, dead-eyed responses. Nor even the hefty bags under those eyes, which would surely attract a swingeing surcharge were he to attempt to take them along on a transatlantic flight.

No, the most intriguing elements of the encounter were Dave Cameron's full-throated, and repeated, barks of 'I love it!' and, simply, 'Yeeaaarhh!', as he tried to rise the rapidly-rising tumult of just another Wednesday lunchtime in the Commons.

Which made him resemble nothing so much as a Muppet. Honestly. Well, my instincts, at the very least, could not help but imagine him as standing alongside Kermit, Rowlf and Fozzie, with a host of less-important Muppets congregating behind, as they drop their jaws agape, nod their heads and rock their bodies up and down and back and forth, flutter the upturned palms of their hands to suggest optimistic inclusiveness, and just generally holler their enthusiasm to the world in an attempt to lead, or at least ride, the all-surrounding mayhem.

Had he managed to get a more cutting dig in at the Prime Minister, I swear he may just have thrown his flailing arms up and around his upturned head while shrilly shrieking: 'Yaaaaaay!'

As it is, it seems this little match-up has been scored pretty decisively in Mr Blair's favour by the Waldorf and Stadtlers in the gallery, sorry, lobby. The Standard this afternoon even marked it 5-0 in the Prime Minister's favour, which seemed a little generous, but it was rather amusing to see tonight's Sky News coverage desperately hyping up this first 'serious setback' for the boy wonder, after an admittedly-grudgingly-impressive first few months of agenda-setting, momentum-surging success for him.

Even more amusing to see a sort-of-dapperly-dressed Soames Monster of old Mid Sussex being dragged away from a buffet somewhere this evening for just long enough to insist his leader had achieved 'absolute domination of the Prime Minister', before decisively darting away, gimlet-eyed, to wreak revenge for those precious wasted seconds on some poor platter or several somewhere...

Anyway, back to that rather dubious Muppet analogy.
Well, my techy and Photoshoppery skills clearly don't exist, and rather hopeful searches on Google failed to bring up any appropriate Cameron/Muppet images so far. Only a rather fun little Times piece applying the Jim Henson treatment to the Lib Dem leadership contenders instead.

So, perhaps all that remains is to no-doubt-futilely hope the brave new Tory leadership ultimately follows a similar trajectory to a classic little Waldorf and Stadtler about-turn.
Although I believe the technical term of choice for it these days is 'flip-flop'...

That was wonderful!
- Bravo!
I loved that!
- It was great!
Well, it was pretty good...
- Well, it wasn't bad...
There were parts of it that weren't very good, though...
- It could've been a lot better...
I didn't really like it...
- It was pretty terrible...
It was bad!
- It was awful!
It was terrible!
- Get it away!
Yeeaaarhh...!

Gwarn the Mido...

The man, just banished from Egypt in disgrace, is truly a loon.
A hugely entertaining loon, nonetheless.
In fact, every live TV game featuring Spurs should have a PlayerCam trained entirely on Mido, the whole game through, such is the enjoyment to be gained from his madcap histrionics, no matter how well or badly he actually performs with the ball at his feet.
He makes Guy Poyet - another frenetic footballer, once of this parish - look about as excitable as Ray Wilkins by comparison.
Sad to see him missing out, by dint of pure, predictably-unpredictable temperament and temper, on his country's big moment in the African Cup of Nations final.
But then, perhaps it was only to be somehow, strangely expected of a young man who once threw a pair of scissors across the dressing room at his striking partner - and, apparently, still a close friend to this day - Zlatan Ibrahimovic.
Mido has actually seemed to be on his best behaviour for Spurs, most of the time.
And it's astonishing to realise he's still only 22.
If he keeps up his top-scoring form on his return (unlike Fredi Kanoute, who seemed cursed after returning from his turn-out for Mali two years ago), he should win that full contract this summer. And deserve it, too, after shedding a lot of weight last summer and making himself the linchpin of our attack (last Sunday's win against Charlton was our first one in all the games he's missed this season...)
Though I do still uneasily suspect that, within mere days of us awarding him a full-time contract, he'll have ballooned to at least 16 stone.
After all, he did seem to be about the only Muslim to have actually gained weight during the last Ramadan...
But I'm being too unduly harsh now.
Especially of a man who, upon demanding why he should be taken off, and being told 'Because I'm the coach!', instantly hollers back: 'Yoh are nothing but a donkey!'
A pain in the ass, indeed...
But always entertaining, nevertheless.
I'm only disappointed Mido no longer dates the wonderfully-named former Miss Belgium, Joke Van Der Velde.

Lord Reith takes another turn or two...

Two years on from Lord Hutton's devastating criticisms, and it seems the BBC is still feeling jittery.
Still, it is heartening to see that when they make serious errors of journalism nowadays, they are big enough to admit and quickly correct them.

From the minute-by-minute online commentary on last night's Birmingham-Reading FA Cup tie:

Correction - 49:58
Defending throw-in by Ibrahima Sonko (Reading).

49:58
Attacking throw-in by Ibrahima Sonko (Reading).

Correction - 49:10
Defending throw-in by Ibrahima Sonko (Reading).

49:10
Attacking throw-in by Ibrahima Sonko (Reading).

Phew. You had me going there for a minute, fellas.
Well, 48 seconds.

Jack Taylor RIP...

Not Jack Taylor, the English referee who holds the record for the fastest penalty awarded in a World Cup final (inside two minutes, for the Netherlands against the ultimately-triumphant West Germany in 1974, of course.)
But Jack Taylor, the 50-stone 'gentle giant' (of course), from Bradford, who died at the weekend having reached the fairly impressive age, all things considered, of 60.
I must confess not having given him much thought these past few years until reading of his sad demise this week, but I was suddenly reminded not only of one of the best one-off TV documentaries I can recall, but certainly the most delightful TV review I can remember (and there aren't many of those, really...)
Forget Celebrity Fit Club and the supposed controversy this week about poor Anne Diamond's 'confession' of stomach surgery (according to some hysterical newspaper reports, 'her reputation now lies in ruins'. Too many years occupying the same gaudy sofa as Nick Owen, and a series of Polly Filla features for the Mail, may have already helped wreak such damage, I dunno...) But other documentaries about obese people - children and teenagers especially - always leave me intrigued, but also desperately sad and pitying. As does the sight of fat children, full stop. This may seem a very condescending view, and no doubt there is something to be said for personal responsibility and self-control, but the suggestion of any possible abuse and mockery - from others and from one's own self - must be pretty hard to take. Especially for sufferers of Prader-Willi Syndrome - and their anguished families. And those children who greedily, guiltily feel compelled by who knows what to feast on frozen food, stolen sweets, just whatever they can lay their fat fingers on, really, and sadly...
Alternatively, there are those like the aforesaid Jack, who - for all his quirkiness, his straight-talking yet slightly-puffed-up (figuratively-speaking) geniality, his frankly-bemusing hairstyle and fondness of the phrase 'At the end of the day' - take a kind of pride in their size.
But don't let me try - and struggle, and fail - to capture him, for those who missed the delicately-wry ITV documentary on him five years ago. (And how about a judiciously-timed repeat, TV head honchos...?)
Oh lucky you, I've managed to track down Nancy Banks-Smith's wondrously-composed little review of the show in The Guardian. Take it away, Nance...

It goes to show you never can tell.
Salacious-sounding and shoved to the back of the schedules, The Fattest Men in Britain (ITV) proved curiously charming and touchingly funny.
This was down to the fat men, who were darlings, and Nick O'Dwyer, the director, who combined serpentine seduction with the innocent air of someone who has just wandered in off the street.
For this I can forgive him a tendency to burst into verse and a weakness for puns like "Fat has been kind to Jack Taylor."
If Jack Taylor had asked the mirror on the wall "Who is the fattest one of all?" the mirror would not have dithered.
Jack estimated his weight as 54, perhaps 56, stone.
He has a look of Queen Victoria caught in her long johns.
This is something to do with his bizarre hairstyle, dyed and lacquered into a crown, and the enthroned air of friendly dignity with which he greets all callers.
German TV in particular is drawn to him like moons to Jupiter.
After the death of his mother, his grandma and his sweetheart, Brenda, who once cooked him 40 dumplings at one go, he did not leave his flat in Bradford for
25 years.
"I ses to misself, it'd never bother me if I never went out no more, never again." Heartbroken with a hearty appetite is an irresistible combination.
Brenda has a successor, Joan.
It is a treat to watch Jack work through a plateful of cakes with ladylike fingers and lipsmacking appreciation.
A cream horn, then a cherry slice, the cherries winking like brake lights, and then Jack's favourite, a vanilla slice, which is like two clouds stuck together with custard.
You were poignantly reminded of Ena Sharples's first words in Coronation Street: "I'll have six fancies and no eclairs."
I didn't know they still baked cakes like that.
Barry Austin of Birmingham is 21 years younger and, as a friend described him, just like a big ray of sunshine.
Fond of clubbing, full of smiles, relishing his celebrity.
"One day I was just a normal person and the next I was everywhere. It's the only thing I know I've been good at, eating and drinking. At the time I thought I was
enjoying it but I suppose I was putting on a show for people around me, something like a freakshow."
Barry is positively intelligent and, he confided to Jack, cries himself to sleep most nights.
Nick O'Dwyer, now on the warmest of terms with Jack, planned a little surprise for him.
Champagne and oysters were on ice to celebrate his confirmation as the heaviest man in Britain.
Jack heaved himself on the scales, and Nick said rather quietly, "According to this, Jack, you're only 31 stone."
Jack mutated into Fred Elliott.
"Eh! Wha..a..t! No, never in this world! I won't buy that. No, no, I won't buy that. It's out of order. Well out of order. You're insulting me now. Don't you insult me. Look at me, man, look at me. Do I look 31 stone? Tek it out of my 'ouse! Just go!"
A genuinely remorseful O'Dwyer could not resist a stage whisper: "Collapse of stout party."
Jack was not amused. His mouth was circumflex.
"Thirty one stone! I might as well tell people I'm a fucking ballet dancer. Would they believe that?"
Barry, who weighs 40 stone, was tickled pink.

A bad workman blames his tools...

So a bad musician blames his instruments.
And I am indeed a bad musician, so will readily blame my instruments - namely, the two ukuleles I bought through eBay just over a year ago, unwittingly securing double the nymber I needed thanks to a miscalculation over the timing of bids.

I was excited when both arrived, though a little unnerved by the bright crimson red of the one Mahalo uke. And after what seemed an eternity trying to get them in tune, it was a rare delight to be able to pluck out a few easy chords, the four strings corresponding rather straightforwardly to the top four on a guitar.

Still, they felt a little more like children's toys than semi-serious instruments, and the plink-plink sounds were not quite what I had in mind when enjoying such recordings as 'I'll See You In My Dreams' by Joe Brown at the George Harrison tribute concert, and even a few of the guiltily-enjoyable George Formby classics.

In fact, any novelty quickly wore off - especially as they seemed nigh-on impossible to keep in tune for more than 15 seconds or so. Just breathing slightly heavily would send the tuning pegs spinning. And my ambition of carrying around a handy little uke and delighting friends and family - occasionally - with cute little singalongs, soon turned slightly sour. I leant the one to my mum for a touring show she put on, set in the Second World War and featuring a few Formby numbers among the music hall renditions. She took the brown one (the red one was indeed a little too garish), and once it was returned to me I resolved to try one more time, a little more concentratedly, to master the instrument.

After all - Vogue magazine hailed the ukulele as one of their style icons of 2005; the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain have been a cult favourite with their impeccable, good-humoured versions of Ms Dynamite, Kate Bush and AC/DC on ukes alone; and for all the naffness of Formby with his little ukulele in his hand, there is the coolly contrasting vision of Marilyn Monroe clutching a uke and making it look somehow sexy in Some Like It Hot... (Not forgetting the excellently-conceived and executed Day Today sketch, which purports to expose Bob Dylan as a plagiarist, by revealing his songs such as Subterranean Homesick Blues were actually written and performed by the Blackpool bard himself, two decades earlier...)

But later today I must parcel up and post on my first two ukuleles, having sold them on again through eBay - the circle of life continues, and my hunt for an interesting-sounding, restless-curiosity-sating alternative to my acoustic guitars enters its next phase.

A banjolele - that's what I should have gone for in the first place...

Chairman, manager, players...

Now it seems even Chelsea's little kid mascots are cocky sods these days.
Sorry, Steven Gerrard. But you've been owned.

Flycatcher...

I like to take an interest in genuinely insightful investigative journalism. For the merest examples, off the top of my head and of recent vintage: All manner of war correspondents. Jason Burke's always-informed despatches on terrorism for the Observer. David Cohen's behind-the-story inner-city London featurettes for the Standard. Er, Laura Topham's insanely, inanely-addictive 'Single Life' columns for the same paper... (I wish I could find some examples on line, she really is so, so bad it's so, so good - annoyingly pretty, too, it's true - but I'll stop here, before I get too disturbing...)
But I take my hat off, hurl it 20ft in the air, catch it on my bonce, take it off again, repeat the trick, and finally hand it over as a mere token of my affections in tribute to the author of the following scandalous expose about one of the most-beloved icons of our, or any recent time... Life shall never look quite the same again.
Woodward and Bernstein - grab some cutlery and ketchup and prepare to gorge heartily on those, er, hearts of yours...
Read it and weep...