Morning:
8°c
Party conference season, to borrow a phrase from the woefully dog-eared Big Book of Journalese, begins in earnest next week. I've always liked conference season, partly because I've had an interest in politics since I was quite young but mostly because it gives people who like snooker a chance to see how the rest of us feel when something tedious invades the television for weeks on end.
Conferences are always more enjoyable when, like this year, they're essentially a series of pre-match pep talks before the big game. The stakes are a great deal higher and everyone's behaviour becomes more exaggerated.
This is true even of the journalists: Nick Robinson becomes smugger, Andrew Neil even more bored-seeming, Paxman's people are put on aneurism alert and the Radio 1 Newsbeat team are given a handout showing which SYLLables to overSTRESS to make EVerything seem “CRUcial” and “esSENtial.”
But perhaps you feel differently. Perhaps you would rather suck out your own eyeballs with a Dustbuster than watch the parade of oleaginous, overeager dullards auto-smarm their way through a series of seemingly random buzzwords and platitudes.
Well, never fear, dear reader, for we at the Standard are determined to make the whole thing more entertaining for you with our brand new Party Conferences Bingo Game. The rules are so simple that it would take your average government inquiry only eight or nine months to get to the bottom of them. Points are awarded for spotting each of the following.
Mid-denial about plans for a leadership bid, Harriet Harman's handbag splitting open, showering hundreds of “Harriet Can Carry It!” badges onto the floor. (2 points)
David Cameron trying to look statesmanlike and warn against triumphalism while his audience of twin-sets and pink-faced men called Will, carried away with the polls, start up a chant of “five more years!” (2 points)
Gordon Brown, eyes closed, head down, accidentally snapping the pen he is holding during Mandelson's speech. (1 point)
A picture of a senior Tory blacked up, a picture of a senior Tory in an S&M dungeon or a picture of a senior Tory blacked up in an S&M dungeon. (2 points, 2 points and 1 point respectively)
A clutch of confused Liberal Democrats leaving the hall in bewilderment on finally realising that Vince Cable is not in fact their leader. (2 points)
Oliver Letwin being caught without his hair on in the style of a Lego man. (5 points)
Alan Duncan, somewhat the worse for wear, being discovered wandering the streets of Manchester, raging at the poor quality of the goody bags this year and the unfairness of it all. (3 points)
Nick Clegg, having lost his laminated pass, being refused entrance to his own conference by a party worker who simply doesn't recognise him. (3 points)
One point each can be gained for spotting any of the following words and phrases in at least two leaders' speeches: sustainability, tough choices, values, opportunities, the people's [insert something or other here], “and it's stories like little X's that are the reason I got into politics”.
Finally, you get 100 points if you spot the following in any speech at all: “OK. You're right. It's all my fault.”
Be a Beatle — it comes easy
Oh my, that we should live in such times! You will doubtless have heard about the incredible human advance that is Beatles Rock Band. You haven't? My dear thing, you must have been living under the wrong kind of rock.
It is an electromographical amusification by which means you can experience what it was like to play in The Beatles. Imagine that! You buy a guitar-shaped “controller” with five “buttons” and use it to “play” the coloured “shapes” you see on the “screen” in front of you, giving you the sensation of “creating” music.
I love this idea and was all set to buy my own copy when news reached me of another, rival system. Under this second method you buy a guitar-shaped “instrument” with six “strings” and learn to “play” the “notes” you see on the “sheet music” in front of you, actually creating music.
What's that? That one takes time and effort? Oh, I see. I'm getting Rock Band.
Back to nature via the miracle of junk mail
Hippies, sentimentalists and the authors of a certain type of book designed for the Christmas market often make the complaint that we humans have lost touch with the old store of folk knowledge.
You know the sort of thing: in the Old Times people could accurately predict the following three days' weather by wetting the trailing root of a parsnip and seeing which way it inclined.
Now, though, we have apparently lost our direct connection to the world around us with our reliance on fancy- schmancy sat-navs and online weather sites and the like.
Wrong, I say. There certainly is folk knowledge, it's just that it's of a modern bent.
Earlier today I realised that, as someone who lives in London and often works from home, I can tell almost exactly the amount of time between my expeditions to the kettle with no reliance on my watch at all simply by checking the number of pizza leaflets that have come through the letterbox since my last trip.
Anything under seven and I'm clearly breaking my own “work for half an hour between cups of tea” rule.
Iraq, the home of courtesy
Which is the politest nation on Earth? I'm glad you asked. Turns out it's Iraq.
This week Muntadar al-Zaidi, the man who threw his shoes at George Bush, was released from prison to largely positive reviews. According to reports, however, there were some Iraqis who felt that his action had been “impolite”.
Wow. That is some old-world courtesy right there: “Listen, Muntadar, Mr Bush has illegally invaded and occupied our country and since he's here that makes him a guest in our house. So be nice.”
