I know ...

... that I am no more than an occasional blogger, an obvious amateur, a once-in-a-while, have-a-go-blogger.

I don't think, however, that this changes what, for me, is the key point.

And this is that we are being governed by a man who is not just demonstrably demented but properly mad: self-evidently crazed, obviously certifiable, a lunatic from first to last. Loopy from the moment he wakes up to the instant he lumbers to bed.

It begs an obvious question.

Why can't this properly preposterous maniac be locked up?

It hardly sounds too much to ask.

Thugs and brutes

Watching the Great McNutter on PMQs today, I was more than ever struck by the fact that he is, properly, a thug.

He revels in whipping up his gang, strutting at their head, sneering at anyone in his way. Provided he is certain he can win, there is no playground confrontation he won't force his way into, no cheap blow he won't land, no insult he can resist hurling out.

His, first and last, is a world made real only by nastiness. How can I crush my opponents? How can I reinforce myself as the biggest bully? Who can I humiliate next?

Moral compass, anyone? An end to boom and bust? Recession, even?

Meanwhile, British political life, in thrall to McManiac's galloping sense of inadequacy and desperate need to impose himself, is reduced to a grotesque parody of schoolyard gangsterism.

Despair is the only rational response.

Has British politics ...

... ever been practised by anyone more obviously nasty than Gordon Brown?

Don't bother to send your answers on a postcard.

I am seriously thinking of starting my own one-man killer squad.

I still have a a potato gun – somewhere. Phwang! Take that, you mouldering twat. Want more, eh? Phawng again! Ha! Ha!

Die slowly Scottish lump of rotten porridge. Whang that up your haggis!

If only.

Sigh.

It defies every rational expectation that so obvious a maniac should ever have been allowed out in public at all. And now he wants us to believe he is Churchill reborn.

Cripes. Again, what have we done to deserve this?

Bad and getting badder

Well now, your old Brute, to the extent that he can be bothered to post anything at all these days, has, even at his busiest, conspicuously strayed clear of foreign affairs, the limitless horrors of Gordo McManiac's premiership, if it can properly be called that, transfixing him in horror to the extent that everything else – global financial systems disintegrating, Iran edging ever closer to nuclear weapons, the Chinese richer and nuttier than ever – has left him cold. Or at any rate coldish.

But, emboldened by a dicreet glass of sherry (and contemplating a second), the Brute would like to offer a comment or two on last night's debate between Obama and McCain.

One, sturdy Republican or not, McCain cannot hope to win with his cheeks apparently stuffed with several pairs of underpants. It isn't just the chipmunk-like swelling. It's the lisphing these barmy protuberances produce. Confidence is not inspired.

Sorry.

Ombama, meanwhile, master of properly Blair-like insincerity, voice lowered, sound-bites mastered, liberals swooning, East Coast hearts bleeding, has a wife, duly ushered onto the podium after the debate in the best gushing Sarah Brown style, who can surely only derail his march on the White House. It isn't her fault but her arse is, honestly, the biggest I have ever seen, the whole crammed into a skirt not so much under serious pressure as threatening an explosion that might instantly end all sentient life within several hundred miles. And I speak as a one-time habitue of Hammersmith's King Street shopping mall. She is packing some mighty acres of flesh under those svelte skirts. Scary stuff.

Tricky, in other words.

Wither the Free World?

Can anyone help?

Certifiable

This has been the week of Gordon! Sing his name out loud!

Here he was, a man rejunvenated, a man reborn, a man whose crazed smiles and loopy facial tics had now, at last, begun to be appreciated by the wider world. Thus stern promises were issued to spend sums of incomprehensible magnitude - none of which he had, of course – not merely to rescue the world's crumbling financial systems but single-handedly to bestow his limitless wisdom to countries great and small (except Iceland, of course) to make clear to them what has always been abundantly obvious to him: THAT ONLY GORDON KNOWS!

ONLY GORDON UNDERSTANDS! ONLY GORDON CAN SAVE US!

Oh! Undeserving world! See who has come among us! See who strides benignly among us feeble pygmies!

Were the veritable agent of death himself to reveal himself to us, it would be as nothing to the Great Gord.

Begone dwarf Cameron and your pointless toff crew!

Britain's greatest-ever chancellor, the man who BANISHED! boom and bust, has been let loose again!

In as much as ... ooh! ... a week? Gordo himself will PERSONALLY DEMAND! that we will all be allowed to eat AT LEAST! half a rat PER FAMILY! PER WEEK!

In the meantime, after personally restoring democracy to Burma, ending global warming, slashing the price of oil and giving serious thought of the VAST kind only he understands about how to change the movements of the planets, his head, currently only marginally smaller than the universe itself, will, I earnestly trust, explode with a tiny phutt and this properly vile, lying and deeply dishonest lunatic will cease to be for ever.

Oh, if only. If only. What have we done to deserve this endless punishment? Who will rid us of this crazed imbecile? That Britain – Great Britain, ha! – should be led by this bloated buffoon.

It is just too painful.

Fed up with Gordo, fed up with Mandy, fed up with ...

... well, pretty much everything.

So, a change of topic.

Next Monday, the Madrid Tennis Masters starts.

And Andy Murray will win it.

That is my prediction and that is what I am sticking with.

So, yah, booh, sucks and whang your head down the bog if you disagree.

I DON'T CARE!

You read it here first.

Why Gordo never lets you down

Amid the vast reams of comment – stunned, delighted, appalled, dismayed: take your pick – about Gordo's recall of Lord Mandy of I-Guarantee-I'll-Shaft-You-Before-You've-Even-So-Much-As-Thought-Of-Shafting-Me, a central point seems to have been missed.

Over the summer, his poll ratings plummeting, Gordo attempted to cast himself as above the daily din of Westminster trivia. His focus was on far weightier matters – climate change, African poverty, should I deem to meet Bush again? how can I wrong-foot Sarkozy? This, surely, was the stuff only mighty intellects such as his could properly contend with. Talk of in-fighting within the Labour party, to say nothing of his own imminent demise, could – must!– be dismissed as froth, day-to-day nonsenses of the sort his own immense brain was obviously beyond.

Bollocks, of course. But in his own desperate terms worth a try.

Predictably, it came to precisely nothing.

Now, with global financial Armageddon upon us, he has tried the same trick again. Gordo the Vast, he proclaims, is all that stands between us and living in caves, rooting around for so much as a shriveled berry, on good days perhaps part of a rat. His huge, frowning brow is even now being deployed non-stop to avert a catastrophe he alone can comprehend.

So, poised at this moment of political redemption, what does he do?

He brings Mandy back into the Cabinet.

Eh? At a stroke, every petty, vicious, nasty, venomous Labour internal feud is ushered centre stage again – and every attempt to portray McBigBrain as a global giant is scuppered. The daily round of Gordo's poisonous in-fighting is therefore guaranteed to resume its deadly primacy.

This isn't just stupid. It suggests a kind of death wish.