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.
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?