Insubordinate clauses

BBC NEWS | England | Devon | Blast suspect was 'radicalised'

Devon and Cornwall Police Deputy Chief Constable Tony Melville said: "Our investigation so far indicates Reilly, who had a history of mental illness, had adopted the Islamic faith.

Witness the magic of the well-placed subordinate clause...

My Chortle Review

Laughing Horse New Act Final 2008' review : Chortle : The UK Comedy Guide

Nathaniel Tapley is an actorly character turn very much similar in style to Al Murray’s loud, declamatory performance – not to mention his ill-thought-out right-wing opinions derived from his many psychological, emotional and social failings. In fact, this rabid Tory boy would probably see the Pub Landlord as some sort of namby-pamby liberal.

His veins throb and his eyes bulge as he harrumphs his way through his personal manifesto against political correctness. He’s imperialistic, homophobic and sexist – and very, very funny. The comically exaggerated opinions crystalise into wonderful one-liners, including a gag about his ‘handicapped boy’ that was the best single joke of the night. There are a couple of formulaic lines in the mix, but they are done with such panache that it matters little. A powerhouse performance, and funny with it.

The Beppisode

The Meeting, Episode 7 Michael | The Meeting | Video

It makes you wonder why, for example, speed cameras - designed specifically and solely to capture images of speeding cars - are taking pictures of any and all cars, and why our money is then being spent on analysing those photos.

Particularly predictable is the suggestion that a public order offence has been committed, the overreaction to any challenge of police 'over-zealousness', and the plea for someone to, please, think of the children.

I, personally, want my children to find all incidences of bums in their daily lives to be funny. Any child who actually finds a man sticking his naked bottom out of a moving car to be 'distasteful and offensive' should have their their child's license revoked, and all sweet-eating privileges removed.

Passenger moons speed camera - Boing Boing

Election nights are wonderful. There are swings, exit polls, and reminders that these graphics are based on projected vote-shares. For about 15 years, I've sat up into the too, too early morning breathlessly awaiting results at every opportunity. I even sat up for the results of the referendums on Scottish and Welsh devolution. But not tonight. Tonight I realised that I actually don't care.

I don't care if the Tories take a council in the north. I don't care if Labour can hold Reading. I don't care what Worcester woman does. Unless it's porn. I might stay up if it's porn.

As the early results came in I settled in front of Dimbleby's massive face, surrounded myself with booze, and waited. And waited. And it never happened. The tingle, the odd squeeze of the gut as the Tories take a seat in Wyre Forest, the infintesimal thrill as they lose one somewhere else. It never happened. I just don't care any more.

It's taken a long time for me not to care. I've adopted a position of haughty indifference in public for as long as I can remember. "They're all the same," was a mantra to live by. I knew this. I'd go on at tedious length about it. They're all the same. But, of course, they aren't. Some of them are Blues and are thus hateful gutter-vermin, a black crust around the rim of humanity's toilet bowl, whose every misfortune makes the world a happier place.

And the others have been swaggering disappointment-hounds, urinating in the face of all that was good and decent, with Richard Branson holding their collective penis. From Clause IV to tuition fees, from the Terrorism Acts to Iraq, to the 10p rate of tax, to all my adult life they've... No. It doesn't matter. I don't care any more. And, nominally, I never have - but there was always a little smile of satisfaction when they won something. Because if they won, the others lost. And the only thing worse than them was the others.

Except it wasn't. Finally, my gut appears to have accepted what my brain claimed to know. They are no better than the others. That half-hope that it was all Tony Blair, and that once he was gone they might rediscover the principles you always hoped they had? The pipe-dream of a twatbasket. Nothing more. A towering, imaginary palace, constructed of dandelion seeds and fairy guff.

And tonight, watching the heads bray and bleat about what this means for who, finally, I truly did not care. And I shall go to bed and not care. I shan't care. It's over, at long last. I do not care.

Until tomorrow, when they count the votes for London Mayor...