And so the political shenanigans continue with one slightly hardening Bag of Custard replaced by a threadbare dish cloth to bugger everything up and then now we have a shiny expensive looking banker, safe hands you’d think, but an appalling taste in music i’d suggest. I bet he’s never heard Marquee Moon. But to reunite the party requires pleasing everyone apart from the electorate it seems and so his cabinet sadly is made up of inconsequential insubstantial also rans. The dregs from the bottom of a custard strainer, hapless fools with patronising ways and hands which beg you to listen, just in case you didn’t get it the first time, “Yes we are a bunch of massive idiots” That lurching forward way of talking as if they are instructing a classroom of kindergarten children, how can these people get to do what they are doing? I really don’t understand but I think it’s something to do with privilege, and probably the fact that they had no friends at school and didn’t listen to anything other than local radio or steve wright in the afternoon (lazy DJ, gone now thank God, not dead, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, just retired or going I think, its not important) 

But in my efforts to wean myself off politics as it is injurious for my mental health, getting crosser and more exasperated as I drive down the M50, or the A465 or wherever I roam, so today I listened to some music, and by the time early afternoon arrived all I felt was slightly hungry and in need of some water. The antagonist on the Radio wasn’t present and I think that as the Tory party doesn’t seem to take notice of anyones opinions then really I am going to ignore them for the most part, just wait, they’ll come begging for mercy, change the cabinet once more, employ some more racists, a couple of misogynists, a sprinkling of fraudsters and disappear up their own backsides hopefully sooner rather than later, and they say (THEY) you become more right wing as you get older. Not on this watch.

This week I am meeting up with N and M, sadly no C anymore, the tragic and sudden death of Hattie, coupled with the Minister (me) moving north and becoming the Count (me) has sadly split the band up. But like regular readers may be able to remember N, M and myself climbed up Crib Goch a few years back which was absolutely awful and will never be repeated, this time we’re heading to Pen Y Fan in the Brecon Beacons, its where the SAS train, should be a breeze. We’ll be setting off very early doors, loaded up with pork pies and coffee so if you see 3 strangely handsome mysterious men, don’t be a stranger come and join us in a pork pie, and bring cigarettes, you can have some of my special hedgerow gin.