My Thermal Thong

My fever must be high tonight. I’m lying in bed, watching Question Time, and suffering such violent delusions that I actually believe that David Miliband has just said that Gordon Brown will be as unpopular as Blair in six month’s time.

Old Labour must be spawning again. It could only be ice cracking but I wonder if it’s not the sound of the Labour Party rubbing their dry carcasses together in that ritual of skin shedding that preceded the moment they devour their Queen. And the last person I would have expected to be so perceptive is Miliband. The man resembles a preying mantis in everything including appetite. (Turns out I was right. My ever reliable namesake has got the quote: ‘"I bet in a year's time people will be calling for Tony Blair to come back and people will be booing Gordon Brown.") At least I’m not that delusional.

Back to more serious matters, you might wonder what I’m doing in bed so early. Well, there’s been a bit of snow about. Don’t know if you’ve noticed it. Here in Bangor it’s not been too bad, though my gig was cancelled tonight. I’m not sorry. I would have cancelled it myself. There’s nothing worse for a man of my business than a sudden cold snap, but this is doubly true when I’m coming down with a cold.

The Romanian voicebox rang me up from London and was full of stories of deep snow and being rescued by the men of the AA. She was also streaming with a cold and warning be that there’s something going about. It was not news. This morning I began to notice the first signs of my having caught something. My feet are now cold and I’m aching all over. I also have a sore throat.

No need to worry about me. I’m made of stronger stuff. And I’m also wearing my thermal thong and my fleece pyjamas bought from Millets for Himalayan conditions. Though I am still cold.

So I’ll soon close my laptop and curl up with a good book. The alternative is to put on an old black and white film.

What is no alternative is to write anything more tonight.

So I’ll just wish you all a goodnight.