Barnaby took the worm, the hook, the sinker, the line and the rod as his disparate brain cells tried to link up to form a coherent response. They failed. Twice.
Rates down. Trying to embarrass the unembarrassable. Brexit: unpack the bags.
Jezza Corbyn would prefer to end his career embracing the warm socialist bosom of glorious defeat against insurmountable odds, rather than later becoming the victim of an unseemly Left-wing purge and exile to a Labour party gulag.
Turkey's land grab. The toys flew out of the cot. Borisconi moves again.
Americans don't know where Syria is, much less who the Kurds are. But they sure know where Florida is. Hence the howls of outrage at Trump's plan to hold the G-7 at his resort in Florida.
Always back the nag called Self Interest. Probing Banks. Syria: the real culprits.
UK's Saturday parliamentary Brexit sitting will cause MPs' consternation: the weekend away with the mistress; the weekend shooting defenceless birds or the EPL game all given up to listen to the erudite and charismatic Borisconi on one side and the soporific Jezza Corbyn on the other battle it out with emotional rhetoric.
It was a Cecil B DeMille production: a cast of thousands of robotic men & women of equal height, weight and shape and a (slow) chariot race of the latest Made In China military kit.
Go on, impeach me. Borisconi kneecapped. Suicide note.
Trump now has even more publicity than he could ever imagine. And the media will milk this for every last column-centimetre. The disturbing thing is that other more serious matters will no longer attract media attention, such as a Precious Princess' public relations tour of parts of not-so-darkest Africa.
