This Clown

I see some mac buffoon has taken on the Lion of the Nite Krüe.

Never wise, in my book, but here's my drachma's worth toward the Google bomb.

Speaking of bombs, my brother's birthday looms - the hitherto missable and utterly un-mnemonicable 11th of September that none of the family ever remembered. Then the planes arrived and all the Gnome's gunships and men couldn't put Humpty together again. Instead we're all running for cover from the journalistic blubfest and patriotics pantings.

Personally, I'm safe in my Ionian nook: reception for CNN is 'orrible and leans towards paid-for hagiogs of Asian businessmen, lavish adverts for Red Sea holiday destinations, and delicious broadcasts by anchor ladies who leave their microphones on when they go to the loo.

At least this year's gnashing and renting of garments doesn't fall on Sunday, or our local prelate would seize on it to do a pulpit thing.

I'd've had to invent a diplomatic cold or remove a spigot in the gates to stop us getting to the church on time.

Getting back to the McLoon whinge: This Clown, indeed.

Some mothers do 'ave them.