Dissertation distractions - Pimp your own farm: Why I shall not be joining Farmville.

The sudden increase in workload at university is reminding me I am in third year and I do have to put finger to keyboard and eye to book. So far, however, I have put finger to keyboard and ended up on youtube, and well my eye has been on a book, but so has my face.

A book is a fantastic pillow.

Regrettably my university associates have found another addictive distraction to keep their gaze from the slightly important dissertation, and well they are desperately trying to get me to join the club. The virtual agricultural club that is: say hello to Farmville.

It's allotments, but for young people on Red Bull.

Now, I may normally live in a rural area of England, I may have ventured once or twice on a farm. I think I once went strawberry picking aged about 5. I have sat in the garden, and even mowed the lawn.

But, clearly I am no Farmer. More Farm shop.

This new game on Facebook allows unsuspecting users to start up a virtual farm.

My housemates inform me you can grow and harvest peppers and crops.

For all I care you could learn to herd buffalo.

It's just another distraction to make the library seem even more meaningless.

I imagine hours go by, the books are piled up behind your laptop, but all that has happened is your combine harvester has broken down, or your sheep have come down with mumps.

You are in your very own Farm Brother, and I will not be a contestant.

I can't deny the pressure hasn't been building, three of my housemates are apart of it, and I feel like I've lost them to a drug induced ghetto, but with cows, not heroin.

Their rehab is their tractor, their joy is their new born lambs. All completely animated, but clearly more addictive, ironically, than a roast dinner. In-fact I have heard people starving for hours because they feared their sunflowers would perish.

Too add to this, I now worry about leaving my computer anywhere, for the fear I may leave myself 'logged on' and therefore open to being 'signed up'.

I have to say this has already happened.

I was horrified.

It was just past midday at university, work was being attempted, but I had been a bit generous with my soft drink consumption during my time at the computer.

I needed the toilet, and generally this shouldn't of been a problem.

Without thinking, I took a casual stroll to the nearest cubicle. About a 2 minute walk.

When I strolled back I continued with relevant work. But then something happened.

On my 'minimised' Facebook I had received a notification. Someone had added me as a fellow farmer on Farmville. But I didn't have Farmville.

Panic.

All of sudden I realised my 'Farmville friends', mainly a housemate named Matt, had carefully orchestrated a campaign to stop me from ever leaving this virtual frenzie, by signing me up whilst I was relieving myself.

Help.

I managed, after some effort, to work out how to leave the application.

They see this as just the beginning. And everywhere, people are talking about their crops, there lost animals, their successful wheat yield.

And it gets worse, students I know have purposely not gone out to socialise in favor of this computer zoo.

On a night out, friends have disappeared, only to find them staring at their fields of gold at 3am.

This very night I sit next to people I know farming. They are talking about helping black sheep by adopting them - I feel like the French resistance, but obviously less significant.

Annie Mac and the trail of my lost wallet, with Zane Lowe, a rubbish Sherlock Holmes

There has been an ongoing saga involving a certain missing wallet of mine, and unfortunately it's current location is still swirling around my head like a lost cockroach.

It has led me on a rather epic treasure trail. Where the hell the gold is I'm still yet to find out.

Here is the tale

Let me take you back to March 13th earlier this year, what were you doing that night?

As a freelance student journalist I had organised to interview Radio1 DJ Annie Mac for a music website.

It was a hectic night, we were meant to meet beforehand but before I knew it she was spinning the decks. By then I had given up my dictaphone for a lager, or several.

Did you see me enter the nightclub in Bournemouth that night?

All of a sudden it was at least 3am and Annie's strolling off the stage to leave.

She passes me, and looks like she's seen a troll as I try to grab her attention.

But as I say my alliterated name, she remembers. Oh yeeeea, there are some perks to having a name straight out of the top ten worst nursery rhymes. Thanks mum.

Anyway, before I knew it, we are sitting in a car. People on the outside are looking at me weird, one throws up. He's not drunk, just jealous.

Were you outside when I got into a black car on March 13th?

All of a sudden I'm in the back of this small black automobile and Annie's in the front with her driver. In a slight haze, with my ears ringing, I complete the interview.

It may be nearly 4am but I did not attempt to sing in this interview as I have done in the past, nor did I make nervous jokes or fall asleep (I have never done that).

I would like to say I was the epitome of the three CCC's:

Cool, calm, comatosed.

In fact I was actually quite professional.

However as Annie was driven off I suddenly realised I had lost my precious wonga holder: my wallet. Initially, I thought I had left it in the club, I searched and questioned. But nothing.

Did you see my concerned face that fateful night?

A few weeks later

After an email here and an email there it turns out Annie's driver had found my wallet in his car after coming back from a holiday.

Cheers mate, not all of us could afford a trip to Cyprus. I could barely scrape enough money together for a bacon bap.

Ok so that's a minor exaggeration and granted it was MY fault.

But at least I would now get my wallet back.

I didn't.

Nothing.

It may have had a small something to do with the the way I emailed Annie saying I'd give her some money if it cost her to send me my wallet.

What MAY have caused a tiny bit of suspicion (false) was a slightly badly worded sentence whereby I might of mentioned I'd pay for any postage cost if she gave me her bank details so that I could transfer the money.

I have tried to make this sound less bad, and me, less like a good-for-nothing scammer.

I realised my error as soon as I had pressed send, and then proceeded with an apology email.

Most likely this was deemed unsuccessful.

My leather folder long gone, and I, taking on more loans than Michael Jackson (when he was alive).

A bit later

SIX whole months later, I now have a new wallet. I may wave it in your face if I see you because I have it, it's mine and I haven't thus far left it anywhere other than my own car.

But there's a pride issue at steak and unbeknown to me it seems a little trip from another Radio1 DJ, Zane Lowe, may have brought this out of me in full-force.

You may have already imagined the forthcoming events.

This has become known as typical Harry Harris. The event was as followed:

I had an interview organised with Mr Lowe, the last question may have involved a fellow female, curly haired DJ, and a black, leather wallet.

It was like the last question on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and I truly was ready for the prize.

But an anti-climax thus took place, Lowe became uncontactable and the interview ceased to happen. I had lost all hope.

The night was drawing to a close, although as I tumbled out of the student union nightclub in Bournemouth there was Dan Brown ready and waiting to solve my own Da Vinci code.

But I wasn't going to say anything to Mr. Lowe. No, no, no, it had gone past that, there was too much pride at risk.

A few of my fellow night goers had a slightly different idea.

Rupert, a housemate of mine: "Go on Harry, go on, go and ask him where's your wallet. Do it. He probably hangs out with Annie all the time"

There was more of this talk from other such friends.

In a rather tispy state, after giving up any hope of an interview, I waddled over to Mr. Lowe standing by his car.

As cool as a large cucumber I announced:

"Yooo Mr. Lowe."

Silence.

"How, is, it going?"

A murmur.

"Do you know.... Annie Mac?"

Zane: "Yes, why?"

Harry Harris: "She stole my wallet. (off course this we know is not strictly true)

...But it's a long story you probably don't want to know."

Apparently he did. It's all slightly hazy, but I apparently recounted the whole adventure.

Mr. Lowe then replied in words such as these: "I'm going to turn into Sherlock Holmes and investigate what happened to your wallet."

What a revelation! This was getting better than Murder She Wrote and there was no bodged manslaughter involved.

I was asked to write my email address on a post-it note using a permanent marker.

This, by the way isn't easy. Though I'm sure he definitely wasn't trying to fob me off.

What was happening here was progress.

Why then, I have still not received contact from any of the previously mentioned people I am dumbfounded.

Crimewatch beckons.

The joys of being a healthy student

Yesterday morning:

After the binge of freshers week (I'm now a third year but still) I have decided to go on a minor health drive.

This so far has involved:
1. Buying bananas - However, rather predictably they have gone off before I have eaten them. 
2. Running up and down the stairs - whenever I need something from a different floor,  like a sandwich.  

3. Drinking less of the strong stuff.
4. Riding from my house to university - on a bike, not horse, although still surprisingly dangerous. 

I'm living in a different house this year in the centre of Bournemouth, but I didn't realise the initial treacherous bike route from my new abode.
My housemate had assuringly told me the route was a 'piece of cake'. However this was far from an Angel Delight.
More a Black Pudding.
I went out the back door, helmet on - I got hit by a car last year (on my bike, broken wrist etc) - and it started to rain. Hooray.

I entered through the back gate and cycled down a flat path. This is easy, I thought.
Then some steps appeared; I could handle these, but it was only 9.30am so I got off my bike and carried it down.
There's no need to be too adventurous yet.

But then, staring down at me was Bournemouth's Mount Kilimanjaro; a steep slope with less build up than a bad Death Metal record.
It just goes straight up. I need time to aclimatise, get into my stride, even change into an easier gear. The latter being the most vital.
The gear issue was the main problem surrounding my predicament - I was still in an enthusiastically steep gear from the previous day. This was going to be quite a climb.

In a positive move, I attempted to quickly get on my bike and change the gear to a lower one; I wobbled from side to side, trying to keep balance. Unsuccessfully, I put my feet back on the ground. I'm Ok though, I can do this: I didn't go out last night.

It was time to give it another go but it was hard seeing through the drizzle: I leapt on the pedals anyway, but my body went from one side to the other again, but this time more dramatically- a bit like a child who's parent has taken off the stabilisers without telling them.

As I tried to keep balance whilst getting into an easier gear something very unfortunate arose, or flew rather.

A FLY on some sort of suicide mission careered at high-speed into my left eye.

If you can imagine, you're walking down this hill, and you see a 'cyclist' who looks like he is on the peak of an 'A' class drug, raving on his bike, with one eye feeling the full affects of this chemical infusion. Squinting constantly with one hand appearing to punch his face (eye).

Unfortunately the nightmare continued; I had managed to get into a lower gear, but I had one hand trying to pull the fly out of my eye.
The bike was going right then left. Two hands had kept me on the bike. But, well, one...

Then, out of no where I was in a bush. Imagine thorns. This was no bed of roses.

I pulled myself out, smiling to passer-by's - they may have not see the incident. 

I then walked the rest of the way up.

Tomorrow the hill will be conquered, on bike.

X-Factor is now showing at my Student Union bar: they can forget about my custom.

As a student the weekend normally means staying in; five days consisting of probably little work and much play (freshers?) have taken their toll, stag do’s from up north have arrived by the mini-bus load and the clubs hike up their prices for those unsuspecting people who work full-time- blimey imagine what that’s like?

Unfortunately being in a student house on a Saturday or Sunday may involve a word beginning with X and ending in Factor. I can’t quite bring myself to say the complete name because it's all consuming; it blasts in your face, screams in your ears and spreads all over Facebook.  

That guy can’t sing, she’s really common, he’s got a wooden leg etc.

Have you seen the news? There’s probably something quite important going on, like an earthquake. But wait, one of the judges is crying. My heart bleeds, they could be in their villa in Mauritius.

It really is a whole world of trollop. But typically when you’re in a house of at least four people, one reprobate wants to watch it. Personally, I’d rather stab myself in the eye, or one of the contestants. Sometimes I can’t decide.

The problem this year in particular is that the program’s head has grown the size of an abnormally large hot air balloon.

The lights flash like a techno rave, the commentators voice reminds me of the evil Saw man, and the audience is unbearable – imagine the man at the front telling them to cheer louder: he must be on acid.

Everything about it now screams American. Why? Because they want to send the winner over there and makes loads of wonga. In less they’re old. Or fat.

One thing that is particularly irritating is when they bring back old contestants who are now ‘successful’: “100 millions albums, 20,000 sell out tours and now fantastic at miming.” You get the drift. Well, what they don’t mention is what happens to the less lucky ones, who for some reason were not cool enough to make the dosh and were therefore quickly dropped by their label.

They really should bring them back. Here’s the ones who you voted for and didn’t make it:

“Hi, remember me, Steve err, what’s my surname, I can’t remember. Ah, Brookstein. Well I’m now singing in The Kings Arms, west Woolwich. The guys at the pub love me. I often get requests for Leona Lewis.”

Just to verify, said persons name in quote had to be looked up on Wikipedia in order to find their full name. And in case you’re interested he has actually been appearing in a musical called Our House. Sounds a hoot.

Second contestant:

“Hi my names Michelle McManus and well the industry is really image….”

Dermot: “Move on love you’ve on the wrong show. It’s a dog eat dog world.”

Anyway there’s still probably about ten treacherous weeks of the spectacle left.

That’s a lot of Saturdays out on the town, although note-to-self: apparently they've started showing the show at my Student Union bar so that's one to avoid. And well on Sunday, maybe I’ll lock myself in my room, apparently that’s really fun. 

PART 2: Revenge

Simon Cowell, for Christmas, you get a bag of coal. 

"Simon, I've got some disturbing news, you're no longer the big dog, the X-Factor single is at........number two."

S.C:  "WHAT, WHAT, WHAT's at number one?"

Adviser: "It's a....metal song sir."

S.C: "A METAL SONG, but the kids love Miley Cyrus."

Adviser: "It appears the listeners are a little angry, they are raging against you, sir."

This is the Facebook campaign to get Rage Against The Machine to number 1 this Christmas.

(http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2228594104)

I mean could you imagine:

The top 40 Christmas chart countdown which everyone has forgotten:

"At number two, it's, IT's, the X-Factor single, which means, children, erm, turn your speakers up for.......... Killing In The Name."

Oh the joy that would bring to my ears.

It's the most seasonal song since Mr Blobby, but a whole lot more meaningful. 

This by the way is not an epiphany, but, I will now be praying to Jesus this Christmas that Rage Against The Machine beats the X-Factor to Christmas number one.

Literally, if you are listening God, turn your spawn on Mr Cowell and ruin his yuletide X-Factor X-mas monopoly. 

It would be the surprise present for such a song to hit the number one spot next Sunday - the coal in Simon Cowell's stocking.

I mean they even played the rock tune at our student nightclub last night, after Rhianna - what a mix up.

And finally what an amazing way to broadcast the tune, through the mouths of Cowell's puppets:

"Enjoy her! She's a perk"...What lecturers should probably keep to themselves.

"Enjoy her! She's a perk."

Surprisingly these 'wise' words, were not thrown about between 50 Cent and Snoop Dog, at a P-Diddy party, nor at The Playboy Mansion. 

They are in-fact spoken by an academic. Not about a company car, but about university students, of the female variety. 

"...girls fantasise," he says, referring to students in America who go after 'the campus sports star'. 

But here:

"On an English campus, academics can be heroes." 

Sorry?

The slogan of a certain T.V advert springs to mind: "Those who can. Teach," but after this publication it may not just be those that 'can' teach but some who will 'try, try, try' in-order to have more luck with the ladies. That is, the intellectual kind.

Remember, The Sun's readers have their page 3's but the more sophisticated of the educational world apparently hit the lecture hall for their hot-tottie; where looking out upon all those eager-to-learn young ladies is basically the same as a lap-dancing club......

This boys and girls, is Terence Kealey, Vice-Chancellor of Buckingham University speaking:

"Yup, I'm afraid so. As in Stringfellows, you should look but not touch."

Sorry, but generally, those at the front-row are of the dreary dictaphone type (vast generalisation). I mean you need the binoculars to hit the female hierachy of the back seats.

But these are "normal girls" he's talking about, and old Terence seems an expert on the female species. Perhaps a bit of a 'lad' in his hay-day (put a pair of thick-rimmed glasses on him now and he's look like a posh Harry Hill)

His words:

"Normal girls - more interested in abs than in labs, more interested in pecs than specs, more interested in triceps than tripos - will abjure their lecturers for the company of their peers..."

Sorry to interrupt Sir Terrence, but are you trying to talk hip; it's generally quite 'normal' for us young to 'hang' out with each other. Maybe you should watch skins, it's not revolutionary. 

Wait it gets better: 

"....but nonetheless, most male lecturers know that, most years, there will be a girl in class who flashes her admiration and who asks for advice on her essay. What to do?"

GIVE HER A 2:2.  Remember not every male, or female, university pupil has the pick of the bunch. Leave some for us, Terence, you stud.

The man definitely seems to have an educational fantasy, but surely ladies don't dream over Derek the biology academic, or Henry the History hob-knob.

Do they?

Although it is true on my own course there is a Politics teacher the girls talk of - he's probably got a lot of money. 

And, if your dad's a teacher, shield your eyes:

"She doesn't yet know that you are only Casaubon to her Dorothea, Howard Kirk to her Felicity Phee (he's showing his age here I think, no idea who these people are), and she will flaunt her curves. Which you should admire daily to spice up your sex, nightly, with the wife."

Is he joking? It's hilarious either way.

The question really is: what will the students be thinking as he addresses them for a speech?

..."Is he looking at me Sandra? No Debbie, I think he's eyeing up the librarian reps on the front row."  

Looks like the mere male students, such as myself, will need to up our game. 

*Mr Kealey has responded to criticism of his article on Lust here. 

Blowing up love bombs! Political News turns very Harry Potter

Political news headlines are almost as confusing as the people trying to lead our country.

Here's a tongue-in-cheek take on recent news involving all things MP-orientated.

Randomly, here's a selection of new Harry Potter film titles. 

In-fact they are political news headlines -for the realistic version of events click the link under the story summary:

The Guardian

'Nick Clegg must blow up David Cameron's love Bombs'

The favourite to lead the country after 2010 is such a charmer: David Cameron's been using nuclear love potions to woo Nick Clegg's high-flying wife. Very fantastical. Actually, it must be that he's using a nuclear love potion to woo Lib Dem supporters. 

 'Lib Dems spurn Cameron's olive branch'

 What? Cameron's been growing an olive tree to save money in the recession and now he's offering it out to Lib Dems. And they don't want any olives? Ungrateful pips the point.

I think the Lib Dems will find it's very hard to get an allotment these days and grow-your-own is all the rage. Maybe an olive tree's a bit too posh for the them, I did hear Clegg was more into his cactus. 

  The Independent:

 'Tories fail the 'under a bus' test'

 Blimey, has it got that desperate!? They're power-possessed, they really are. There's no need to start sacrificing MPS in order to steal headlines. Has George Osborne ever even got on a bus before? 

The term 'under a bus' also summons up an action sequence image of which is all a tad James Bond, therefore too cool: this is politics. 

 Now to Timesonline:

'Government warned of quango bungling last year'

This is very worrying. It's taken Labour too long to highlight how this ancient rural tribe of Quangos have been invading bungalows across the country. Lock up your one-floor houses; quangos maybe in for the chop, but for now, it's all talk.  

BBC News Website:

 'Osborne: Brown misled MPs on spending'

Misled? This is not North Korea George. Go have a look at Iran and then stop using this word so casually.

The story is actually in relation to an accusation of lying leveled at Gordon Brown:

 

Finally, on a rather unusual headline, there's something very worrying reported at Timesonline:

 

 'Jack Straw calls for heroin on the NHS'

 Surely not.

 Everyone will be walking around completely, and utterly out of it. 

"Sorry Doctor I'm feeling a bit lazy, got any ecstasy?"

Let's just hope these MP's don't go private and start claiming for it on their expenses. 

So the laws on assisted suicide could be changed...well, well...

In light of recent news that assisted suicide guidelines could be changed, here is piece I wrote earlier this year on the subject. It evolves around an interview with Dr Nitschke, otherwise know as Dr Death, who toured Britian giving suicide talks. There is also opposing comment from his former colleague Dr Micheal Irwin, as well as from a Chaplin in an area which Nitschke visited for it's 'older demographic'. [Photo]Dr Nitschke, dubbed 'Dr Death' by British media.

Dr Philip Nitschke, dubbed Dr. Death by British media.

Thirteen Years ago in the Northern territory of Australia a legal and lethal voluntary injection was administered to end the life of a terminally ill patient. This was carried out by Dr Philip Nitschke, the first doctor in the world to administer a doctor assisted suicide within the law. Under the Terminally Act of the Northern territory four more people voluntarily died, but a year later, in 1997, it was made illegal. 

“We saw the benefits to our society when those laws were in place," Dr Nitschke said after his recent euthanasia ‘promotion’ tour of Britain. In fact considering the media circus surrounding his visit it was surprisingly easy to contact him, and his openness, such as stating the reason for going to Bournemouth is because of it’s elderly population, is perhaps his downfall.

 With a strong Australian accent, “G’Day” starts our conversation, Nitschke, dubbed ‘Dr Death’ by the British media, was born in the rural south of his home country. His quite radical views, however, are far from the traditional values associated with outback folk.

“I would like to see legislation which will allow people under strict conditions, if satisfied by strict criteria, to get help to obtain a lawful end of life,” he states in a defiant, uncompromising tone. 

The Australian physician runs the pro-euthanasia organization Exit International, and promotes a drug sold legally in Mexico, called Nembutal, and an “exit hood” which can be filled with a lethal amount of helium. 

This open approach to suicidal methods has also left him in a wake of criticism. Dr Nitschke’s former colleague, Dr Michael Irwin, former Chairman of the Voluntary Euthanasia society, spoke from Cranleigh, Surrey where he still campaigns for right-to-die causes. In the past, Dr Irwin insists they were “good friends,” but now Irwin accuses Nitschke of being “totally irresponsible.” When asked about the Australian’s tour of his home country, the doctor who now campaigns for Friends at the End attacked the easy-access style of the meetings. 

“He says the information is for people who are over 50, or are seriously ill, but the information he provides, like where to get Nembutal, and also this awful process of helium gas and exit hoods, could be so easily abused.“ 

The former Medicial Chairman of the United Nations launched a global campaign in the 1990s with Nitschke to legalise doctor assisted-suicide for terminally ill patients. Today, they are not on speaking terms, although Dr Irwin still takes patients on trips to Switzerland and has strong pro-euthanasia beliefs. 

“Where there is a mentally competent adult involved who has either a terminal illness or who is very severely disabled, in those situations I think it is essential that people have the option of a quicker exit by means of voluntary euthanasia or doctor-assisted suicide.” 

But, he added, in a stern, lower voice, there could be severe problems if methods promoted by Dr Nitschke are used for the incorrect reasons. 

"The wrong person, someone that’s just very depressed or someone who wants to bump of their Alzheimer’s wife might get hold of this Nembutal and use it in a discreet way."

 In Bournemouth, where Dr Nitschke visited just over two weeks ago, the seaside resort renowned for it’s retired population, saw a media furore more in line with the arrival of a major pop star. 

At the meeting, held in the Britain’s only gay naturist hotel, Nitschke says it was “hard to say” how many people were there but it was between “50 and 100”, a broad estimate, he claims, due to the large amount of media representation. But clearly there’s an audience who want to hear what he has to say. Perhaps, however, one of the reasons there was resentment in the town, was because Dr Nitschke announced his visit was due to the “demographic,” referring to the high number of elderly residents, but, the Australian physician raises his voice at the suggestion of ‘targeting.’ In his defence, with the business plan of an Apprentice contestant, he states it would be “silly” to provide a service where people don’t want it.

 The business side of the tour is what concerns Sharon Hartwell, a female chaplin in the costal town, who looks confused in her multi-faith chaplinancy in Poole as she initially overlooks her religious stance. 

“I think the danger is he has some kind of financial interest in it and whenever there’s some kind of external interest, other than the exact good for a person, you’ve got to be slightly suspect.” 

The religious objection is clear, euthanasia involves the help of someone else to die and the church is against this, but Mrs Hartwell was clearly intrigued. 

“I didn’t go. I nearly went to it,” she says after a long hesitation, and with a frowned brow. A brief silence ensues as she looks towards her window and the farm animals in the field behind, and then, she leans forward.

"It’s a bit like putting your cat or dog down isn’t it. The other argument is that it’s quite fine to put your cat or dog down but why can’t we put people down, and if you’re a Christian I would say people are different to animals because we’ve got hopes, fears, and aspirations, whereas animals just live in the moment.” 

The Chaplin describes her brother-in-law who tried to commit suicide but was caught, and is now “happy” with two children and a wife, hence the reiteration of her belief that ‘we only know how we are feeling at the moment and we don’t know what it’s going to be like in the future.’ As Mrs Hartwell continues, she shuffles uncomfortably in her swivel chair, continuing to highlight the “anxiety” and “guilt” involved when a person helps someone else die, and this, she says, is why God is there to make these hard life and death decisions for us. The bible says we are made in the image of god and therefore we are creative and are able to do all sorts of things. In contrast, the non-Christian, atheist belief, comes from a tradition where there is no God and there is no after life. After discussing this, Hartwell sits up and announces: “Who cares, who are you accountable to. Why does it matter? It all depends on you’re ethical point of view.“ 

Dr Nitshke said in response to the religious objection, including several highly strung negative comments from local priests around Britain, that he didn’t have a problem with people sharing different beliefs but they shouldn’t impose them on others. 

“I wouldn’t want someone who has got a different moral and ethical system in place to the one I adhere to, to come along and tell me I can’t have what I want. They can do what they wish but they should let me.”  

Strictly Spin: Politicians obsessed with a false reality

Yesterday it was announced that Labour was hiring a certain reality T.V judge as a 'dance champion' of the nation. Sounds like a show doesn't it, well it might as well as be.

Andy Burnham will be presenting; he's the new Vernon Kaye, but with Swine Flu.

Feeling a bit sick? Join the club.

Anything to do with that dancing show on the BBC generally incorporates Strictly into the title but it's hard to stray away from the word on this current subject of blatant PR by Labour.

Could they think of anything less original than hiring age-row judge Arlene Philips as a leader of all things twinkle-toed, they may as well as have promoted Harry Hill as a champion of bald men. No, that's too obvious.

Labour's Health Secretary Andy-haphazard-swine flue-Burnham needs all the help he can get to improve his image after the muddled information he helped provide, or not, on that global flu which is going around.

And at a time when the public is calling the sacking of the 66 year-old judge from Strictly Come Dancing in favour of a 30-year old singer an ageist outrage, Labour has swooped in again on a popular reality T.V star.

If they're not careful the party will turn into it's own Big Brother; they've already been rowing about who claims for what, but, we should remember, they have got Alan Sugar to tell them who's boss. Why hasn't he fired a few of them yet? Oh, they've already left.

The whole Strictly stunt is sharp, you may think, but it's definitely too cosy.

They should of got Harriet Harman striking the champion pose with Arlene; bursting through a placard of the BBC outside number ten.

Anyway, as Arlene gets her grip on Burnham, perhaps we should expect to see him on the next series of the dancing show alongside Ballroom-lover Vince Cable, and maybe even Alan Duncan. Oh but he probably won't have the energy. Or Cameron's already given him the notorious: "You're fired!"