Belgian president is a Euro

The Friday thing: Life and other bits
SO, 64 years after the last shot was fired in anger to end the Second World War (have you ever wondered who was the last poor so-and-so to be killed by that final, fatal bullet? Not his lucky day, eh!) Europe is united under a starry blue banner and an unknown Belgian — nothing unusual about Belgians being unknown — who revels in the delicious name Herman Van Rompuy (hereafter known as Rumpy-pumpy).

Rumpy-pumpy is supported in his task of ruling Federal Europe by an equally little known Brit (although they did name a market after her), Baroness Ashton, but we do have some cause to be thankful, at least it is not Tony Blair and the broomstick rider.

But we must all prepare for more Euro-creep (and no, I am not referring to our good friend Chris Davies). Although, when you think about it anything that Chris is in favour of, with the possible exception of prostitution and cannabis, should be regarded with more than a modicum of suspicion.

But centimetres and metres, just like pounds and ounces (when did you last buy a quarter of sherbet lemons? will continue to resolutely stamp out our feet and inches in much the same way as the pernicious grey squirrel is slowly wiping out the British reds.

We’re all Europeans now and even our very own David, who promised to slay the Goliath that is the European Union has got cold feet (in both Fahrenheit and centigrade) and will not allow us a say in a referendum.

It’s been a bloodless coup, but we don’t have to feel good about it.




WHY would Gary Glitter want to come to Saddleworth? He can’t have thought it would be a cosy hideaway; the bush telegraph in the villages is better than Tarzan’s ever was, and there’s no shortage of monkeys (the parish council chamber is their den).



Was it just a publicity stunt dreamed up by a Max Clifford think-alike to get the totally tarnished Glitter in the news for something that did not involve young children?

Or was it cooked up by unscrupulous Saddleworth business folk to get the heathen hordes of the national press pack swarming over the pubs and hotels on Glitter’s trail?

Local mythology has it that in the dark days of the Moors Murder hunt for bodies, publicans and hoteliers made enough dosh to retire to Spain, even after clearing up the wreckage the press pack left behind it.




FINAL WORD: The headline of the week, and possibly the headline of the year has to be “Toothless groper in twin attack”. It’s what we pay our headline writers for.