Many people have said that my book Tybalt & Theo would make a great film or TV series, and I agree with them. So a few months ago, I set about writing a screenplay adaptation of it.
I have to say that it was a massively difficult task - it might have been easier if it was someone else's novel I was ripping to shreds. The hardest thing, initially, is to get the length right. One A4 page of properly formatted script is reckoned to be about one minute of screen time. So for a lightweight comedy like this (especially one from a writing virgin), the ideal length is 90 minutes. Compressing 280 pages of novel into that was damn hard - in fact, I didn't make it, I stopped when it got to 110 pages.
Anyway, I sent the script off to the UK Film Council: they have a development fund for new writers, and I might have got some dosh off them. In the end, they said no, but very nicely. They offered me free use of a Script Doctor service, which surprised me immensely. I don't know if every reject gets this offer - it must cost UK Film a fortune if they do. So, the script is now with the doctor, and I await the diagnosis nervously.
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Telefonica Is A Bit Sucky
One of the absolute basic rules of selling stuff, especially online, is to make it really easy for your customer to pay. Make it so that the customer barely notices they've paid. We have the technology.
For reasons I won't go into (okay, it's teh recession, man, you can haz ch33zburger, g00d gess), our Telefonica payment did not go through at the start of this month. No worries, I have cash money now, I'll pay the bill.
Telefonica themselves don't handle the dirty stuff, despite having a gazillion shops scattered around the planet. You can pay into various banks (but only between 9.00 and 9.05, on Mondays or Thursdays when there's an R in the month), or any Post Office at any time.
So I go to the Post Office, hand over the bill, and the clerk types stuff into the computer.
Computer says no.
She tries a different combination of possibilities.
Computer still says no.
I'm irritated, but go away without hardly killing anybody, and return the next day with other numbers that might work, and a sunny, optimistic smile on face.
Computer said no.
You may be wondering, if you've ever lived in one of the many extant versions of the real world, why this is so difficult. So am I. The Telefonica computer system that is installed in all Spanish Post Offices wants four pieces of information: name, phone number, type of identification (CIF/NIF, passport, residence card) and the number that corresponds to the selected type of ID. Plenty of scope for error there, then, and absolutely no need for anything more than the phone number. All of the info is printed on the bill anyway, so it's just redundant, time-wasting crap.
I went home and called Telefonica. They do actually provide service in English, and the boy on the phone confirmed that all the info I gave him was correct, and it should work. Go back and try again, he said. Fuck off and die, I replied. I tell him I suspect there's a programming error in the system (yay, Keefie, call centre operatives know all about stuff like that). The CIF/NIF that puzzled you a bit earlier, well, CIF is a company registration number, NIF is a Spaniard's National ID number. I have neither. I have an NIE (Foreigner's ID number). So I think that's where the glitch is. I ask the dude if he can change the ID type to Passport. Sure, he says, and tries to do it. Ah, he says, can't do it. There's already an account with that passport number. Yes, I say, that'll be the old place in Chueca. He confirms that this is the case. But, I say, that account is closed, yes? Yes, it is, but it stays on the system like, forever.
I can't get him to understand how illogical this all is: I might have five properties scattered throughout Spain - do I need a separate form of ID for each one? He's given up. Go to Post Office, go to Post Office... is all he can say now.
I'm only trying to give them money. If any of you wanted to give me money I'd be bending over backwards to get it off you. But that's because I'm not a state-owned can't-be-bothered used-to-be-monopoly.
Oh, there we go, Internet just got cu--
For reasons I won't go into (okay, it's teh recession, man, you can haz ch33zburger, g00d gess), our Telefonica payment did not go through at the start of this month. No worries, I have cash money now, I'll pay the bill.
Telefonica themselves don't handle the dirty stuff, despite having a gazillion shops scattered around the planet. You can pay into various banks (but only between 9.00 and 9.05, on Mondays or Thursdays when there's an R in the month), or any Post Office at any time.
So I go to the Post Office, hand over the bill, and the clerk types stuff into the computer.
Computer says no.
She tries a different combination of possibilities.
Computer still says no.
I'm irritated, but go away without hardly killing anybody, and return the next day with other numbers that might work, and a sunny, optimistic smile on face.
Computer said no.
You may be wondering, if you've ever lived in one of the many extant versions of the real world, why this is so difficult. So am I. The Telefonica computer system that is installed in all Spanish Post Offices wants four pieces of information: name, phone number, type of identification (CIF/NIF, passport, residence card) and the number that corresponds to the selected type of ID. Plenty of scope for error there, then, and absolutely no need for anything more than the phone number. All of the info is printed on the bill anyway, so it's just redundant, time-wasting crap.
I went home and called Telefonica. They do actually provide service in English, and the boy on the phone confirmed that all the info I gave him was correct, and it should work. Go back and try again, he said. Fuck off and die, I replied. I tell him I suspect there's a programming error in the system (yay, Keefie, call centre operatives know all about stuff like that). The CIF/NIF that puzzled you a bit earlier, well, CIF is a company registration number, NIF is a Spaniard's National ID number. I have neither. I have an NIE (Foreigner's ID number). So I think that's where the glitch is. I ask the dude if he can change the ID type to Passport. Sure, he says, and tries to do it. Ah, he says, can't do it. There's already an account with that passport number. Yes, I say, that'll be the old place in Chueca. He confirms that this is the case. But, I say, that account is closed, yes? Yes, it is, but it stays on the system like, forever.
I can't get him to understand how illogical this all is: I might have five properties scattered throughout Spain - do I need a separate form of ID for each one? He's given up. Go to Post Office, go to Post Office... is all he can say now.
I'm only trying to give them money. If any of you wanted to give me money I'd be bending over backwards to get it off you. But that's because I'm not a state-owned can't-be-bothered used-to-be-monopoly.
Oh, there we go, Internet just got cu--
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
New Spanish Words
I learnt two new words of Spanish today, cerradura = lock (lit 'close hard') and cerrajero = locksmith.
Why? I hear you ask. Well, MamaDuck's handbag was stolen today. It contained her phone, credit card, sunglasses, other stuff, and keys to the house. It also contained a few bits of paper that had our address on.
She reported the theft to the Police, got a report and set about cancelling the credit card and mobile account. Given that the thief not only had the keys, but also the address, I set about getting our front door lock changed, hence the new vocabulary. We now have a lovely new cylinder in our door (85 Euros including 5 keys and installation).
Amazingly, we've just had a visit from two nice young Policias, returning the handbag. All intact except for the credit card, the shades and the phone. So the thief got virtually nothing - the card was maxed-out and is now cancelled, the shades were scratched, the phone was a freebie from Vodafone. But we've shelled out 85 Euros for a new lock, wasted half a day chasing round fixing things, and will now have to buy new shades and a new phone.
I have to admit to being a little bit disappointed. I was planning to spend tomorrow here in the dark with the blinds down. When I heard the thief trying to get the key into the lock, I was going to rush him with the blunt end of our broom, push him down the stairs and nick his wallet. If necessary, the ironing board is strategically placed by the door for a more serious attempt at achieving unconsciousness. Failing that, I know where the sharp knives are.
I have to say, I have nothing but contempt for these people. What fucking planet are they on? Why do they think it's okay to take other people's property? I mentioned our unfortunate propensity for being robbed to an Ecuadorian lady once, and asked her what she thought. She shrugged, and said 'you are obviously Gringos, so you are rich, so it doesn't matter to you.' Hmm, can't deny the first point. Completely, utterly, galactically wrong on the second two.
This kind of crime is usually blamed on Romanians and Roma/Gypsies/Pikeys. We can tell you with the voice of more experience than most that Latinos are actually the ones to watch.*
*Racist generalisation, not all Latinos are thieves. Investments can go down as well as up. May contain nuts. Although Romanians and Roma need to be treated with extreme caution. Disagree? Sue me.
Why? I hear you ask. Well, MamaDuck's handbag was stolen today. It contained her phone, credit card, sunglasses, other stuff, and keys to the house. It also contained a few bits of paper that had our address on.
She reported the theft to the Police, got a report and set about cancelling the credit card and mobile account. Given that the thief not only had the keys, but also the address, I set about getting our front door lock changed, hence the new vocabulary. We now have a lovely new cylinder in our door (85 Euros including 5 keys and installation).
Amazingly, we've just had a visit from two nice young Policias, returning the handbag. All intact except for the credit card, the shades and the phone. So the thief got virtually nothing - the card was maxed-out and is now cancelled, the shades were scratched, the phone was a freebie from Vodafone. But we've shelled out 85 Euros for a new lock, wasted half a day chasing round fixing things, and will now have to buy new shades and a new phone.
I have to admit to being a little bit disappointed. I was planning to spend tomorrow here in the dark with the blinds down. When I heard the thief trying to get the key into the lock, I was going to rush him with the blunt end of our broom, push him down the stairs and nick his wallet. If necessary, the ironing board is strategically placed by the door for a more serious attempt at achieving unconsciousness. Failing that, I know where the sharp knives are.
I have to say, I have nothing but contempt for these people. What fucking planet are they on? Why do they think it's okay to take other people's property? I mentioned our unfortunate propensity for being robbed to an Ecuadorian lady once, and asked her what she thought. She shrugged, and said 'you are obviously Gringos, so you are rich, so it doesn't matter to you.' Hmm, can't deny the first point. Completely, utterly, galactically wrong on the second two.
This kind of crime is usually blamed on Romanians and Roma/Gypsies/Pikeys. We can tell you with the voice of more experience than most that Latinos are actually the ones to watch.*
*Racist generalisation, not all Latinos are thieves. Investments can go down as well as up. May contain nuts. Although Romanians and Roma need to be treated with extreme caution. Disagree? Sue me.
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
When I'm Old...
... I wanna join a choir like this one: Young At Heart.
You don't have to be able to sing, remember words, or anything!
We were invited to see a special showing of the documentary 'Young At Heart' last night, and it was bloody brilliant. If you ever get the chance to see this, don't miss it. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll stomp your feet like a foot-stomping thing, and at the end of it, you'll come out and think 'when I'm old, I wanna be like that.'
You don't have to be able to sing, remember words, or anything!
We were invited to see a special showing of the documentary 'Young At Heart' last night, and it was bloody brilliant. If you ever get the chance to see this, don't miss it. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll stomp your feet like a foot-stomping thing, and at the end of it, you'll come out and think 'when I'm old, I wanna be like that.'
Sunday, 12 July 2009
Arse About Tit
I spent most of yesterday designing a cover for my new novel:
MamaDuck kindly pointed out that this is a bit of an arse about tit way to work, given that the book is nowhere near finished yet. But it is now just over 10,000 words, which is the minimum required for uploading it to Authonomy, so a cover is needed - you have to either supply your own or use one of Authonomy's generic horrors. You can read it here.
MamaDuck kindly pointed out that this is a bit of an arse about tit way to work, given that the book is nowhere near finished yet. But it is now just over 10,000 words, which is the minimum required for uploading it to Authonomy, so a cover is needed - you have to either supply your own or use one of Authonomy's generic horrors. You can read it here.
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
How Pricey Is My City?
A survey out today shows that Tokyo is now the world's most expensive city for an expat to live (it was number 2 last year). London has dropped from last year's 3rd to this year's 16th.
Of particular interest to me (this year's rank first, last year's in brackets):
20 (52) Dubai
26 (65) Abu Dhabi
37 (28) Madrid
38 (31) Barcelona
Full story here.
Of particular interest to me (this year's rank first, last year's in brackets):
20 (52) Dubai
26 (65) Abu Dhabi
37 (28) Madrid
38 (31) Barcelona
Full story here.
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
British Climbdown on ID Cards
At long last, the British Government has admitted that its insanely expensive ID card scheme is doomed to fail. The problems with various iterations of this ill-conceived project were legion. Everyone in the UK would have been forced to have one. They would have been very expensive (the last estimate I saw put it at about 203 quid each). It was claimed they would help the War On Terror™ (complete and utter bollocks, ministers admitted later). The cards could have been multi-purpose - one horrific proposal suggested the ID card could also contain your driving licence, your credit cards, your medical history and your passport. Imagine the consequences of losing that baby!
I actually think a simple ID card is a good idea - most European countries have them. But the UK scheme was never intended to be simple. It would be the Rolls-Royce of data-collection and mining. So that means it would be primarily an IT project, and recent experience has shown that the UK government is utterly incapable of managing IT projects. This would have been the grandaddy of all failed IT projects - over-budget, late, and ultimately not fit for purpose. And yet another massive infringement of personal freedom.
The cards will, apparently, still be made available to anyone who wants one (it's suggested that youngsters might get one so they can prove their age and be able to buy booze - but there are already very simple schemes that do that). And foreigners. Yeah foreigners would have to get one, 'cos obviously a passport isn't good enough.
Full story here.
I actually think a simple ID card is a good idea - most European countries have them. But the UK scheme was never intended to be simple. It would be the Rolls-Royce of data-collection and mining. So that means it would be primarily an IT project, and recent experience has shown that the UK government is utterly incapable of managing IT projects. This would have been the grandaddy of all failed IT projects - over-budget, late, and ultimately not fit for purpose. And yet another massive infringement of personal freedom.
The cards will, apparently, still be made available to anyone who wants one (it's suggested that youngsters might get one so they can prove their age and be able to buy booze - but there are already very simple schemes that do that). And foreigners. Yeah foreigners would have to get one, 'cos obviously a passport isn't good enough.
Full story here.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Magnetic (Return of the Clones III?)
When I arrived back in Madrid yesterday afternoon, fresh from Yorkshire, I was definitely in cheapskate mode, so I decided to take the Metro/bus home, rather than a taxi. I bought myself a two-Euro ticket (see Graeme's post on why you have to do this), and went to Cuzco via Nuevos Ministerios. At Cuzco, I waited for the bus that goes to the end of our street (they're normally every 5-10 minutes, but because I was waiting for it, tired, sweaty and overdressed for Madrid having just got back from not-warm-at-all England, I had to wait twenty minutes), and when it eventually came, I popped my 10-trip ticket into the machine. Machine said no. I checked the back of the ticket, and there's definitely seven trips left on it. I gave it to the driver, who punched a hole in it.
Didn't think any more of it.
This morning, I had to withdraw some cash to pay Telefonica to put my Internet back on. The first cash machine said no, can't read the magnetic strip. So did the second one. Beginning to panic, thinking the card's been skimmed again (see this horrific post if you missed the skim-scam), I rushed off to my bank to get the card cancelled and a replacement issued.
I tell ya: never a dull moment in Madrid.
But I wonder what form of exotic machine I passed through on my travels yesterday that wiped these magnetic strips? Most odd.
Oh, and thanks to M at M & J for this heads-up; we may have got rid of the skim-scammers. Still haven't had my sodding money back though.
Didn't think any more of it.
This morning, I had to withdraw some cash to pay Telefonica to put my Internet back on. The first cash machine said no, can't read the magnetic strip. So did the second one. Beginning to panic, thinking the card's been skimmed again (see this horrific post if you missed the skim-scam), I rushed off to my bank to get the card cancelled and a replacement issued.
I tell ya: never a dull moment in Madrid.
But I wonder what form of exotic machine I passed through on my travels yesterday that wiped these magnetic strips? Most odd.
Oh, and thanks to M at M & J for this heads-up; we may have got rid of the skim-scammers. Still haven't had my sodding money back though.
A Week Without Internet
I know you've missed me while I've been stuck in some of the more boring parts of northern England, and I'm sorry - my Dad has no Internet (no mobile phone, even), so it's been a bit of a challenge to get online.
A couple of years ago, there was a community computer education place in the ex-mining village where my Dad insists on living, and you could get online there for as long as you wanted, for free. During a flying visit last summer, I found it had closed down, but was able to use an Internet cafe in Doncaster, the nearest town. This year, I found that last year's Internet cafe has gone, and I was unable to find a replacement. Never mind, there's a brand-new public library in the village - they're bound to have Internet. And indeed they did, but you had to join the library to make use of it. I explain that however unlikely it may sound, I am actually just visiting the village for a week. No problem, says the man, you can have temporary membership for a month. All you need is a proof of address; a utilities bill, for example. Oh, I say, they're all at home. In Madrid. Oh, says the man. But I expect, I say, that my Dad is a member of this library. He types our family name into the computer, but it seems none of my family is a member any more (I'm secretly relieved that they have no record of the book I borrowed and never returned back in 1976*). I tell him I'll return tomorrow, with my Dad and some of his bills in tow.
But I don't return, because later that day I find that one of the Wetherspoon's pubs in Doncaster offers free wi-fi.
The next day, I go to the pub, fire up my MacBook, and follow the instructions in the leaflet. Doesn't effing work. The bar staff have never used Macs before, and so are completely unable to help.
In desperation, I go to the Tourist Information office and ask about Internet cafes. Oh yes, they say, just round the corner, next to Barclays Bank. Unbelievable. I had been to Barclays at least three times in the preceding few days and never noticed the place. It was serviceable (although I couldn't use the mouse on its 6-inch cable because I'm left-handed), but very noisy with people making Skype calls to their grannies in Poland and Romania.
I did see adverts for mobile Internet dongles. One of these would have been ideal for the week, but the two-year contract put me off.
I must be an Internet addict - I feel like half of me is missing when I can't get online. So it was great to get back and find that Telefonica have suspended our ADSL.
*Bare-faced lie, included for humourous purposes only.
A couple of years ago, there was a community computer education place in the ex-mining village where my Dad insists on living, and you could get online there for as long as you wanted, for free. During a flying visit last summer, I found it had closed down, but was able to use an Internet cafe in Doncaster, the nearest town. This year, I found that last year's Internet cafe has gone, and I was unable to find a replacement. Never mind, there's a brand-new public library in the village - they're bound to have Internet. And indeed they did, but you had to join the library to make use of it. I explain that however unlikely it may sound, I am actually just visiting the village for a week. No problem, says the man, you can have temporary membership for a month. All you need is a proof of address; a utilities bill, for example. Oh, I say, they're all at home. In Madrid. Oh, says the man. But I expect, I say, that my Dad is a member of this library. He types our family name into the computer, but it seems none of my family is a member any more (I'm secretly relieved that they have no record of the book I borrowed and never returned back in 1976*). I tell him I'll return tomorrow, with my Dad and some of his bills in tow.
But I don't return, because later that day I find that one of the Wetherspoon's pubs in Doncaster offers free wi-fi.
The next day, I go to the pub, fire up my MacBook, and follow the instructions in the leaflet. Doesn't effing work. The bar staff have never used Macs before, and so are completely unable to help.
In desperation, I go to the Tourist Information office and ask about Internet cafes. Oh yes, they say, just round the corner, next to Barclays Bank. Unbelievable. I had been to Barclays at least three times in the preceding few days and never noticed the place. It was serviceable (although I couldn't use the mouse on its 6-inch cable because I'm left-handed), but very noisy with people making Skype calls to their grannies in Poland and Romania.
I did see adverts for mobile Internet dongles. One of these would have been ideal for the week, but the two-year contract put me off.
I must be an Internet addict - I feel like half of me is missing when I can't get online. So it was great to get back and find that Telefonica have suspended our ADSL.
*Bare-faced lie, included for humourous purposes only.
Saturday, 13 June 2009
Greetings From Liverpool
Keefie is on his jollies.
Having had the pleasure of the DIL's (Daddy In Law) company in Madrid for about 10 days, I flew back with him to Jolly Ole England. The DIL has a couple of NHS hips, and so can't run about like he used to - wheelchair assistance was required, and provided for free (unlike Dubai, Marhaba my bottom). This meant we got front-row seats on the plane, but sadly when the lift-thingy deposited us at Arrivals at Liverpool John Lennon, it was the wrong door; the screen over the baggage carousel said 'City of Derry', and there were no bags on it. We wandered around, bewildered, for a bit, and eventually found another carousel with two solitary bags on it. Phew, as they say in The Dandy.
DIL was catching a bus to Manchester, where his sister lives and his car was left, and I was being picked up by a buddy who lives in Liverpool. I was given beer and Scouse (Liverpool's traditional stew - dee-licious), and yesterday (Friday) we hit the town.
I lived in Liverpool about 23 years ago, worked there, got married there. I love the place to bits, and was sad when I left it, because it really felt like it was dying (had Margaret Thatcher had her way, she would have just nuked it). But it hasn't died. It has recovered and grown like a growing thing. There's a stack of new building completed and ongoing. It's all very impressive. The most impressive thing, I guess, is Liverpool One: this is basically an extension of the city centre down towards the river. It's a massive mixed-use development of shops, offices, leisure and apartments; the architecture is sensitive and innovative. Rather than build a monolithic thing, it's been planned as separate buildings in different styles, so you have new streets, vistas, corners, squares, fountains, a park, and so on. Prince Charles would hate it because there aren't any neo-classical or vernacular bits. But everybody else loves it because it is beautiful, human-scale, organic-looking space. Did I say I liked it? I'll say it again: I've never seen an urban development this good, anywhere.
Having had the pleasure of the DIL's (Daddy In Law) company in Madrid for about 10 days, I flew back with him to Jolly Ole England. The DIL has a couple of NHS hips, and so can't run about like he used to - wheelchair assistance was required, and provided for free (unlike Dubai, Marhaba my bottom). This meant we got front-row seats on the plane, but sadly when the lift-thingy deposited us at Arrivals at Liverpool John Lennon, it was the wrong door; the screen over the baggage carousel said 'City of Derry', and there were no bags on it. We wandered around, bewildered, for a bit, and eventually found another carousel with two solitary bags on it. Phew, as they say in The Dandy.
DIL was catching a bus to Manchester, where his sister lives and his car was left, and I was being picked up by a buddy who lives in Liverpool. I was given beer and Scouse (Liverpool's traditional stew - dee-licious), and yesterday (Friday) we hit the town.
I lived in Liverpool about 23 years ago, worked there, got married there. I love the place to bits, and was sad when I left it, because it really felt like it was dying (had Margaret Thatcher had her way, she would have just nuked it). But it hasn't died. It has recovered and grown like a growing thing. There's a stack of new building completed and ongoing. It's all very impressive. The most impressive thing, I guess, is Liverpool One: this is basically an extension of the city centre down towards the river. It's a massive mixed-use development of shops, offices, leisure and apartments; the architecture is sensitive and innovative. Rather than build a monolithic thing, it's been planned as separate buildings in different styles, so you have new streets, vistas, corners, squares, fountains, a park, and so on. Prince Charles would hate it because there aren't any neo-classical or vernacular bits. But everybody else loves it because it is beautiful, human-scale, organic-looking space. Did I say I liked it? I'll say it again: I've never seen an urban development this good, anywhere.
Friday, 5 June 2009
When I'm Cleaning Windows
The windows of our flat have been a little bit grubby ever since we moved in, and we could never figure out a way to clean them. The balconies are only 4 inches deep. MamaDuck found a solution a few weeks ago. A local company who do various kinds of cleaning. They sent two (two!) chaps round to give us a quote. I thought it was stupendously expensive, but MamaDuck accepted it and an appointment was made for today.
I had expected him this morning, but he actually showed up at 7pm. He asked for water and a towel. And then proceeded to remove the windows from their frames. He washed them all, (both sides) in our hallway. It took him about an hour, and then he phoned for a colleague who spoke English. They chatted for about half an hour, and eventually I asked them if there was a problem, and could I please have my windows put back. And would they kindly go away and stop disrupting my life.
I might let them back this time next year.
I had expected him this morning, but he actually showed up at 7pm. He asked for water and a towel. And then proceeded to remove the windows from their frames. He washed them all, (both sides) in our hallway. It took him about an hour, and then he phoned for a colleague who spoke English. They chatted for about half an hour, and eventually I asked them if there was a problem, and could I please have my windows put back. And would they kindly go away and stop disrupting my life.
I might let them back this time next year.
Go, Gordy, Go
I follow British politics, and other stuff around the world. I rarely comment on it on my blog, 'cos it's like, boring. I hated the Tories under Thatcher, and have been less than impressed by NuLabor. I wasn't too impressed by Old Labour, but if they'd got rid of old intellectual Commies in donkey jackets sooner, they could have been okay. NuLabor is Toryismo with a friendly face. When the friendly face of NuLabor (Blair) finally threw in the towel (I wonder if he knew what was coming), the fishface (Wee Gordy Broon) took over. Nobody wanted him to be PM, except him (and possibly his wife). He has been a complete and utter disaster.
He has no mandate. Nobody wants him. He has presided over the Credit Crunch (not necessarily his fault), the MPs expenses scandal (he could have fixed that before it happened), the worst local election results on record, and now multiple resignations from his Cabinet.
And now he says 'I will not waver or walk away.'
That's okay Gordon. All you need to do is run away, as fast as you can. I give him a week.
It looks inevitable that Daveed Cameroon will be the next Prime Minister. I don't like the idea, but at least he seems like someone who listens to the pipple and responds appropriately.
He has no mandate. Nobody wants him. He has presided over the Credit Crunch (not necessarily his fault), the MPs expenses scandal (he could have fixed that before it happened), the worst local election results on record, and now multiple resignations from his Cabinet.
And now he says 'I will not waver or walk away.'
That's okay Gordon. All you need to do is run away, as fast as you can. I give him a week.
It looks inevitable that Daveed Cameroon will be the next Prime Minister. I don't like the idea, but at least he seems like someone who listens to the pipple and responds appropriately.
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