Saturday morning I saw an article in the Telegraph about a photo of David Cameron posing with some Morris dancers in Banbury. The Morris dancers had their faces blacked. Since then the Guardian picked up on the story. And the Independent. And the Daily Mail. And so on. Twitter is going a little crazy for it right now, unsurprisingly.
This year you’re going to be hearing LOTS from me! I’ll be posting lots of gigs, lots of new recordings, yada-yada-yada…
Yeah, you’ve heard this before, haven’t you Diary. “I’m going to write to you all the time from now on! I know I’ve been shit up to now, but I can change! I can change!! I’m going to make such an effort – it’ll be like it’s a New Me! You’ll see… pithy posts and witty insights left, right and centre! You’ll be dazzled!”
Total fucking silence for 6 months.
But you know what, I’m not even going to apologise for it this time.
Which is not to suggest I don’t have anything better to do than sit in front of 4OD on the computer noting down timings on a spreadsheet. Because I really really do. Christmas is less than a fortnight away and I haven’t bought anyone presents yet. But this was a documentary that took me from curiosity and cheerful anticipation to bafflement to shock and eventually to cool fury.
But I’m getting ahead of myself here. Start at the beginning.