Sex Ed with Anna

How to regulate pornography is one of the most pressing issues of the modern age. So Channel 4 commissioned the “The Sex Education Show vs Porn”, which bravely attempts to give kids the real facts about sex and make sure they don’t rely on porn for their views on the subject. A poll was conducted at your average school in suburbia and shocking statistics popped up at intermittent moments; “1/3 of teens watch at least ninety minutes of porn a week” being one of the most eye-watering.

When Anna Richardson asked an assembled group of youngsters if anyone knew where the clitoris was, a confident lad raised his hand and spoke into the microphone with dazzling forthrightness. “It’s above the labia minora”. If I had just switched over, I’d have presumed he was preparing for a Greek play.

The aims of the show are laudable. When a highlight-haired 16-year-old lad tells the nation he would tell a girl to “get rid of” her pubic hair because it’s unsightly, it is time to take action. There followed more explicit discussions about “shaven havens” which flew past me as I was crumpled on the floor in a hysteric heap of laughter, gasping for breath as a ‘typical’ group of boys were shown a myriad of vaginas on canvasses dangling from the ceiling like the rings from Gladiator’s “Hang Tough” and asked which was the most normal (or which they had seen in the porn they watch copiously).

The second episode focused on the male anatomy. Five robed gentleman swiftly removed their clothing, letting the kids sitting on benches in a dull school hall giggle for a few seconds before a GP pointed to lots of dicks and began saying long incomprehensible words.

The excitement reached palpable levels when the sizes of penises were discussed, especially in light of another statistic: almost 1/4 of boys are worried about the size of their dick. I thought that was the whole point of being 16. If some girl for whatever strange reason wants to sleep with you, a fear will course through your body, as you worry she will leap out of bed halfway through the act to pull out a bar chart depicting the size of your knob compared to her ex by using a Shwartz Herb pot and the Empire State Building respectively. That’s what growing up is all about.

Contraception was the theme for episode three, including enormous blue plastic penises with teenagers stretching and pulling a Johnny over them, instead of putting them to their proper use; water balloons. In a slight shock I actually learned something regarding female contraception. I had the feeling that my teachers skated around the subject of female protection during sex education and I could see why. It took at least half an hour of squinting and head-turning before I could even work out what goes in where and why. I swear one bit of kit looked like the diagrams you get in science text books showing the effects of Greenhouse gases.

My favourite moment of the closing episode was when the children asked their parents questions about sex. The youngsters were clearly revolted but nonetheless curious about their parent’s experiences. Let’s be honest, if it encourages one more kid to talk to their parents honestly about sex it will be worth it. Especially to combat playground idiocy.

I remember in Primary School there was always one kid, Ben Jones, who took great pride in knowing what everything did. He was a walking sex encyclopaedia. I still remember a school trip that culminated in James being picked on for not knowing what a blowjob was. Needless to say, we didn’t have a clue either but we were more than happy to pillory poor James while making mental notes to discover what a blowjob was later that day from a reliable source (Google).

The parents themselves were relieved to get questions like “When did you lose your virginity?” off their chest and the kids seemed to laugh a little, give their parents a searching look, before realising they must have been sixteen once as well.

Real women at various stages of pregnancy were paraded to another school hall with more testosterone flying around than a Captain Flash-Heart convention held in Ross Kemp’s back garden. This approach to sex education was a winner. The kids could see real people and not base their opinions on fantasy blue movies.

What have we learnt? Primarily, we must be honest with kids. Parents need to take some responsibility for teaching kids about sex and not leave it to teachers who have enough trouble keeping them under control, let alone teach them about embarrassing subjects like femidoms.

UCAS multiplies stress

Applying to University can be a stressful experience at the best of times. The agonising choice of what to study and where to spend the following four years creeps up on you, even though you’re trying to forget all the other worries at college, like A-levels, finding part-time work and getting laid. Having spent at least five years in every stage of education since I was born, to be looking for a University place after one year at college is an unforgiving and daunting task.

The process isn’t made easier by UCAS (Universities & Colleges Admissions System) and their new online procedure, where everything is ten times more complicated than it ever would have been in the days of pen and paper. You end up going red in the face as you search for exams you took four years ago and filling in forms by the dozen, answering more questions than the semi-finalists on The Apprentice who have to put up with vicious businessman chucking personal questions at them like missile launchers.

Then there’s the College system which involves more levels of authority than a gang in a complicated urban movie which received four stars in The Independent. You hand your personal statement to a Guidance Leader who passes it on to a Programme Co-Ordinator who processes the application through a food blender before adding raspberries and olives, ending up back with you in a shitty mess, none the wiser about coming across like a well-educated, non-fuckwit to a prospective institution.

Despite being massively important, the personal statement is limited to 47 lines, which seems a little unfair. I have no idea how to appear like a well-rounded individual in just 47 lines. How am I supposed to represent what University admission tutors wish to see in the space of a few hundred words? I was gearing up to hand in a three-part full-colour booklet complete with photographs of life achievements and written tributes from friends and relatives, all gushing about how any university would be stark raving crazy not to accept me.

The only way I reckon I could get across the thrust of my message within such a short word count is by threatening the Admissions Tutor. “Give me a place at your University. I know where you live”. I’d be sure to get a place.

As part of the cyber form-filling I had to e-mail all my previous schools and colleges to get detailed information about my exams. Despite it being patently obvious that none of the evidence really matters, every student receives their application back at least once a fortnight complete with scribbled notes from tutors, who scour the applications mercilessly for slip ups.

Should I encounter a problem too pressing to be dealt with on my own, people are paid full-time to help students with their application in the Career’s Office: an under-staffed, under-resourced room, covered in so much paperwork you have to tiptoe gingerly around it.

Despite the Career’s Office’s pivotal role in the application process, its staff are rarely even present, either taking ridiculously long lunch breaks or coming down with Avian Flu at the least helpful time. I walked past the room earlier in the week and saw a massive queue of frantic students standing outside, waiting for an appointment and thinking the world will end if their application isn’t sent through properly. Meanwhile, in the disorganised office, a solitary, harassed member of staff looked like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Personally, if I was a Career’s Adviser I would tell the orgainser of this awful mess not to consider a career in organising a Career’s Office.

Only when you have completed every section of the application form correctly and it has been vetted repeatedly for mistakes, do you find it costs £19 – a bit rich for a process that should reimburse me for the man hours I spent tracking down pointless information.

Despite all the faffing around and numerous trees that have been felled in my name just so I can print another copy of my GCSE results, it looks like I’m off to Sussex next year to study English Language, which sounds unenentertaining, and probably is. Compared to some of the courses offered by universities these days, English Language was always bound to finish low in the entertainment stakes. According to the UCAS website, there are courses in Yacht Design and Circus Studies, which is kind of ironic considering the shambles of a Career’s Office I’ve had to put up with.

At least if I did Circus Studies, I would know where I could get a work experience placement.

Labour love letter

After joining the Labour party last week (don’t laugh please, there are enough reasons to hate me without despising my political allegiances as well), I was told I would be contacted very soon regarding campaigning and be gently encouraged to become an activist for the party.

Labour certainly made it easy for me to join. They offered cut-price membership to students for the princely sum of one pound, although the amount of mail I receive from them indicates they are running at a substantial loss to subsidise my involvement. That’s right; I’m draining the Labour party of resources. If you wish to minimise Labour’s chance of re-election get all the students you know to join the party. They won’t have a pot to piss in by next year!

Despite the party’s apparent good intentions, theirs is a pointless, bothersome cause. The electorate have decided it’s time to rid ourselves of Gordon Brown and put in charge a man who looks as sincere as his own waxwork in Madam Tusaud’s.

Today I received an e-mail from Labour HQ (written by Brown himself) beginning “You, I and President Obama”. What a way to start a letter! If one sentence is ever going to make a sleepy party member prick up their ears and read on, that’s likely to be it.

Despite the initial warm feeling that I was being personally addressed by two of the most powerful people in the world, am I really supposed to believe that Gordon Brown, as well as saving the world with his bank bailout plans, has taken time out of his busy schedule to write me a letter and send it to my inbox?

I suspect this personal address wasn’t written by the PM in America. More like a long-haired party activist in London, softening the harsh reality that we’re going to lose the next election with elegant rhetoric and fist-pumping togetherness. This doesn’t stop the conning gits trying to make it sound like the words are dripping on to the page from the disheveled Scot’s own biro; “when I grew up in the 1960s” being a choice line.

Maybe opinion polls are banned in Labour offices. Could it be they still think Brown is seen by voters as a strong and economically competent leader as they did back in the glory days on 2007? This would match what the Republicans did in the 2008 Presidential election, as gathered supporters weren’t given the results of states that went Democrat, leading to a cheering ovation because they won… Texas! Holy shit, that was out of the blue, wasn’t it? Texas is definitely a swing state!

My Yahoo spam filter usually performs a sterling job but it doesn’t always work, as the filter regards e-mails from important people like Hazel Blears, Jacqui Smith, Ed Balls and David Milliband as “spam” alongside penis enlargement kits and sex tips from strangers.

Could it be that Yahoo has a biased filter system so the correspondence between party representatives and members isn’t seen on the scale it should be? Could Yahoo have been infiltrated by the Tory machine?

On the plus side, I don’t have to see the latest written diarrhoea from Jack Straw. Aside from cheerful updates penned by Cabinet Ministers, the only other e-mails from Labour are dedicated to raising more money for the party. In the manner of children’s charities in Africa, the Regional Chairman says things like: “Just £15 can let the candidate in Morley print 600 leaflets, which will fight the ravages of a Tory government”.

Of course, supporting Labour can be a tough task, especially when they announce policies which seem to have been made up on the hoof just to make it look like the party still has creative muscles to rip. For instance, this week, Labour’s Education Minister announced plans to shake up the curriculum and make it more relevant to today’s technological age.

One of the ideas mooted is to give kids more lessons about important websites like Twitter and Wikipedia and disregard projects like the Victorians and World War II. This won’t make much difference as getting illiterate idiots to make up rubbish on Wikipedia would be no different to the mechanisms of the crowd-sourcing website today.

But education has never been about relevancy, otherwise there would be cider-tasting classes in the West Country. Liverpudlian kids would receive tutelage about how to remove the four wheels from a Renault Clio without setting off the car alarm. Middle-class children from the Home Counties would be given lessons on how to ask for the bill at a posh restaurant without drawing attention.

There is a place for pragmatism. Education is not it.

University Challenged

Oh dear. The BBC lurches from one pantomime of embarrassment to another. It forces a ridiculous domination on petty stories which barely require a response yet allows genuine issues to continue at the corporation, like the expenses of top directors or the phone contracts drawn up by the corporation, which despite costing billions, has failed to deliver a system that works.

The expenses issue is worth discussing for a moment, especially as the Beeb went after MPs who rigged their allowances like King Kong on heat. On top of very generous basic pay packages the corporation’s top executives have claimed £350,000 in expenses in the past five years, which Mark Thompson, BBC Director-General defended as “reasonable and justified”.

The money wasn’t just spent on travel or activities occurred in the line of business either. Anyone who is able to claim magnums of vintage champagne on your own company’s tab will take up the chance with relish. This is what the Beeb should be sorting out, not pathetic non-stories which it takes more time addressing.

Take the University Challenge quiz storm as a case in point. The controversy centres around one of four winning members of Oxford Corpus Christi’s team, Sam Kay, who wasn’t eligible for the competition as he wasn’t a student at the University during recording.

On Oxford’s behalf there is an element of stupidity surrounding this. It’s called University Challenge so it does not take an NVQ in Golf Studies to work out you need to attend University to play legally. After all, the competitor went to world-leading Oxford not a Burger King-turned polytechnic so he should have flagged his illegal participation sooner.

Despite Kay’s mindlessness there was no clamour for heavy handed sanctions. Indeed, the losing side from Manchester had already told reporters “the best team won”, perhaps because they were too busy for a Tuesday night replay and the threat of extra time and penalties.

But did the big knobs take heed and simply make sure it happens no longer, apologise and tighten the application process for next year’s competition? No. They rush out a ban on the winning side quicker than you can say “I’m going to have to hurry you” and the world is left to cock a weary eyebrow in distain at the BBC’s clumsiness.

Today things worsened. Under the “Breaking News” section on the BBC website some light journalistic inquiries – forget Gaza, forget Sudan, forget the melting ice caps – have revealed that a previous winning team also fielded an ineligible candidate. What a to-do!

Don’t be surprised when three men in overalls leave Broadcasting House to arrest the offending player as a symbol of how seriously the BBC takes University Challenge. I find it amusing how self-critical Auntie has become; their own story on their own website about their own incompetence calls the furore an “embarrassment”. Talk about feeding the hand that bites you.

University Challenge may not be on the same level of national importance as the Magna Carta or a chicken biryani at the local Indian Star but it’s something wretchedly British. Where else could you find stuffy, well-spoken, bespectacled students wearing cotton being barked at by a bloke whose hair is becoming more heavy-metal by the day? Paxman’s only a few guitar lessons away from joining one of those ancient hard rock bands that are still touring against all odds.

I can’t see many other countries embracing the concept. America might, but only if the participants are all topless or the wrong answer to the question “What is the atomic number of Zinc?” is met with a contestant being dropped in a vat of boiling lava.

There was a contestant for Oxford’s side who was rather pretty (for a dweeb). Gail Tremble, who won nearly all the points in her team’s 275-190 victory, is now being sought after by Nuts magazine, who want her to pose for the men’s rag. She swiftly declined in a BBC Breakfast interview.

“Would you believe it, my brother received a Facebook message from Nuts yesterday saying: ‘Can we have your sister’s email address, we want her to do a tasteful shoot’. So of course he sent them an answer saying: ‘Seriously mate, would you give your sister’s contact details to Nuts?’”

Gail Tremble shows us all how to act with at least a little class. Or a damn sight more than the BBC and Nuts magazine.

Fox News… it does

Fox News, the only American news network given prominence on Sky, is basically a Republican springboard for some of the most right-wing bile ever sanctioned for public consumption. It celebrated Barrack Obama’s election victory for thirteen seconds before returning to hating anything remotely liberal and being a bastion of tanned-to-the-extreme sensationalist presenters broadcasting their dribble to millions.

I’d heard Fox News was worryingly popular so I had to see what all the fuss was about. The first time I switched over, shock-jock Bill O’Reilly was boasting about his viewing figures to prove he rides the airwaves like a frisky Seabiscuit.

Though never said explicitly the message pushed by Fox News is that the Republicans are the best thing since sliced bread. Somehow the channel calls itself “fair and balanced” which is like saying the fair and balanced view of Britain’s Muslim community comes from the mad beardy bloke with a hook who goes around advocating the blowing up of Britons in the name of his religion.

The presenters, unlike in Britain, are allowed their own opinion on events, which takes a bit of getting used to. It would seem entirely inappropriate for BBC newsreader Hugh Edwards to say in his monolithic Welsh bass-line: “In other news, Gordon Brown is the biggest prick in history. And now it’s over to Kirsty with the weather”.

We wouldn’t want reporters to have opinions either. It’s somewhat reassuring to see news events portrayed reasonably fairly. On Sunday, Fox & Friends were frying items as part of a special cookery programme (although I can’t see that one catching on in Britain either: “When she returns from reporting in Tel-Aviv, Nina Nannar will show us how to make a chocolate soufflé”).

They asked their viewers in a poll what they wanted to see fried. This resulted in the showcase of Obama’s lengthy spending plans. Then, in a moment that made me wince quicker than the scene from ‘Snakes On A Plane’ where an anaconda bites a guy’s cock off, the Bill was covered in batter and flour, placed on a tray and deep-fat-fried. As the document emerged covered in bubbles of fat, one presenter bit off a piece. He was ingesting Barack Obama’s world-saving thingy!

We know the world has gone to pot when Kate Silverton, in between showing us the best way to make a lemon meringue and updating us on the number of people killed in the latest Pakistan terror attack, pauses to deep fat fry the Hutton inquiry and wolf it down in one sitting.

The channel’s internet forum is just as entertaining. Miss California was apparently faulted at a beauty pageant for answering a question about gay marriage by saying “I think that I believe that a marriage should be between a man and a woman”. This alleged news item (“woman loses beauty pageant”) was let loose on the Fox Forum, where Neanderthal douche bags with one thing in common – ignorance – piled in to the debate.

Jim says “She will elevated by the ONE who really matters. The people who made this error in judgement will pay the price for it. God takes care of His own. God bless Miss California!” But come on! Is Miss America now the standard bearer for middle America? It’s the campest thing on television this side of Louis Spence’s wardrobe. Ryan agrees with the haters though, sending the enemy to eternal damnation “because the gays will not enter the Kingdom of Heaven”.

A poster by the name of Nilesh is sorting it all out: “Of all the sites I have looked at so far, this has to be by far the best site that approached the topic in a fair and balanced way (literally)”. Yeah, if fair and balanced means agreeing with your own nauseating opinion.

Neil Cavuto, a croaky-voiced presenter on the network, took things to a previously unseen level a few days ago, even for Fox News. “Do read it, you’ll like it. I’m not suggesting they’re the same but it truly is frightening to note the similarities”. He was discussing Obama and his trillion dollar bail-out plan which has caused more discomfort in the Republican Party than having to floss with a tramp’s pubic hair. Which modern great was Obama being compared to? Winston Churchill? Franklin D. Roosevelt? Nelson Mandela?

No. The book was entitled ‘Lenin, Stalin & Hitler’, covered in red (presumably to denote communism) and was being brandished on screen to the unsuspecting viewer, now thinking Barack Obama is a 21st  Century dictator.

In true Fox News spirit I’m going off to get the “fair and balanced” opinion of Nazi Germany from Bishop Richard Williamson, a Catholic priest in Argentina who denies the Holocaust. Ciao.

Chocolate-scented Lynx

There’s something slightly unnerving about being given deodorant for Christmas, mainly because it says “I couldn’t be bothered to get you a proper gift, so I just picked up the first thing I saw in Boots on a 3 for 2 offer”. Plus it could cause serious embarrassment if they’re buying it because you stink.

A recent advert for the much-publicised Lynx Chocolate included a chocolate man waiting for a bus. A gorgeous woman eyes him up, before biting his arse off. Aside from taking visual eroticism beyond Flake advert territory, it also compounds a feeling that a good deodorant equals amazing sex with good-looking girls. Look! She’s biting his arse! It must be the deoderant that made him desperately shaggable!

I could lather myself in all the romantic scents in the world, but when I stutter quicker than a flying bullet when talking to anything with breasts, I fear nothing can help me. I could be covered in the smell of sweet love itself and still be as appealing to the fairer sex as a cross between the Hunchback of Notre Dame and Richard Griffiths. As part of the gift, there was a variety of small test size deodorants to try, including the hilariously named ‘Focus’, carrying the strap line “so you can focus on her”. Not only does the image of stalking come to mind, but what on earth does ‘focus’ smell like?

It’s like calling a product ‘Africa’ or ‘Winter’; totally abstract themes condensed into a pressurised container and given a name which has nothing whatsoever in common with the subject matter. Does the ‘Africa’ fragrance smell of a busy Moroccan market? Does the ‘Winter’ fragrance smell of snowmen, ground frost and children speeding down hills in spontaneously-made sleighs made of three bin bags and a mile of tape?

After recovering from being given such a thoughtless gift for the yuletide celebrations, I am amazed that such buffoonery can be applied to a commercial product and still be hugely successful. If a product with an embarrassing name like ‘Focus’ isn’t bad enough, there are the ads which make the multiple murders in a small country village during one feature-length episode of Midsomer Murders appear entirely believable.

I remember one where a guy applied the product in question and the women beside him kissed his armpit to signify its purity and ability to capture women, trance-like, leading them into the paths of obsession.

It’s tragic bollocks of the highest order. Since when were armpits sexy? Have you seen any Dear Deidre replies that include advice like: “And if things are getting boring in the bedroom, why not dress up in costumes or use sex toys? Failing that, you could always use your armpits a bit more”.

Try sitting beside someone on public transport doused head to toe in the stuff. It becomes impossible to breathe and swallowing turns into an agonising task, as the taste of stale spray dances on your tongues for hours.

What on earth is running through these people’s minds when they wake up in the morning, look in the mirror and decide that an entire canister of deoderant is the only way to make them more confident with the opposite sex? It’s not a good policy, as making the person you’re trying to impress retch is probably not the quickest route into their pants.

Value brands in supermarkets have also cottoned on to this deplorable strategy, offering a wide selection of fragrances to the masses, but with much less salubrious names than the big players. None of them have a distinguishing smell. The only difference is the packaging in differing shades of pastel blue.

There appears to be a group of oblivious and frankly desperate teenagers, who actually think applying Lynx can make a difference in pursuit of the girl they fancy. But is there reasoning in their madness? Take a quick look at any romantic film from the past thirty years and I guarantee that deodorant isn’t responsible for anybody getting off with each other. For there to be any whiff of lust, there must be heroic sacrifices from the lead role, an act of huge generosity, the overcoming of evil or an accession into power before any woman conceives even the slightest possibility of shagging a bloke.

I’m still waiting for a film (which will probably be British – we specialise in rubbish plot ideas) where the lead role wins over the girl of his dreams by using Lynx Chocolate, leading her to run into his waiting arms, indulging in the first kiss of many as the empty container is left lying upon the floor, a vestige of the sacrifice made for the on-screen relationship to blossom.

I want the leading role. And for the sexually suggestive ad campaign for Lynx Chocolate to come true.

Comedy picks up pieces

The current groundswell of hatred felt towards money-grabbing gargantuan bonus receiving, economy destroying executives at banks, which have been massively to blame for this worst recession in decades, is a satirist’s dream. For anyone with any part to play in taking the piss out of society in an intelligent way it must mean Christmas has come early.

Comedians should organise a special benefit for the people who have dragged us into the financial abyss, with all the proceeds going towards Sir Fred Goodwin’s pension. One can only imagine what kind of innuendo Rory Bremner can get from rhyming “banker” with “wanker”. With his uncanny ability to stretch concepts thinly, he could probably do an entire series on it.

The news that banks have been the primary cause of this gigantic economic cock-up of the highest order should mean the rise of leftist progressive politics. Considering we have proof that big businesses have left the entire nation eating beans from cans because we can’t afford a tin opener, it should create a new wave of support for wealth redistribution, with revolutionary marches gaining footholds in the suburbs and subscriptions to Socialist Review shooting through the roof. Respectable men from think-tanks should be appearing on Newsnight Review to reappraise Marxism. Donkey jackets and badges which say things like “Historians against the bomb” should be the height of fashion once more. For various, distressing reasons it appears we are going in the opposite direction.

That’s right ladies and gentleman; your next Prime Minister is David Cameron, the snotty-nosed, runny-eyed twerp who heads the Tories and has done so since 2005 when Michael Howard was deemed by the electorate to be second best to Tony Blair: a feat only the Tories could achieve.

Most puzzlingly he will be a Conservative leader taking the fight to useless banks and rogue free-marketeers, which is a bit like putting an armed robber in charge of a jewelry shop while you whip out for a quick cigarette. A large percentage of Tory donors, friends, colleagues, husbands and wives belong to a different social class than the average person.

The suave men and women who align themselves with the Conservatives and give them blank cheques to win elections shoot pheasants for entertainment and consider a butler and a live-in childminder a necessity. How any Conservative leader could sustain an attack on the bankers while keeping them and their associates sweet under the table, as is necessary to do with upper-class networking, must remain a substantial worry for Cameron.

In all likelihood we will come through this recession intact, momentarily obey the calls for thriftiness and restraint, before forgetting all about it and spunking 2000% of our salary on a car that featured in a James Bond film or a piece of Damien Hurst conceptual art featuring his earlobe and gallons of honey. When our households are once more heaving under the weight of unneeded goods foisted upon us by salesmen working for hefty commissions, we will wait for the next recession to poke its unwanted nose into the room and spoil the party.

The drain on public money by feckless banks will almost certainly lead to massive public service cuts or tax increases despite the fact the bail-out was intended to save the super-rich. However, no matter how much the bankers try and look genuine in their attempts at reform or how many platitudes they sprinkle on the public looking for answers, they still manage to appear gratingly self-satisfied. I suppose it’s easy when you know you have a seven-figure bonus waiting for you at home.

Another thing that puzzles me is how much our government appears to pay attention to the ‘markets’. News reports say things like “Markets reacted badly to Alistair Darling’s proposed quantitative easing”, which makes me wonder why stallholders selling fruit and veg on Portobello Road are being given the right to determine Britain’s economic issues, when we have enough ill informed loudmouths in the Cabinet as it is.

There will no doubt be enormous repercussions of the current malaise in which all it seems the banking class wants to do is swindle their employers – now the taxpayer in the case of RBS which is 84% owned by the government, and the fully nationalised Northern Rock – out of as much money as possible in redundancy pay before pissing off to a tax haven in Liechtenstein, lighting Cuban cigars with £50 notes and using boxes of Ferrero Rochers as footstalls.

Rory Bremner is no doubt perfecting his Sir Fred Goodwin impression right now, holed up in a dingy Channel 4 studio, ready for a ripe bollocking of “Fred the Shred”. Go Rory!