Friday 2nd June 2017
Oh joy. Oh, joy. Oh, joy.
After a day of hearing people whine that Theresa May wasn't vehement enough over Donald Trump's-admittedly stupid-decision to pull out of the climate change agreement-I'm left wondering quite what more they wanted her to do. Fly over to the US and tie his hands together? Slam his head into the White House desk again and again, until he bounces like a Jack-In-The Box?-I'm quite looking forward to watching the evening debate.
Wonderfully, Ed Miliband, the man who seems to exist to pontificate about winning elections despite his main claim to fame being to spectacularly lose one, has crawled back onto the radio to contribute his own hot air to global warming. Blah-blah, weak-blah, blah, feeble-blah, blah, spineless-says the weak, spineless, feeble man who has no problem being weak, feeble or spineless when it comes to standing up to good ol' President Assad and stopping him butchering children. Better when it's all theoretical, it seems, for Edward, who, incidentally, is skipping his own son's eighth birthday to whine on the radio, which quite negates him stuttering sanctimoniously to himself, apparently one quavering note away from breaking into a plaintive rendition of "I Believe The Children Are Our Future."
He doesn't, by the way. Honestly, I genuinely believe, that if Ed Miliband came across any of my fellow Tory-supporting youth or I floundering in a flash flood caused by climate change, as long as it wouldn't cost him any votes to his party, he'd have no problem watching us drown in front of him.
But then there is the evening debate. And, oh, boy, it's been worth waiting for.
Corbyn's battered on defence, on security. On terrorism, on nuclear weapons. On costings, on national safety.
It's like watching a group of angry dogs waiting to sink their teeth into the piece of meat that's been dangled in front of their eyes tauntingly for several hours, spitting out mangled bits of trust and IRA as they crunch Corbyn's bones. We probably enjoy it a little too much.
On a serious note, this was exactly the moment Ed Miliband started to crumble further during the 2015 campaign-being smacked in the face with the reality that the money ain't going to turn up at the end of the rainbow.
And when he stumbled off the stage, of course. But then, that was just the cherry on top of the cake of disaster.
My father is reassured by the Corbyn Cataclysm but still, calls me over to his laptop later to point angrily at the YouGov poll. "What's this?" he demands. "These polls keep narrowing."
I have to tell him over and over again that the CCHQ contacts aren't worried and even threaten to get one of them on the phone. Finally, he's mollified. "Honestly" he says. "You keep telling me the Tories will win. I'll almost feel it's your fault if your guys lose."
Watching TV debates really shouldn't entail this sort of responsibility.