Blind Man's Buff

I've been meaning to write an impressively closely-argued piece about why politicians' private lives are sometimes relevant to their public role. I may yet do this so don't say you weren't warned.
But the one revelation in the Blunkett affair that I can't get out of my head is that Kimberley Fortier used to tease Blunkett by pretending to be a tall blond rather than a petite brunette.
It had never occurred to me that you could have this kind of fun with a blind person. And did the high-spirited Mrs Fortier try any other little leg-pulls on the Home Secretary - like inviting him to supper, giving him Pedigree Chum and saying it was Chile Con Carne? Of course, in pretending to be a tall blond she was only doing what people have been doing on the internet for years. Chubby middle aged men who live with their mother in Croydon have swaggered through cyberspace as 25 year old sex gods who live in a Manhattan penthouse. Dating a blind person could mean you never get found out.

There is a serious point here though about whether consenting adults in private are entitled to make jokes about their own or their partner's disabilities. I'd say they definitely are. And it's difficult to deny that the one person allowed to use the term 'cripple' is someone who is themselves what we can no longer call a 'cripple' - and I've met several who do. Similarly, some gay activists have reclaimed the word 'queer'. But this raises an interesting question if you have a law that criminalises homophobic abuse, as the French are about to do. Could a gay man who wore a T shirt saying 'Queer And Proud' be prosecuted for homophobic abuse against himself? I've no idea but in the unlikely event that any froggy - sorry, French, - legal experts read this blog, please feel free to comment. And while you're here, why have Frenchmen in berets stopped cycling through middle England selling strings of onions? We do miss them.

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Apparently there's outrage in some sections of the press that Becks and Posh are Joseph and Mary in Madame Tussaud's Nativity Scene. I'd have thought this was quite a PR coup for the Christians and they didn't even have to shell out for a multi-million sponsorship deal. Let's face it, carpenter David coming round to put up a few bookshelves would be the answer to a lot of people's prayers. And nobody thinks it sacriligious for all the snotty-nosed little Sharons and Kevins across the land to be posing as God's Mum and Dad with Sainsbury's tea towels on their heads.

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Over breakfast, Carlo was telling me how a huge Christmas tree used to be installed in the hall of the embassy in Manila. On Christmas Eve the staff were given a glass of punch and handed their presents which had been placed around the tree.
This is just the sort of sentimental nonsense that Sandy Mannington-Preen would revel in. Carlo had told me the same story last December - and November, October and September. Eventually I had allowed him to put a small plastic tree in the kitchen but refused to countenance any 'parols' in the house - star-shaped lanterns with candles inside - on the grounds that they were a fire hazard.
This year he is making a fresh bid for the parols, saying that with Lee now unemployed he could help Carlo to make and install them. I replied that I am not operating a job creation scheme for unemployed youth nor remedial therapy for the intellectually challenged and under no circumstances will Lupin Towers be made to resemble the Arndale Centre in Luton.
"Anak ng puta mo", muttered Carlo as he served my boiled egg.
I wrote this down on the back of The Guardian and will email Sandy to ask what it means. I don't want any unpleasantness as we enter the season of goodwill but too much Mr Nice Guy and the domestic staff start cursing you in foreign tongues over breakfast. It is totally unacceptable. And he forgot my bread and butter soldiers.

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Next, in the soap that congeals in your detergent compartment: Lee's Mum does me a big favour.