There's a town down the south of England somewhere (it might be in the north...it might even be in Scotland or Wales for all I know...this is what happens when I watch the telly after half a bottle of scotch...if you know the name of this place then you probably also know where the comments box is) where was I?

Oh yes...there's a town somewhere in Britain where, in celebration of Guy Fawkes Night, the locals have constructed a thirty-foot effigy of Edwina Curry to throw onto the pyre. It's nice to know the one-time Tory health secretary is now in the same league, as far the Brits are concerned, with other luminary guys such as Saddam and Hitler, who...if memory serves...have shared the same fate.

It's also pleasant to see that, despite the political scandal, the huge publicity, the revelations, the spin, the P.R. and the six-figure advance Eddy's autobiography has flopped big time. Less than two hundred copies sold. Even The Greyminster Chronicles sold more than that and nobody's ever heard of them. There is some hope left for the Great British public after all. Despite the Ulrika-mob it appears that two tired, ugly, grey old farts copulating behind the closed doors of Parliament just isn't interesting enough for the punters to part with £15.00 of their hard-earned money.

I'm optimistic that when Edwina goes up in flames tonight (hopefully with a smaller effigy of John Major inside it, Wicker Man style, screaming, "Killing me won't save your party...") then there'll be plenty of eggs fried on the smouldering remains as recommended by the 1987 Government Salmonella Act.

Happy Hallow Bonfire New Christmas Folks! (Well...it's all one never-ending commercial peer-group pressure fest at this time of year.)