The war on colour

So, what did people make of last night's Sextator expose (cutting-edge current affairs broadcast, surely? - ed) on BBC 2? It was impossible not to squirm at the cringe-making sycophancy by some while the queue to heap misery on Conrad Black's misfortune was longer than an, erm, very long queue. The one point that did come across strongly however, for all the schadenfreude and cash-in intentions of the programme makers, was the fact that at least the Spectator gets talked about -- I mean, when was the last time anyone had something to say about the New Statesman, other than it's rather trudging and employs John Pilger to write the same article every week?

This, I fear, is somewhat emblematic of the left's slide into the dour comfort of technocracy. At the last General Election, all the stops were pulled out to find a safe seat for this bland technocrat (who probably couldn't tell you the price of milk but could name the EU directive governing it) while this poor woman gets short shrift before the first hurdle. In an era when most teenagers think Winston Churchill is a nodding-dog that sells car insurance, the left will only be the poorer for its inability to tolerate difference among its own ranks.