CAN you remember when the late Jeremy Beadle used to play all manner of pranks on unsuspecting members of the public and would tease them into a farcical rage before emerging from the sidelines, peeling off his disguise and informing them it was just a jolly jape amid great guffaws of hysterical laughter and torrents of bleeped out profanities?
Well, I’m clinging to the hope that something similar is going to happen in the next few days and the utter nicompoopery of Truss, Kwarteng and that lot will be unveiled as a massive, Beadle-esque practical joke and we’ll all cackle and curse with relief before somebody, with at least more political competence than a woodlouse, rides to the rescue.
I don’t know about you, but every time I switch on the news and see the current motley crew waffling away, my eyes are tormented by the kind of ghoulish visions of foreboding that’s akin to a hallucinating Macbeth glimpsing the ghost of Banquo.
