Three minutes after ten is the time. It's Friday already. I don't know how this week has unfolded for you, but goodness me, I now understand if I didn't already, and between you and me, I did, why the Chinese say, may you live in interesting times as a curse.

When I was a younger man, wet behind the ears, callow, idealistic, untainted by the cynicism of maturity.

I used to think it was like a good luck thing.

I used to think it was, may you live in interesting times.

Oh, thanks, mate.

Yeah, I'd love to live in interesting times.

Nah.

Nope, no, no, no, no, no.

Give me dull times.

Give me sunshine.

Give me uninteresting times, any

day of the week. And what did I say to you

yesterday? As if to prove the point that we would

barely have finished ranting and raving about the

absurdity of a board of peace,

populated by war criminals and genocide

apologists, and then the next thing would come along that we were going to get angry about, animated by, and we'd start talking about that as well. But you have to. I realize this. You absolutely have to. You can't stop. If you stop, it becomes even more normalized than it is already. In this country now,

I do you know, I have resisted the urge to turn to our favourite unhinged columnist this morning

because I can't wait to see, I thought I'd do it live with you. We'll open up the Daily Mail

and see what Dick Little John has to say about Donald Trump, essentially dancing on the graves of our war dead.

Because as his biggest cheerleader in the UK media, presumably this is the moment that he

acknowledges the gravity of his error. Because right-wing colonists, like nothing more, and indeed

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