It is three minutes after ten. I think I got my Ronnie's the wrong way around last week.

I think that it was Ronnie Corbett in the chair and Ronnie Barker asking the questions.

But there's that famous mastermind sketch where somehow you're answering the question that was asked before

and the answers render the question that's just been asked, doubly hilarious.

I've got my own version of that today.

The first text to arrive in my inbox this morning.

Four minutes after ten has got the two Ronnie's written all over it.

It goes, lulls, I'm not going to read the one that came previously.

It simply says, lulls, sorry, just realized I'm listening to yesterday's show.

If you were really in the mood for some mischief,

you could send me texts that were responding to yesterday's show,

but could be construed as responding to today's show in a completely comical or surreal way.

But we are not Ronnie Barker,

so it's highly unlikely that we would be able

to cobble together comedy of that quality. Four minutes after 10 is the time. I knew this

was going to happen. I told you it was going to happen. If there was any doubt in our minds

whatsoever that it was going to happen, that doubt disappeared yesterday.

But the people for whom we need a slightly better name or nickname now are doing what, I suppose, their moral and intellectual bankruptcy demanded that they had to do.

They are now pretending that the war they

wanted and the war they attacked Kirstama for not joining and the war that they welcomed gleefully

because their hero, Donald Trump, whose racism, misogyny and climate change denial are like

intravenous drips to what passes for their brain is going disastrously.

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