Swansong
Here endeth the flight of Margarita

When things come to an end, one's mind necessarily drifts back to what they were like in the beginning: scenes of yesteryear and half remembered snatches of bygone times float dreamily before the mind's eye.

Apt therefore, that the last post of the BBF is covering a Question Time in which the panel resembled a 1980s disco reunion. And contained Janet Street-Porter. Nuff said.

Frankly, it was a crap QT...you know what it's like: it's the beginning of the season and the players are out of shape, the crowd are lolling around. The mood is not improved when Dimbers (in Ultimate Bumble mode) announces that - under pressure from viewers who have written in to say that the comments from the panel make them want to throw things at the screen (the panel?) - the powers-that-be have decided that there is to be a Question Time Extra on BBC389422309 immediately after the main show.

Superb.

Cheers Dimbers, but if I'm allowed a choice between that and the second worse-case scenario, I reckon I'll be removing my testicles with a rusty spoon, thanks all the same.

Anyway, we kick off with John Redwood on (predictably) Northern Rock; his strangled attempt to explain how it's EXCLUSIVELY Gordon's fault reminds us precisely why the British public decided that this lot weren't to be trusted in charge of the paperclip budget let alone anything else.

Janet, resplendent in a new wig, weighs in with, "gorblimeyguvnorinniteeehallllhahahaha."

Either the audience understands the ancient language of Street-Porter or they just assume she Said Something Nasty about the Government: honking and clapping ensues. Geoff Hoon attempts to make wider point about the impact of the global market on domestic economic matters, but Janet's had enough of it: "achhhisavemyooohmoneyinnit!" Quite right.

We move on to Thatch's visit to Downing Street. The question is posed by a lady of advanced years and Dimbers makes a crack about "getting down and dirty," with her, although the Shawcross ears contrived to shut out the worst of it for fear of the consequent nightmares.

Redwoood, who is muttering "betrayer, terrible, revenge soon take out everyone" at the memory of Brown fondling Maggie through the front door of Number 10, comes to long enough to claim he's glad they had a nice tea party. Like, whatever.

Up next is the inevitable student who squeaks that there is no difference between Brown and Thatcher, that they are one and the same. Yeah. Proof, if e'er further proof were needed that our universities are the laughing stock of the world. Dimbers moves on to whether there will be a general election this autumn, and Hoon has to give his answer four times whilst Dimbleby stares at him blankly. Seriously, I thought Buff was going to have to get out the hand-puppets at one point. "This is Mr Prime Minister, and this is Mr Opposition Leader and when they hate each other very, very much..."

Janet takes advantage of the confusion to make use of the £1.95 she pays whatever intern writes her jokes and cracks a jibe about Sarah Brown's hair. Irrespective of what this has to do with the price of fish, people in glasshouses just shouldn't, Wiggy.

Then it descends into the predictable insania when the abuses in Zimbabwe are brought up. The audience is simultaneously against intervention in Iraq (natch) but, er, pro bombing the shite out of Zimbabwe. WTF? Hoon - in a noble attempt to stop the audience grabbing their torches and pitchforks and getting NUCLEAR on Mugabe's ass, reminds us that Brown is refusing to attend the Portugal meeting if the Zimbabwe leader's there. Wooooah, dude. What's next on the Labour agenda? Banning Mugabe from Facebook?

Janet: distinguishedlunchloadsajournosIwastherefudgedanswernooodialogueagrheawfhsej!

We conclude on the subject of whether Ming's too old for office. Some young pup who looks about fifteen gives his view on the matter which nobody listens to because the cameraman has zoomed in on the bazongas of the fruity bit sitting next to him. Janet attempts a strangled analogy, likening Ming to tapioca, frozen peas, and...er...custard. No, me neither - Lord knows what she was on about but I'll tell you this: her farts must be DISTRESSING. Pack her off to Zimababwe and Mugabe'll be gassed into surrender. Sorted.

A rather lame one to finish, I'm afraid.

Well, that's it. The end.

EXEUNT OMNES