Crunchie Credit, Balls to Downing Street and Nostradamus Skinner.

A friend once told me a story that made me simultaneously laugh until I shook, and also caused a lump to appear in my throat. ‘When I was at infant school’ she said, ‘We were asked our favourite colour. I chose orange, because no one else chose it, and I felt sorry for it’.

Liking stuff is a weird, inexact science. I was recently considering who I’d like to be the next Labour leader, and decided I liked Ed Balls* solely because he grew up in Nottingham. Second was Ed Milliband, because he was once on the same train as me. Third, McDonnell for his actual ideology and then Abbot and Burnham, with Older Miliband last just because hes an older brother, and they tend to be a bit power-crazed. I’m quite sad that the other Miliband, Steve, isn’t standing, but hes too busy being a Joker, a Smoker and a Midnight Toker to be entering any contests right now.

It is a bit worrying to think my criteria for who will most probably be our next PM is some tenuous association to Nottingham. It also explains my guilty fondness of Kenneth Clarke,. Now, before you form a mob and march up Marlborough Road to immolate the Tory, its nothing to do with his policies (although compared to Redwood and Duncan-Smyth he looks like George Galloway ) but because hes from Nottingham. And thats it. I’m worried this way of thinking must have its logical conclusion in having a crush on Nick Griffin if he came from Beeston. Well maybe not.

The problem is how I’ve tuned my perception  in such a manner I perpetually try and see the Nottingham/ Beeston in everything, so as to perpetuate my theory that the centre of the world is this humble bit of the East Midlands. I spent weeks convinced that Alisha Keys was singing ‘Now you’re in Newark’. When poor Gary Coleman died, I remember being dead proud two of the characters in Differen’ Strokes were named Arnold and Kimberley, both local towns.  I can find causes or catalysts in any event in history that have Beeston behind them. This summer, I promise to get out more.

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I like Dennis Skinner, and hes not from round here. See? I’m trying. I particularly like how he seemed to hint to the now departed David Laws that his days were numbered:

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My teetotalism continues earnestly, yet I now have a new indulgence to fill the hole that a  red wine ban has left. Crunchie Bars. The crack cocaine of chocolate. I’m totally in its grip, demolishing packs of them on an evening, thinking about them when I run out, Pavlovianly dribbling at their mere mention. I have a theory that the new American owners of Cadbury are putting something in them, something to get us hooked before they downgrade the chocolate to the insipid dusty American version. But I can’t stop. I will not be content till I have rolls of chocolate honeycom fat rolling out the bottom of my shirt. Please, I need help.

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Nick Palmer is having a party to say ta for helping out during the campaign, and to celebrate being our MP for 13 years, its on Friday at the Boat and Horses. Attendees are asked to bring some grub to make a buffet, and I’ve been trying to think what my contribution could be. It has to have a political theme, as topical as possible.  Any ideas very welcome, but nothing with truffle oil, caviar or swan breast please, I’m on a budget. However, feel free to go wild on the Crunchies.

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Oh my dear lord. While googling for a picture of Crunchies for the bit above,  I found this:
Its a mountain of Crunchies. A Crunchie Mountain. I have just had what I can only assume is a religious experience. I must go, I feel faint.

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*and not at all because hes named after near  interchangeable  body parts.