There was an article on the BBC news site last week about the most suitable theme song for next year's Olympics.

The laurel leaves were draped around the neck of the Clash's, "London Calling", after an excellent dissection of the same song's actual lyrics; gloomy, somewhat doom-ridden, and at the same time firmly of the period, which had, as with other powerful songs, had it's spiky edges rubbed down, smoothed the way a pebble is, and now no one hears any other line than Joe's throaty "London Calling at the break of the day..."

So it's the Clash on the winner's podium for that; then this evening, they were anointed by the on-line version of the New Yorker, for a further award: the easy to grab theme tune for the riots popping up all over London. Yep, "London Burning" It is and I don't like it.

London seems like it's out of control: shops plundered, opportunistic looting, buses torched, teens and pre-teens taking the streets over at will.

There's testosterone preening, violent male peacock feather flaring, "look at me, go on, look...see this". Silver back, alpha male behaviour. Understandable in a sense, but only in a sense; otherwise it's completely indefensible, unpalatable and it has to be reined in.

This turns neatly to the matter of where is everyone: Cameron still on his latest holiday; Johnson, reluctantly coming home early from his, and having to face for the first time the hard realities of being mayor. Can't run away from this, I'm afraid. Can't bumble and gurn through this. Be Ken. Be like he was after 7/7. An exemplar.

To cap it all, there's a leadership vacuum at the head of the Met due to Murdoch's suborning of the top layer of officers.

I feel like a passenger in a ship with no officers, the rudder's broken, and Somali pirates are scaling the sides.