The near compulsory public tribute offered to the former prime minister who died three days ago - hyper ventilating press (Usual suspects. No surprises) and the forced recall of parliament for what must have been a buttock numbing seven or so hours for the non believers wearily listening to the cult members effusions - has put the UK shoulder to shoulder with the other country dominating the media sphere. North Korea. Brothers in arms when it comes to hot torrents of strident rhetoric

We have in the space of a few days become the unwilling participants in a cheesy, grisly personality cult. Thank God, I'm out of the country when this tawdry spectacle reaches it's apogee.

If the Tories start busing public servants in and coercing them to publicly weep a la Kim Jung Il then we are a truly pantomime country. They've already tried, but excused it away as a genuine mistake to get Whitehall staff to wear mourning clothes.

It seems that Cameron has no depth to which he won't plumb. Everything up to celebrate the passage of a former PM who left only division and despair in their wake. A scorched earth, put all prisoners to the sword raison d'être that many of us living through those times frantically hoped was an aberration never to be repeated. In the same passionate way probably as medieval monks must have prayed for deliverance from the Norsemen.

 Just that even though that rotten baton slipped out of one Tory hand it has been inelegantly, but enthusiastically, plucked out of the long grass by the current incumbent and the wand of despair benights us once more. 

Again, and I simply have to say it: I am ecstatic I'll be abroad next Wednesday.