'huge, queer and tawdry' but 'much admired by the public'

So. Last night I saw Hugh Grant and Newsnight's Michael Crick at close range. The former does a proper Clark Kent act when not in public, such that you initially think 'That guy would look like Hugh Grant if he didn't have those rubbish glassesOMGIT'SHUGHBLOODYGRANT!' In other words, Lois Lane is still a bit of a dolt for taking so long to catch on. Michael Crick, on the other hand, looks exactly like Michael Crick. And I saw them because I was at the Labour History Group, where floor-crossing MP Shaun Woodward, veteran journalist Peter Kellner, and a man named Neil who confusingly used to mind Neil Kinnock, were talking about the 1992 election, and why John Major surprised everyone by winning it. Turns out the whole idea about Kinnock's unelectability is an after-the-fact myth, certainly not matching with what was believed within the Tories at the time, or the polls then - even if some of the life-long Labour members still thought, with hindsight, that it was at least in part a fair assessment. Instead, it was specific tactical mis-steps which undid Labour, particular moments of luck which boosted the Conservatives. And the feelings towards John Smith were, to put it mildly, not as nostalgic as I'd expected. But apart from the Hugh Hefner-like image of Robin Cook in his dressing gown on a train (because I've suffered it, so now you must all suffer it too), the main thing with which I came away was the general consensus that both Kinnock and Major were fundamentally decent men, who had a good deal of respect for each other. How alien and long-ago does that sound now?
This talk was, of course, by way of a 20th anniversary post-mortem, but was nonetheless handy in its proximity to perfectlyvague's rather good War of the Waleses, Which was officially summarised as "KDC's modern take on a Shakespearean history", though I would describe it more as a Shakespearean take on modern history. Not least in resisting the temptation to do recent politics as an impressions show* (sorry, Michael Sheen, but it has got tiresome). So 1992-7 is held up to the light and rotated, different facets seen - 'Honest John' Major becomes a tragic hero, Diana (not even blonde, but still perfect) recalls Oedipus at Colonus as she feels her mere humanity falling away, and the press magnate declaims and schemes with the earthy evil one expects of the classic malcontent. Not every character can be reinvented, of course - the horror of Blair is still too fresh for him to be played as anything but the loathsome shill he always was. If I go and see friends in plays, then it's because they're talented friends, yet still I don't expect to come away thinking more than 'that was promising, and scenes X and Y, or character Z, was very good'. But this, this was something properly special.

Otherwise: two front-room Edinburgh previews, Who is Nish Kumar? and Stu Goldsmith: Prick. Both good, but the latter more to my taste, not least because I was the audience target for the section on men's misconceptions about lesbians. The return of Black Plastic, now in a Dalston club which if it only had some dry ice would look like the nightspot from an eighties film, and which would seemingly rather you take in a 9/11 Truther sticker than chewing gum. The Melting Ice Caps back to the solo setting which suits David's songs best, and a new White Stripes-style live line-up for Philip Jeays. Plus shadow puppets from another act I suspect I wouldn't find terribly interesting without the shadow puppets.

*There was a Camilla Parker-Bowles lookalike, but she was only in the audience, so that's OK. Well, except maybe for her.

One of Lynne Featherstone's opponents in the election is now standing as an independent. He was meant to be standing for the Libertarian Party, but the party rules were getting in the way.

"And how could anyone expect him to solve the thing when half of everything seemed to be broken, and half of what was broken was still beautiful." I've finished the third book of Daniel Abraham's Long Price and even beyond my usual reluctance to plough straight through a series, I'm going to need a break, because that was quite the most harrowing thing I've read in a while*. It must have taken a deep and inhuman ingenuity to so brilliantly construct a series in which every character is sympathetic, and everyone loses. Each novel in the series is a little crueller - though no less beautiful - than the one before, and while this need not necessarily carry through to the last book, I don't think the title The Price of Spring bodes well. For the meantime I've embarked instead on Michael Chabon's essay collection Maps and Legends, which ties in rather well with BBC4's current maps season, treating the map as a general metaphor for a way of seeing rather than anything so simple as the route from yours to the shops. I wasn't too enamoured of Power, Plunder and Possession, the Sunday series which seems to rather milk these ideas, but the daily Beauty of Maps strand is excellent, and comes at a good time for me because when it's not the Indelicates on my headphones at the moment it's normally Swimmer One, and as they say - "When all of this is underwater these maps will be all that's left, so we should try to make these maps beautiful." But then, I find most maps beautiful, except the really crappy ones you get on venue websites and the like.

Good Bright Club last night, and I'm not just saying that because beforehand they gave me a burger and a pint in exchange for my opinions on proceedings (I mouth off on the Internet for free and yet you're still prepared to pay for my musings? Awesome). Could have done without the poor woman who was covering Brian Cox territory while, crucially and tragically, not being Brian Cox, but otherwise I enjoyed the speakers, and while Rufus Hound may not have had a great deal of sea-related material, he was extremely funny nonetheless. Plus he likes Garth Ennis, which is always a good sign.

*Albeit with the small problem - for a Londoner at least - that the capital of the looming Galtic empire is situated to the West and called Acton. It's hard to be scared of Acton.

I find it disgusting enough when Labour use the 'wasted vote' argument against anyone planning to do other than support the Red Tories/Blue Tories Punch & Judy show, what with Labour having themselves been a fringe party not so very long ago. But for the Lib Dems to start parroting it against voting for anyone smaller than themselves is just staggering. Between this and Nick Klegg, sorry, Clegg buying into the public sector cuts bidding war rather than asking the questions so many people now want asked about when the bankers will be giving our bloody money back, I'm increasingly wondering whether to bother voting Lib Dem next General Election after all. Except under Wee Charlie Kennedy (please come back, Charlie) it's seldom been so much that I actually like their policies as a case of "when faced with a choice of evils, I pick the one I've not tried yet" (good old Mae West). The more indistinguishable they become from the other two (still this obsession with chasing the centre ground, rather than offering voters anything like a real choice), the less that justification holds. Obviously at national level the Green manifesto normally has more holes than a fair-trade organic basket, but I'm still tempted to vote for them now out of sheer spite.

So I went to do my democratic duty by sitting in the park reading a so-so X-Men crossover - sorry, I mean by voting for whichever seemed like the least worst option in today's European elections, just by way of keeping the christians and the Nazis out. Went en route to signing on, round about school hometime; left extra time because I assumed a lot of mums would be there as part of the same trip, some with kids in tow, which always slows things down. And hey, even this close to the Andover Estate most mums are old enough to vote (I'm joking, of course - the Andover Estate has its own polling station).
There was precisely one other voter in there. And the ballot boxes looked worryingly reminiscent of shredders.

Londoners; when you vote for the Mayor on Thursday, please remember that this is not a first-past-the-post election. I've never liked the usual defeatist line about votes for third parties being wasted; here it simply isn't true, and anyone who says otherwise is either underinformed or has a covert agenda. Here's m'learned colleague's explanation of how the system works, but in summary: if you're just voting Ken To Stop Boris, or Boris To Stop Ken, then your second preference vote is perfectly adequate to that task. Give Brian Paddick a chance, or Sian Berry, with the first preference, if only to help erode the deeply unsatisfactory idea of the two party system; a little more each time and maybe next election, it could even be a real three way battle. Or four.
And no, I'm not saying this as part of some convoluted plan to get Boris in; it's just about really wanting Ken out. For his cronyism, appointing unqualified members of his old fringe socialist group to high power at our expense. For smearing Peter Tatchell when Tatchell dared to criticise one of Ken's fundamentalist associates. For endorsing the appalling George Galloway's bid for a London Assembly seat. For describing Boris as a "19th century liberal, with a small L", and yet somehow intending that great compliment as a criticism.
I voted for Ken last time, albeit with reservations; I still think he did a lot of good in his first term. But this last term, the balance has tipped. London is not his personal fiefdom, and I would like to see him reminded of that, at the very least by a shaky performance in the first round.