He receives comfort like cold porridge.

Bazza, Bazza, Bazza…

What to say? At least before I was forced to listen to Barry Tempest I didn’t know who Amnesty International were, now, I just don’t want to know who they are. Yes, I’m sure he means well, he probably cares deeply about helping someone, anyone. But I just can’t see how this little man from middle England and his middle to old ages friends can possibly even think that they’re making a difference in these barbaric countries he claims to know so much about.

Amnesty claim to be this massive, international company that works day and night for the welfare of those less fortunate than us, those living in countries with oppressive regimes. These stamp collecting, Tupperware partying, plaid wearers are taking time out of watering the geraniums to do something helpful and worthwhile for the little fellows. We’’ be there to write a letter of complaint, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll write another letter of complaint. And I’ll keep doing until you become just so darn sick of me writing you letters in a language you don’t understand you’ll let the poor sod go.

That’s the British way to do things, asking politely gets you everywhere, and if someone loud and obnoxious comes into the room, what will we do? We’ll pretend we can’t see them, then whisper about them behind their backs, perhaps even writing a letter or two to Terry Wogan about it.

Amnesty have turned politics into a world wide Points Of View. They’d better be really careful, otherwise we might start queuing.