The V. I. Paedo case is growing, a rotting corpse in far too much make-up, slammed into a duck pond, ripples spreading out in all directions. Names bandied around in whispers on explode out of the dailies a year later. Saville at Chequers with the Thatchers’ other friends, Thatcher knew all along, half her cabinet were chicken-hawks, Cliff Richard and Jill Dando, the royal family’s connections to Saville…

It all goes round and round. The Grand Hotel – Brighton ’84. The IRA almost-but-not-quite “dear Mrs Thatcher, we only have to be lucky once. you have to be lucky always.” Twenty four hours earlier and there would have been a gaggle of rent boys, teenage and smashed and collateral damage.

Part of me, wondering just how the Murdoch papers could have spun that to the Grating Brutish Public. The rest of me’s wondering, can this shower of paedophiles, criminals and apologists be trusted to investigate their own? And, since we’ve already had a war, the Olympics and a royal wedding-and-baby and a party to celebrate her majesty’s sixty years on benefits, what have they left to distract us with now?

Whatever it is, it’ll need to be big and colorful. It can’t be a cure for cancer as they’ve already promised that Scottish independence has arsed that. And the new Bond film isn’t due til November.

The world thug soccer Cup failed to distract anyone for any length of time – most of the games were played by foreigners, some of whom actually won it. And destroyed, in the process, one of England’s traditional jingoistic football chants.

One day, a real rain will come…