There now remain 5½ weeks until 1 May and the–cue flourish of trumpets, tympani, and serried ranks of harmonious seraphim–London Mayoral Election, when we will finally be relieved from the grinding tedium and general misery of discussion about which arsehole should or will (and should not or will not) be elected King of Londinivm for the next four years, a post of no particular concern to 52 million Britons resident outwith the Kingdom of Londinivm, and of least concern to the 20-odd million of us who live in the Republic of Prydain and the Melton-Mowbray Enclave. In fact, if a massive tidal surge swept it all away, we would mutter blandishments about the unfortunate nature of events, but aside from that would have nothing to offer, as anything of use to the South has long since been stripped, loaded on truck or train and removed, and what remains–where administratively possible–has been closed down, boarded up and left to rust. Those whom Providence has trapped in the Kingdom should not bother themselves to pause from their daily business of throwing Lion bars at one another. Without exception, candidates for the post of mayor would be better employed in an abattoir, scaring pigs to death–don’t vote … and don’t vote often.