Catching up with British news...

Bad news travels fast.

I was eating my breakfast in the sun this morning, agog at the latest news from Blighty.

Not only does the red-top brigade appear as a bunch of gutter scrounging rats, but the police, the military, health and prison officials also appear to have their souls up for sale.

Perhaps it’s all part of the global financial crisis and people will do anything for an extra quid. Maybe the so-called “corrupted network of officials” was just doing what it could to put bread on the table in hard times.

I don’t know whether to be disgusted or impressed.

The fact that public officials will reveal secrets is honourable, in the right circumstances. But there’s no worthy whistle blowing going on here, and that’s why loathing is rising out of us like molten lava.

Apparently money does make the world go round, having seen the reported compensation Charlotte Church received for having her phone hacked, it appears we’re solving a money-driven problem, with – you guessed it – more money.

I worry that we’ve lost sight of the tragedy. Britain, once a stronghold of brilliant journalism, is now a media laughing stock.

But it’s okay, because it’s still home of the stoical British spirit.

“In my day, when summat bad happened, you went home, got drunk, and bit on a shoe,” said Deirdre Barlow paraphrasing her late mother Blanche.

Between the tabloids, the public officials, and the tantrum throwing, over-paid, stomach churning footballers, you’re going to need the wardrobe of Imelda Marcos to get through.

I needed to snack on a leather one these last few days.

My mouth was stuffed full of loafers, stilettos, sandals, and peep-toes, and that was just to get me through the sickening over-coverage of the Oscars.

I’ll say this and I’ll say no more: All those Hollywood women, and not one normal arm amongst them.

I suspect the Academy Awards was infiltrated by bionic women with robotic arms. Not a bingo wing in sight. That was my take home message from the event, and I’m assuming that covers the key point.

All that aside, the bad stuff only came in the form of the weather report, where a young man dared to utter those obscene words “Summer is over folks”.

Well, why don’t you just bring on a great big boot to chow down on.

Kiwis haven’t yet come to terms with the fact this summer has not really revealed itself in its usual glory. They’re still waiting, sunscreen in hand, for their favourite season to arrive.

But the screaming New Zealand cicadas disagree.

The cicada “love song”, is the ultimate sound of summer, and it’s deafening. The roaring chirp, that’s drilling holes through my ears and subsequently my brain, is apparently the male cicada’s mating call. And they’re in full chorus. These rampant little boys are surrounding my house looking for lady cicadas and a good time.

I can only assume their predators are deaf.

In England we have the odd cricket making a gentle chirp; the boys over here are like the Gordon Ramsey of the insect world, big, rugged, and not at all refined.

But despite the ringing in my ears, I’ll miss them when they’re gone because then I’ll know summer really is over.

In the meantime, I’ve had a lot more Vitamin D coursing through my veins than you get in your average Warrington summer.

When does Warrington summer kick in these days? Gone are the long balmy days of the July-August school holidays, you seem to get the good stuff earlier, replacing the April showers with a miniature heat wave.

Well, I’m over there for a wedding in July, so if I could hear just one modest cricket and see a sliver of sun, I’ll buy everyone an ice cream at Walton Gardens.

Until next time, from the land of the screaming cicada.

xx

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