I don't want to take it anymore, but might have to!

The Haldon Cup today; read the Slow Horses books and watch Network - but avoid cauliflower.

Is it just me who is beginning to scream at the daily round of vomited, meaningless, insincere and cliched apologies of failed people and organisations, which would never have seen the light of day, but for a TV camera?

We had the man with no poppy apologising for being an incompetent justice secretary—but it was someone else’s fault. We had Picador, aka Pan Macmillan, apologising for destroying the career of award-winning author Kate Clanchy. We had Reeves apologising for forgetting about her rent and Nandy for not knowing who her donors were. The BBC may yet end up apologising for spending £3m of licence fee payers' money on Verify, which is to the world of fact-finding what Rachel Reeves is to economic success stories. The post of an apologetic BBC Director-General will be available by December 1st.

I am reminded of the excellent film Network - if you’ve never seen it, find it. It was made in 1976, and the parallels between then and now are marked. The famous “I’m mad as hell” speech of Howard Beale, the mad, evangelistic anchorman, whose complete mental breakdown is manipulated and broadcast for ratings, is iconic in film history. It sprang to mind when I saw Lammy at DPMQ. I don't want to give you the link to the speech on YouTube—I want you to watch the whole film about the hero of ranters everywhere!

I watched DPMQ because I was still in recovery mode from the impact of Montezuma’s Cauliflower, and knackered from an exhausting diary that was entirely in the hands of the Immodium drug company. To date this week, everything has been considered as pre- or post-Colly. Pre-Colly, the week started with the most delicious Sunday lunch, pukka BMs made with horseradish, fab food, the jolliest team, and excellent vino. Then a dash back to the Chateau d’If to leap into Black Ties (I know…. on a Sunday!), and off to Newbury Racecourse for Racing Welfare’s Strictly Come Dancing evening.

There is a finite amount of Lucy Snowden’s endless legs a chap can take without