This, filmed at lunchtime today in Stamford Hill, is ostensibly a demonstration march to protest about the appalling destruction gun crime wreaks on communities round here. In reality it is members of the Respect coalition using a highly emotive issue as a Trojan horse to garner votes for Lindsey German’s mayoral campaign. The leaflet I was given did not contain one concrete idea for tackling existing gun-crime, though it did a marvellous line in disinformation (”An end to ASBOs - no more kids in prison”) and airy platitudes (”An end to racism”).

Round here, gun crime is a serious issue. We don’t need idiots manipulating it in this disgraceful way.

It’s all very well you striking, but I’m one today. Where are my presents?

It’s nearly two years since I gave up smoking (although I have in the interim smoked two cigars and, when the smoking ban came into force, a token roll-up). And, to be fair, I’m not quite as enamoured by the smell of fag smoke as I used to be. But if there’s one thing that makes me want to head down to the nearest tobacconist and order a crate of Player’s Navy Cut, Tor Turkish or even Camels, it’s reading illiberal nonsense like this from Jim Fitzpatrick, who is making fresh threats against smokers who drive:

If you’re lighting up with one hand and have a fag in the other hand then obviously you’ve not got any hands on the wheel.

Does this fool really think that any smoker, bar some 13-year-old novice, tries to light a fag without sticking in his mouth first? The whole point about smoking is that it’s something you do unconsciously: anyone who has smoked a lot will tell you that they’ve often found themselves puffing away whilst having no recollection of lighting up, or that they’ve looked down at a previously-empty ashtray to find it overflowing on the table or floor.

And so it is with smokers who drive. Fag goes in mouth, cigarette lighter comes out of dashboard, puff puff, lighter goes back and the driver hasn’t taken his eyes off the road, and probably doesn’t quite realise he’s even lit up.

This particular crackdown on smokers is simply puritanical nonsense, wasting time and resources that could be used to do something useful.

When I was a kid, I didn’t mind people smoking around me at home: but what used to make me feel iller than anything was being trapped in the back seat of a car whilst two people puffed away in the front. If ministers really want to spoil smokers’ fun, then it would be a lot more satisfactory to take a stand on behalf of those kids who really don’t get to have a say.

Solace for anyone who feels ignorant of current affairs:

Dearest partner is not a stupid man, but rarely watches the news and so is not kept up to date on current affairs.

However this morning his ignorance at the world astounded me.

So - the news is on in the background as he is getting ready for work, all of a sudden he starts rushing and cursing under his breath.

“I’m going to have to rush - looks like today is going to be a nightmare in the city centre and I have lots to do - this is all I need?” he says.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Well something is going on in Birmingham. Some monks are protesting and the army and police are out with tear gas, most roads will be closed I bet and it will be a nightmare for me. Where have the monks come from anyway?”

After a few seconds it registers with me that he is in fact mistaking Birmingham with Burma.

Read the rest, and the responses, here…

If ever you feel like trying your hand as a citizen journalist, don’t just get hold of a pen, notebook and camera: make sure you ditch any 11-month-old babies you happen to be looking after.

That’s what I should have done this morning when Dave Hill got in touch to say Boris Johnson was coming to town.

I do say, though, that I put up a brave show. Dave’s email plopped into my inbox at 12.15pm, Boris was due at Wyversdale House, on the Woodberry Down estate at 1.30pm, and I managed in the interim to pack not only the notebook and camera, but also to dress and feed the infant (who had spent his morning staging a miraculous recovery from a wheezy cough which, of course, had prevented him spending the day with his childminder).

I even got as far as the Woodberry Down estate, roughly in time for Boris’s arrival. The only problem, though, was that the infant had other ideas and was beginning to behave in that way he often does 10 minutes before going into major meltdown. So I made a snap decision to disappoint Boris and instead head to Finsbury Park to share (safe from any maternal gaze) a Ribena ice-pole with the baby. With children bribery buys peace.

It was with great delight, then, that I saw a mildly bewildered looking Boris standing outside Manor House tube station, a rucksack slung over his shoulder and a mobile phone in his hand. As I approached he had obviously made a decision of his own and started heading in the opposite direction to the housing block at which he was expected.

So I ramped the pushchair into first gear, drew up alongside Boris. pointed the right way and said:

“I think you want to go that way.”

“Do I?” said Boris.

“Yes,” I said. “You’re supposed to be at Wyversdale House.”

“Am I?” said Boris.

“Yes. I was going to come along and see you, only,” I continued, pointing at the baby, who was miraculously being as quiet as Clissold Leisure Centre has been for the last few years, “he was getting rather fractious. So we’re going to the park.”

“Ah. Who are you?” asked Boris.

“I’m Ben. Ben Locker. How do you do?”

“Good to meet you,” said Boris, shaking hands.

“I was invited along by Dave Hill. He’s a journalist.”

“A journalist?” said Boris, and I think a note of surprise, if not revulsion entered his voice.

“Yes. He’s a local blogger. He writes for the Guardian and stuff like that.”

“I’m supposed to be meeting someone called Maureen,” said Boris.

“No idea,” I said, shrugging my shoulders exaggeratedly and pulling my best ’search me, guv’ face (though in retrospect I think he must have meant local councillor Maureen Middleton).

And on that note, Boris headed off in the right direction to meet his pals, and I took the boy to Finsbury Park, kicking myself for not having the presence of mind to ask the politician for his photo.

Still, it was a good ice pole, and it revived the infant’s spirits considerably. And as luck would have it, on my way home, I saw Boris being shown round Woodberry Down estate by a bevy of councillors and local people. So this time I took (an albeit distant) photo as I walked past. It’s at the top of this post, and looking at it I’m beginning to think I probably had a better time giving illicit Ribena ices to the child - those folks don’t seem to be enjoying themselves very much at all, least of all Boris himself.

Next week: a chance meeting with Andrew Boff in an E8 chip shop…

As promised, in the interests of even-handedness, here is a cautionary tale directed at the other side of the political divide.

Gordon, who hankered after another’s job and found himself utterly wanting.

When Labour’s backbenchers were told
That Gordon’s sulk was ten years old,
From foolish motives (though well meant)
They let him lead the Government.
And so he did; but when the hour
Arrived for this Prime Minister sour
To prove that he could run the show,
He said, “I want you all to know
Our priority number one
Must be to stamp out joy and fun.
(In Fife the one thing that we treasure
Is a total ban on pleasure).
That’s why I’m planning to say ‘No’
To building that big cas-i-no,
Stamping on, without preamble,
Lazy northerners who gamble”.

Now Gordon (who got all his thrills
From drafting Unclaimed Assets Bills,
And, best of all, liked to relax
By devising a new stealth tax)
Discovered that he was not able
To sit alone at the top table,
And had to have a Cabinet
(Including even Harriet
Harman, though as nothing special)
So he chose those he could corral
(And backed the right side in his feud
With that poodlish “Yo Blair!” dude).
Down came the last of the Big Tent,
Replaced by one-man Government.

For Gordon this was splendid news,
So it was sad at PMQs
That (standing right next to the spot
Where he once used to pick his snot)
He simply failed to make a splash
Because of his lack of panache.
He was dull and unconvincing:
Cameron gave him a mincing
And got his party to say “What
Right have you, Gordon, a Scot,
To tell the English what to do?
Not one of them voted for you.”
(Here my difficulties rhyming
Caused me to get the West Lothian
Question slightly wrong. Forgive me.)

It soon was clear for all to see
That brooding, sulking and plotting
Had delivered just one thing:
Someone who thought that he knew best,
That he was better than the rest,
Not realising that to glower
Is not the same as taking power,
As soon the Labour Party found
When it received a beating sound
At elections, local, national,
Due to self regard irrational.
(The moral of this story’s clear
Heed it or you’ll pay most dear:
If ambition makes you hanker
For office, you’ll look a wanker
Unless you are sure of revealing
You can do the job you’re stealing.)