Maybe, in the end, if he lives long enough and doesn't die from smugness fatalis arseholeitis, cheery Jock, Andy Neil, will interview us all; We are joined on the Daily Politics by Mr Dick The Prick and Mr A Young Anglo-Irish Catholic, for their take on Prime Minister's Questions.
Today, or yesterday, it was Mr Brian May, guitarist with the Rock-Bombast ensemble, Queen, more accurately Dead Queen.
Dr May has a PhD in astro-something and is a regular on BBC's The Sky At Night, with the oldest, angriest fairy in the world, Sir Patrick Moore. As RockGods go May's not so bad. He has far too much money, of course, his group dusted in the golden fairy glitter brought by the death of its frontman, the distraughtly promiscuous, exhibitionist, Freddie Mercury and although his playing - on his home-made guitar - is both trademarked bitter-sweet elegiacal and manic, full-on stadium rock bluster at virtuoso standard, it doesn't seem to have changed much, these last thirty five years. And nor does he. Trainers and long curly hair. And bags under the eyes. I have no time at all for Queen's canon and one of my Visions of Hell is of being locked in a 'seventies bar, with only two songs on the juke box - Bohemian Rhapsody and All Right Now - and them alternately playing, loudly, throughout Eternity. But May seems together and thoughtful. No scandal attaches to his name, if he does or did drugs he did or does them privately, none of Keef Richards' toxic, bad-example, millionaire junky chic and he seems to have remained with his wife, Wotsername, the actress, rather than grossing-out, nonce-ish, with impressionable teenagers. Unlike fellow showbiz giants, such as Fab Macca, May seems able to be Off, not forever playing, thumbs-up, the rock hero, and to engage in other things. Today's isshoo was fox-hunting. May is dead agin it and pissed off at the Tories, for whom he has always voted, seeking to reverse the ban. He was quite straightforward, using dogs to tear apart other creatures isn't by any stretch of the imagination, sport, degrades all concerned, is cruel, sadistic and repellent and should stay banned. Culling badgers instead of inoculating cattle against TB was nearly as bad. The recent fox attack on children was a ten billion to one event, foxes don't do this unless frightened by something or cornered, it was the careless disposal of food waste, together with the vicissitudes of the Hunt which drove rural animals into urban settings, leave 'em alone, he said, normal, sensible farmers would rather keep the foxes down themselves than have the Hoorays galloping all over their land.
May runs a charity, establishing shelters for wild animals orphaned by human cruelty, caring for them until they are fit to be released into their natural environment, Save Me, it's called. On the odd occasion that I hit a rabbit or a hare, very, very rarely, Watership Down's chilly anthropomorphic horror floods my mind and that's what I think, too - Orphans, frightened, hungry and defenceless. It is not, I know, very manly, but there it is. We are what we are.
I know. May would be better using his money and his energy to damn WarCorp, Gauntanamo, Sri Lanka, China, the live incineration of young widows in the Ancient Civilisation, Aye, right, of India; the Israelis' Nazi torments in Palestine. Fuck, you could talk for a month about violated humanity, why worry about foxes. Well, maybe, like most people, maybe more so, May is aware of his impotence in the face of global brutality and therefore turns to something at which he might succeed, something in which small acts of kindness, of mutuality, have a knowable benefit.
On the DP, May was flanked by the odious, twisting and turning every which way but truthfully Hillary Benn, a grotesque, camp caricature of his Dad, the wretched old phony, and by some loathsome braying Toryboy, up his own arse at being a junior minister in the coalition of the unwholesome and playing to the huntin' an' fishin' - and probably hangin' an' floggin' - dark hinterlands of RightWing Filth-O-Graph cruelty.
Against these two worthless ciphers, Benn pro-ban, the other tosser pro a revisiting, as we call these things, Brian May, forever young, really shone, sparkling not for his celebrity but for his spontaneous, honest, angry compassion for the Others, with whom we share this place, without whom, we are nothing.
The blogging farmers are up in arms, of course, because, subsidised, supported and infrastructured by the rest of us, they own the country and detest townies having an opinion on matters agricultural, the fisherfolk are the same, would fish the oceans empty if they could, and then bleat at everybody else; there are no trees or hedges where I live, apart from my own, those clever farmers grubbed 'em up, so that, behind barbed wire, they could grow a few extra turnips, fuck 'em. C'mon the foxes.
May was, on that dismal show, a breath of fresh air. Catch him if you can.