While nearly all of our passionate PM's cheerleaders have found a new love in the Chesterton-esque Father Brown, some, however, still go weak at the knees at the sight of The Passion. Blair's cracktroop of Citizen Hip-hip-hurrahs and brainwashed Winston Smiths embarrass themselves daily with their twitterings. This tragicomic image - our passionate PM surrounded with his mad court jesters - ruined my rereading of Shakespeare's Sonnet The Passionate Pilgrim. Perhaps you'll have the same reaction. Anyway, it starts thus:
WHEN my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unskilful in the world's false forgeries.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although I know my years be past the best,
I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue,
Outfacing faults in love with love's ill rest.
But wherefore says my love that she is young?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is a soothing tongue,
And age, in love, loves not to have years told.
Therefore I'll lie with love, and love with me,
Since that our faults in love thus smother'd be...