Let us never speak of it again... (except to say this...)

So now that the UK General Election has finally been settled, now that the coalition government has been formed, Gordon Brown's left Number 10, and The Queen's given her speech to the House of Lords - let me finally shift my hard focus from British politics back to the good old stuff that made this blog what it is: semi-psychotic ramblings about how the world is against me, and other American topics.

However, before I treat the blogosphere to that literary pleasure, one last thing about the election across the sea....

Did anybody else get a bit teary when Gordon said goodbye to Downing Street? I suddenly felt awful about the way everybody in the media picked on his prickly exterior and sour face. And I was one of them. It didn't really hit me until his resignation speech was over, and he reemerged from Number 10 with his two little boys and his wife. It was the kids that did it to me. He'd thanked them in his speech, John and Fraser. But I had no idea they'd be so small. They were actually kids. I was expecting a couple of Prince Williams or something. Instead their tininess made me think - "Oh no! This is so unfair! You can't let this guy resign! He's got two little blond-haired Scottish lads to look after! AND he can only see out of one eye! You heartless bastards... look what you've done to him!"

Goes to show what TV does to you. My how easily I'm swayed.

And then that whole humiliation afterward, having to motor over to Buckingham Palace to tender his resignation to Her Majesty, only to be tailed by David Cameron, his car idling in the drive, waiting to do exactly the opposite.

Perhaps the question I should be asking is, "Did anybody else out there stay glued to BBC.com's live streaming coverage of post-election events for the amount of time I did?" I have a sad feeling I know the answer. If unlike the author of this blog you've got a full-time job, a life, or a reason to be out of doors during daylight hours, the answer is hopefully, "no." Followed by, "There was an election at sea? What?"

What can I say? I can no longer fight who I am. I stay up late watching episodes of "Yes Minister" on Netflix. One day the events of my home country will spark enough interest for a blog entry. Until then, I battle the misshapen brain of the most extreme breed of American Anglophile -- someone whose fervor for English culture might have won him some degree of respect in the late nineteenth century, but whom Oscar Wilde would have still lampooned in one of his plays.