Our Crazy, Crazy World.

Today's British public life currently offers: a Poet Laureate who doesn't know how to rhyme, a Master of the Queen's Music who has barely written a hummable tune, and a Royal Academy Professor of Drawing who cannot, er, draw, writes QUENTIN LETTS. Elsewhere, we have an Archbishop of Canterbury who used to work in the City yet thinks unsustainable debt a wonderful idea; a Leader of the Opposition who wears a silver shell-suit, employs a Wykehamist communist as his spin doctor and seems worryingly soft on Britain's enemies; and an Arts Council boss who made his millions in trash television. Our likely next Queen but one has an uncle who is a tattooed geezer who took drugs in his Ibiza mansion; we have a vegan Shadow Minister for Farming; and a half-pint Speaker of the Commons whose wife is a leggy, bottle-blonde boozer so sophisticated that she posed naked in a sheet and recently had an affair with her husband's implausibly plain cousin. All this and Russell Brand, too.