Sky's the limit

I have things to say, but I am too busy sobbing at Michael Jackson's memorial service and shouting at Kay Burley to say them.

Kay Burley is conducting an inappropriately euphoric interview with two Welsh ladies who had taken a speculative trip to LA to soak up the atmosphere of mourning, and had then been given tickets to get into the Staples Centre by Sky News. Both the Big Reveal ('How would you like to be watching the service… inside?') and their Big Reactions were as if their homes had been chosen for a 60 Minute Makeover, or they had found one of Willy Wonka's golden tickets.

Burley is catching up with Dead Jacko's own Violet Beauregarde and Veruca Salt after the show, as they froth about what a blast it was.

'And who's the best TV channel around?' smarms Burley, repulsively.

'Thank you, Sky!' they beam back.

This is a memorial service, you cretins, not Mecca bingo.

I am reminded of a line spoken by Janeane Garofalo to Uma Thurman in The Truth About Cats And Dogs, a romcom which I love, but which is probably not considered among the greats (see also While You Were Sleeping) as Uma is practising for a newscaster audition:

'You might want to make the carnage a little less upbeat.'

So, with this trauma weighing heavily upon us, let's turn instead to the great directory of Speedy Pictorial Blog Posts.

Many are the important messages that have been written on napkins - 'Bartlet for America' is just one. And here is another - a portrait by Young Miss Jones The Younger of her beloved aunt, drawn on Sunday.

You may notice that her rendering of my hair is, colour aside, uncanny. As is the alarmingly unflinching way she has captured my classic British pear shape, total lack of discernible cleavage, and the puny sloping shoulders that leave me infuriated with shiny-materialed shoulder bags on a daily basis. Sylvia Plath said in the poem Child: 'Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.' In the matter of my portrait, I could handle the clear-eyed candour of my youngest niece being slightly less clear-eyed and candid. I am misappropriating Sylvia Plath's words somewhat here, but I like them, and she left them lying around, so what does she expect?

The legs are less convincing. Or are they? I was sitting down, after all.