The snooker players bend them selves into all sorts of attitudes, squint along their cues, and pop the balls into the pockets around the table edge. And then that man in the dinner jacket promptly inserts his hand, retrieves the ball, wipes it as though it is contaminated, and replaces it oh-so-carefully on the table,
I wonder the players stand for it. All that work, skill, concentration, undone by that one man and his dinner jacket. Why doesn’t the audience erupt into boos and catcalls, climb over the barriers, physically remove him from the theatre ? Where are 38 Degrees, Some of Us, Change.org when you most need them ?
Jeremy Corbyn will put it all right for us, eh ?