Much to the surprise of BBC editors, they have had to shelve their customary plans to drum up interest in obscure social and overseas stories during the sleepy New Year period. B-roll reports on the condition of women, animals or possibly agriculture in countries hitherto unknown to Thomas Cook were returned to their hard drives unplayed. Tales of marital discord, credit card fraud and the drinking habits of feral teenagers were held over until the stars (or at least, the heavens) were propitious.
Instead, it has been all hands to the pump as the necessity arose to cover something rarely dreamt of in their philosophy. News.
As in, something actually happening.
Admittedly, what was happening was only weather, which happens all day every day whether it is covered by the BBC or not. Nevertheless, weather in general is to be distinguished from photogenic weather, and what can be more visually appealing than the sight of every regional news reporter in Britain shivering in a snowfall for hour after pitiless hour? ("Let's go back to Amanda, who is going to tell us about school closures while standing outside some gates in Cheshire ..." smirked the presenters, probably squirming their feet joyfully in Christmas's fleecy slippers.)
News 24 has come of age ... as a blood sport. No wonder Sordel was hooked.
As it turns out, however, not only does bad news come in threes, but news in general seems to as well, for today was also the opening of the hunting season, a.k.a. the first PMQs of the parliamentary New Year. Undesked from his office, shot full of that most bracing of stimulants (Fear) and determined to shake off his seasonal disappointment at being named GQ's Worst Dressed Man of the Year, Gordon was brimming with vim as he tackled Cincinnati Kid Cameron.
Cameron got in one exquisite dig (approximately: "At least when lean over to say "I love you, Darling" I can do it with sincerity") but Gordon was back at him in a flash. If wordplay can be likened to the experimental rough-and-tumble of a pair of Labrador puppies, they were all wagging tails and bitten ears for five minutes before coming, panting, to a halt. A good day for both and every expectation that their respective party faithful would bear them shoulder-height to greatness.
Sadly (well, for one of our protagonists) the third piece of news hit just before 1pm and scattered even snowshowers before it. Geoff Whoon? and Patricia Who-it? - two minor Labour bulbs who must be grateful that anonymity, like virginity, never quite grows back - launched what was rather optimistically described as a "coup".
Given that Whoon? is actually a former Defence Secretary, it is saddening to note the lack of military planning that went into this insurgency. By the evening most of those micturating out of the cabinet had disappointed the hopes of those micturating in the complementary direction by swearing blood oaths in Gordon's favour. Wet shoes were certainly experienced by all parties - not least the shoes of David Milliband, who demonstrates himself to be sodden through and invertebrate at every opportunity - but once Mrs Brown's little boy is tucked up in bed tonight he can take great comfort that the snow seems to have more sticking power than his opponents.
BBC news reporters and cabinet ministers seem to be of one mind one the subject: it's cold outside.
