Sorry about this, but I’m in full Elvis Costello ‘Oh, I just don’t where to begin’ mode again today. Accidents will happen. One minute I’m planning a Janet And John spoof, on the grounds that the gentle books which taught millions of us to read, are denounced as ‘colonialist’ and ‘racist’ and must be banned lest they brainwash a new generation into wrong-think.

The next minute ‘Babylon Is Burning’ in Belfast, after a migrant from an ‘alien culture’ who made it into the UK via Dublin and the Long Good Friday Agreement allegedly attempts to behead someone in the street.

Plan A was to praise Matt McKiernan, who saw off the attacker with a hurling stick – lovely touch that.

He’s right up there with John Smeaton, the Rangers’ fan who started kicking the freelance Islamist headbanger – an NHS doctor, no less, first do no harm, you couldn’t, etc – who attempted to blow up Glasgow airport with a Calor Gas barbeque cylinder, while he was still on fire.

And Smeaton was last seen doing a lap of honour at Ibrox, and Barcelona, along with a man dressed as a bear.

Fantabulosi, as they say in Jolly Jocko Land, and probably the blue half of the Six Counties, too. You can always bank on the Billy Boys.

Chuck in the guy from South London who saw off the London Bridge terror attack while shouting ‘We’re f&*%cking Millwall’ and it really does make you proud to be British. Then I put ‘Matt McKiernan’ into the search engine – what we used to call ‘the cuttings library’ – and discover the first thing that pops up is we’re supposed to call him Maitiu Mág Tighearnán, his Gaelic name, otherwise it’s, er ‘colonialist’ and ‘racist’.

(Needless to say, the first, sponsored mention which came up was the Guardian. Funny that.) Which brings us back to Janet And John, where we came in.

Anyway, just as I put on The Kinks and started typing, Sky News announced that John Healey, the Defence Secretary, had resigned in protest at his own Government’s failure to properly fund the Armed Forces (another Elvis Costello reference for devotees).

So it’s everybody back on the coach.

Good for him, I reckon. Apparently, he’s the last ‘grown up in the room’ to give Surkeir the old Spanish Archer – El Bow.

About time someone stood up for the our boys and girls in khaki and serge.

As I may have mentioned before, Starmer and Rachel From Complaints would rather fritter away billions on buying bigger televisions for layabouts than spend a penny, if you’ll pardon the allusion, on the defence of the realm.

Then again, spend a penny – as my old Mum used to say – is about the right expression when it comes to the Government’s attitude towards the military.

Don’t know John Healey, never met the chap. People I respect speak well of him. When I was kicking off as a Labour correspondent, back when God was a boy (can you still say that?) Denis Healey was front of house, as Chancellor and deputy leadership contender.

Beachmaster at Anzio. But that was when Labour had proper people running it. Those days, we had Atlanticist, pro-nuclear, Get Some In, Bootsie And Snudge characters in charge – party politics aside. People familiar with the whiff of cordite.

I’m thinking of my dear old friend and mentor the late Terry Duffy, leader of the engineering union, a paratrooper tough as old wossnames.

What must Terry, and ex-squaddie Brian Nicholson, ex-chairman of Britain’s biggest union and a London docker who worked with my grandad, and my former sparring partner, ex-Marine commando Ron Todd, have made of the modern Labour Party? These are men you’d want alongside you in the trenches – just like John Smeaton, Matt McKiernan, and the bloke from Cold Blow Lane ‘We’re f&*%cking Millwall’.

So, I digress, John Healey seems at first glance to be cut from the same battledress.

Except, within about five minutes of his resignation, the Bubble declares that far from this being a principled resignation, it’s Healey’s bid to become PM.

If Andy Pandy wins Makerfield – and don’t get me started on that – then Healey will stand against him.

OK, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but the best, the only, way to stop Burnham is to vote Reform. Yes, I know another old friend of mine, Rupert Lowe, won’t thank me for saying that again, but it’s where we are. We’re talking Last Chance Saloons here.

This Government has to be destroyed, Hiroshima style, not re-engineered. Look, it would be fair to say that I’ve had my differences with Labour over the years, even though I grew up with it.

I personally liked Tony Blair, Gordon Brown, Jack Straw, Robin Cook, David Blunkett, Jack Cunningham et al. Still do. They were, to use one of my own over-used expressions, proper people with talent.

They were patriots, even if their patriotism didn’t always align with mine. But when push came to shove, Blair knew where our interests lay – with the US.

How the hell did we ever end with the far-Left lawyer Surkier in No 10 and his gormless sidekick Rachel, a dopey bird who used to answer the customer complaints’ phone at the Halifax Building Society (before they adopted AI, which doesn’t answer the phone to anyone) as his next door neighbour?

Starmer would rather bung Mauritius anywhere between 30 and 100 billion (pick your own figure) of our taxpayers’ quids to take the Chagos Islands – a strategic UK/US base – off our hands than buy the odd drone or new rifle for the Royal Marines and the SAS.

The man is an absolute disgrace. Yet we’re told by the Bubble that he’s digging his heels in to see off Andy Pandy and, now, John Healey.

Yesterday, Downing Street was even wheeling out the old schools’n’ospitals garbage to justify not coughing up enough dosh for the military.

The Bubble was even pushing a fiction that Starmer’s missus, Queen Vic, was insisting he must remain as PM. This is a woman, may I remind you, who hasn’t moved into Downing Street, preferring to stay in their £3 million Kentish Town Dead End Street slum.

Sorry if I come across all Angry From Arnos Grove, Daily Mail Central. But please give it a rest, Keir. Just go away. We’ve heard it all before. I can’t take much more of this bollo. We are all going to Hell In A Handcart.

Bring on the hurling stick!