There’s something a little-dispiriting about waking up one morning to find that our elected politicians are even more psychopathic, deranged and-disloyal than one had always suspected. I don’t just mean Gove and his cackling, somewhat ambitious missus. Charming though Michael undoubtedly is, and agreeably owlish in-public, I have imagined him in-darker moments standing in a blood-splattered hallway with a kitchen knife in his hand muttering over and over: ‘I did it for you, Mummy, I did it for you.’ Somehow I always thought that was in there, with Michael. No, the other lot as well, Labour; as one embittered clown after another traipsed into-Forrest Gump’s office and pretended to feel sad about resigning, with their crocodile tears and their immense and immensely misplaced hubris. All a bit depressing, frankly.

It occurred to me that you might be depressed, too. This is supposed to be the height of the silly season, with the politicians dispatched to their awful holidays — Margaret Beckett staring sadly at a canal from the window of her caravan, eating a ham sandwich, Dave’n’Sam Cam getting down to some bangin’ choons in Ibiza — and we get a chance to enjoy the fun stuff. The fun stuff that bubbles up when the politicians piss off. In fact, though the politicians haven’t pissed off, the fun stuff is all there; it’s been happening. But nobody has had a chance to revel in it because we’ve been obsessed by the Grand Mess, the hydra-headed shit-monster which has gripped Westminster. So here’s your chance to forget maniacal Brexit–related developments and enjoy the usual business of-summer. The stories that would be front-page news if it weren’t for Sarah Vine screeching out hexes over her bloody cauldron, dropping in the eye of newt etc. I hope it cheers you up a bit.

• A vaginal yeast infection is going to kill almost everybody in the world. Nope, not kidding. It’s a variation of thrush, apparently, and totally resistant to drugs. Sixty per cent death rate: we are all going to be killed by something which hitherto simply made you scratch your genitals in public. There’s almost certainly a bakery in New York using it as a raising agent for their edgy and cool spelt loaves. Goodbye, leftie New Yorkers: you’ll be the first to die.

• A new species of giant, aquatic, highly venomous centipede has been discovered in Thailand. It is a sinister greenish-black colour and swims, according to reports, ‘like an eel’. It was found by an entomologist on his honeymoon. ‘Hey, love, put that-cocktail down and come and look at this. It’s an-absolute beauty. Eight inches long if it’s a day. I promise you won’t regret it.’

• A British tennis commentator has got himself in trouble for making a supposedly sexist remark during Wimbledon. Yes, yes, I know. But the great thing about silly-season stories is that the same ones crop up every year without fail. This time it’s Andrew-Castle, former British No. 1 from a time when you or I could have been British No. 1 if we’d bothered to buy a bat, or a racquet, or whatever thing they use to hit the ball. Castle happened to intimate that a player’s girlfriend was very pretty, which she certainly was. Fit as a butcher’s dog, in my opinion. At first Mr Castle brushed off the usual furore from demented fiends on-Twitter, telling them — rightly — to get a sense of humour. But now he has had to do the usual sackcloth and ashes thing. Full apology to anyone I might have offended, etc, Jesus Christ please forgive me.

• Taiwan has fired a huge missile towards China. You missed that, didn’t you? The start of the third world war and you were listening to the monumental irrelev–ance which is Angela Eagle talking about another monumental irrelevancy, the Labour party. Anyway, the Taiwanese fired off this missile by mistake. The rocket,-however, was crap, and dropped into the sea long before it had reached the mainland. I’m not sure what the most depressing part of this story is, then.

• Good news! Apparently the ozone layer has completely recovered, or almost completely. It’s made a comeback. If you will remember, there was a big hole in it and as a consequence we were all going to die. But it’s come back. But don’t get too cheered up, there’s still the yeast thing to finish us off.

• Other less welcome comebacks this silly season include Michael Heseltine and Tony Blair, the latter of whom seems to wish to help us in our negotiations with the EU. Yes, please do. How we’ve all missed you. No, no, really.

• The last Pope, Benny, was bullied to-within an inch of his life by conspiring homosexuals, apparently. Pope Benedict has kept a diary in which he tells of being continually lobbied, in a very persistent manner, by the gay caucus in the Vatican. I wasn’t aware the Vatican had a gay caucus.

• Josef Goebbels’s private stenographer has just revealed, shockingly, that she did not much like Josef Goebbels. Brunhilde-Pomsel — crazy name, crazy gal — is now 105 years old but her memory remains intact. Josef was, she opined — a bit late in the day, you might argue — a ‘pig’. And a narcissist. And cold and aloof. Well, who’d have thunk it? Asked about that regrettable concentration camp stuff, Frau Pomsel says she ‘didn’t notice’ anything particularly amiss going on with the Jews. No-— who did, who did?

• A woman called Kelly-Martin, aged 42, has been charged with urinating on a war memorial in Essex in broad daylight. Kelly has announced that she will be-pleading not guilty.

So there you are. Just a smattering to keep your mind off other stuff. And so here’s the question — yeast or Mrs Gove? What will do for us in the end?

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