There is a tide in the affairs of men, and so on. Gordon Brown, the British PM with the sombre brow and deep solemn voice, this week-end made a terrible mistake. As the whole country seemed to be running pell-mell down a hill to a general election - this riderless cycle set in swing by the kick of no other than Brown himself - he suddenly showed a loss of nerve, and called the whole thing off. Inevitability has never looked so second-rate. Brown has cancelled the check he wrote, the one that, if cashed, would have given him a major win, I believe. Instead, looking into the whites (or greens) of that pseudo-Blair, Tory Cameron (un-teleprompted that he is), Mr. Brown blinked. He caved in. He threw in the towel. He is the Northern Rock of UK politics, now, on which Labour will build increasingly shifting fortunes. Time will run out, Mr. Brown. You lost your moment. Like Hamilton, in pole position, your tire blew before you got to lift the golden prize.
There is a tide in the affairs of men, and so on. Gordon Brown, the British PM with the sombre brow and deep solemn voice, this week-end made a terrible mistake. As the whole country seemed to be running pell-mell down a hill to a general election - this riderless cycle set in swing by the kick of no other than Brown himself - he suddenly showed a loss of nerve, and called the whole thing off. Inevitability has never looked so second-rate. Brown has cancelled the check he wrote, the one that, if cashed, would have given him a major win, I believe. Instead, looking into the whites (or greens) of that pseudo-Blair, Tory Cameron (un-teleprompted that he is), Mr. Brown blinked. He caved in. He threw in the towel. He is the Northern Rock of UK politics, now, on which Labour will build increasingly shifting fortunes. Time will run out, Mr. Brown. You lost your moment. Like Hamilton, in pole position, your tire blew before you got to lift the golden prize.
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