I boarded the flight at Heathrow with no regrets. Traipsing around England for three weeks, I was bored with the long littleness of it all. Tony Blair's brows are beginning to bristle, the eyes to glitter, the voice has a hard Thus Spake Zarathustra edge to it. Here were all the trappings of incipient megalomania seeking a Great Purpose, besieged, alas, by the smallest of small causes. Grand issues do not exist. Inflated miniaturisation in shrill headlines is the order of the day. Would the chaotic state of European Disunion permit the import of banned British beef? World Cup France braces for the deadliest British blood-letting after Agincourt, with the fearsome skinhead war cry, "to the breach you nerds", striking terror across the land. Does it really matter to Africa's AIDS-smitten millions if the new Conservative leader, the vague Hague, manages an Original Thought. When will Princess Di's remains be allowed to find their restful ease? And must the universe stop short because of the latest machinations of British Rail, the late arrival of the 8.15 at Little Basingstoke? (Two half columns of sizzling expose.)
