It almost makes you want to live in North Korea. At least there, when a swarthy younger brother is thrust on the nation, you don't have to endure months of mad eyes and fixed smiles, and public mea culpas (on matters of policy you didn't control) and "just a minute" stand-up slots on the subject of "passion" and "change". And when the Dear Leader is finally unveiled, after an election process that Kim Jong-il would surely applaud (one in which some people had 12 votes without even the sniff of a backhander) you don't have to watch a man who has lost in the first three rounds, but scraped through on the fourth, tell the world how much he loves the brother whose dreams he has wrecked.
And you don't have to hear him volunteer, on a programme that's meant to be about politics the next morning, that he loves his brother "very, very much", and you don't have to watch the brother he has defeated, who has the air of a man whose heart has been broken, tell a conference which can't even summon a definite or an indefinite article (but some of us believe in grammar, just as some of us believe that actions speak louder than words) that we have a Great New Leader, and that he is "incredibly proud" of him. At least in North Korea you have a firing squad, which is quicker and cleaner and a lot less painful to watch.
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