So it has come to this dear readers. After all the xenophobic, homophobic and sexist bilge spewed forth by a bewilderingly popular right-wing icon over the last few years the powers that be appear to have finally realised that such puerile, rancid behaviour is beyond the pale and it looks like we might finally be rid of the odious twerp.

Oh, of course there are thousands of knuckle dragging Daily Heil readers rallying to his cause and seething with outrage at what they see as political correctness gone mad. But then these are people who think yoghurt is witchcraft.

Brought in by crazed asylum seekers in a nefarious plan to fatten up our children to make them easier prey for the thousands of roaming pederasts who haven’t been strung up by the genitals because the government’s too soft on crime.

The kind of people who see nothing wrong with calling black people darkies, or homosexuals poofters as it is their God given right-a form of non-monarchical droit divin des rois, if you will.

The same stout yeomen who loudly bemoan the sexualisation of their children while simultaneously ogling this month’s scantily clad 15-year-old de jour.

Hundreds of thousands of these cro-magnon throwbacks are, as we speak, rallying to the cause of their unjustly besieged paladin, registering their approval for him in his battle against the outrageous censorship of the liberal institutions.

It’s like dad’s army in black shirts.

Yes, as you are no doubt aware those bold warriors for truth and impartiality at the Beeb have finally taken their courage in both hands — quite revelatory for a corporation which usually is unable to locate its fundament with the requisite number of appendages and a flashlight — and called, an albeit, temporary halt to their craven fawning and toadying and decided they are no longer going to be held to ransom by a triumphalistically foreigner baiting, sub-playground bully.

The resultant upshot of this new found vertebral rectitude is that sentient viewers will, for the next few weeks at least, be spared the gurning, smirking fizzog of a self-proclaimed alpha male polluting the airwaves with his particular brand of verbal diarrhoea.

Yes that’s right, like his bosom chum and fellow Chipping Norton resident Jeremy Clarkson, Cameron has pushed his luck too far and fallen foul of the broadcasters at last.

Rather his place in the upcoming hot air fests that are the leadership debates will be taken by an empty chair and viewers are defied to notice the difference.

Personally I would have gone down the Have I got News for You/Roy Hattersley route and replaced the PM with a giant talking arsehole but then of course it would be difficult to distinguish him from most of the other “contestants.”
And, as Cameron and his cronies keep telling us you can’t have everything as.

As spectacularly ill-thought out bluffs go, this was more akin to the blind man’s version played in a minefield than the presumably intended statesmanlike brinkmanship.

Not that it really makes a difference, merely one fewer lying scumbags preening, posturing and proselytising on the public stage.

Or, in the case of Nick Clegg pusillanimously pleading for forgiveness and praying for a particularly virulent epidemic of pernicious amnesia to sweep the nation.

In fact there are so many polls lining up to participate that it is likely to resemble a daytime quiz show and probably equally as facile — Imagine a bastard hybrid of Fifteen to One and Pointless.

Moving on, and in keeping with this being Cheltenham week, the horse trading and jockeying for position has already begun.

We’ve seen party leaders of all stripes oscillating wildly between strutting round like potential king-makers to acting like debutantes making coy overtures of undying affection via their chaperones in preparation for what in all likelihood will be another hung parliament.

One minute they’re stuffing cotton wool in their cheeks and making “an offer you cannot refuse,” a la Don Corleone the next they have the haunted look of someone who’s fairly sure they are going to wake up with a bloody equine cranium on their pillow.

Or, in the case of anyone foolish enough to contemplate a coalition with the Tories or Lib Dems — a horse's arse.