Watching Telegraph bloggers beg and plead for some war over Crimea, just a little bit of war, or maybe some harsh sanctions, or just harsh language at a pinch, or a pillow fight... Well, I can't get enough of it.
It's like having a live feed into the keepers' office next to the panda pen at Edinburgh Zoo. They pipe Marvin Gaye records into the animals' enclosure; they feed Tian-Tian oysters with a powdered rhino horn side-salad; they show Yanguang hardcore XXX panda porn films and shovel viagra-flavoured bamboo down his neck by the half-ton. They pray and will them on and hope and strive.
And still, after all the cajoling and massaging and stimulating, the pandas will not fuck, and instead sit around chewing absent-mindedly, crapping everywhere. The keepers, defeated, heave a sigh and get back to work.
True, I've never seen a Telegraph columnist conclude that the pandas won't go at it because they're weak and cowardly but then just like zookeepers, they're always willing to give it another try next year.