The blog is in several minds about the award of the Nobel literature prize to Harold Pinter, an obnoxious lefty actor who turned his hand to play-writing in the sixties.
On the one hand, he is a bolshy luvvie pontificator of the most objectionable kind.
Then again, there's a hint of good old-fashioned social ambition about him - shacking up with Lady Antonia Fraser, a beautiful, charming aristocrat. He is also unapologetically English, something not often seen in the purlieux of the left. Moreover, he's had considerable commercial success with his writing and appears relaxed about his wealth. All this is greatly to his credit.
The plays, of course, are the thing. They appear to be Beckettian gloom-fests, capable of raising a few laughs, but in the blog's limited experience, have neither amused nor disturbed. But thousands would disagree, amongst them, we now see, the bien-pensant, left-leaning panel of Nobel judges.