The anchor is smug. He may lift up or cast down. Argument is rendered peripheral by his diversionary voice. Experts and half-wits alike are rendered redundant by the switch of his divine attention. Random asides buffet, issues wave in the wind, each side colourful as the other, or b&w. No gutter-talk, no interjections, no statistics, November. The anchor refuses to be dragged in, clenches the minutes like a scorecard. He won’t be dragged along. Vital details are missed, the question is the answer. He ups out of a tempest of subtitles, floats the boat towards next week’s secret offshore destination.