POOR Ed Sheeran. He's long been up there with Boney M, Kiss and Pussycat Dolls on my list of Misunderstood Geniuses Who Craved Critical Acclaim But Had To Settle For Massive Commercial Success Instead. But to that dubious honour a new indignity has recently been added: Sheeran has been accused of lip-synching to his own songs during his recent Glastonbury headline slot. Or miming, as they used to call it on Top Of The Pops.

This tweet, from someone called Daz Bob, was typical: “Ed Sheeran just using loads of pre-recorded stuff, miming and not even pretending to play his guitar half the time.” Ouch!

Ah, but he wasn't miming. Sheeran himself took to Twitter to clear things up: “Never thought I'd have to explain it, but everything I do in my live show is live, it's a loop station, not a backing track. Please google x.” Go on, do as the man says.

For those who couldn't be bothered to do that, the ever-helpful host of BBC Radio 4's PM show, Eddie Mair, invited a “looper” into the studio to demonstrate. He made a load of funny noises (the “looper” not Eddie Mair) and then “looped” them using a “loop station”, though we have to take that last bit on faith. It was radio after all. Anyway, pretty soon there came spilling out of my tiny speakers a cacophonous sonic mess which, it's true, did sound very much like an Ed Sheeran song. Not Galway Girl, though. Maybe the one about Lego. Either way, Mr Sheeran is hereby exonerated and the 11th Commandment – “Thou shalt not question the headlining decisions of Glastonbury organiser Michael Eavis” – is upheld.

I HAD two thoughts when I heard Jon Snow was in trouble at Glastonbury, though not at the same time because that always gives me a headache.

First thought: did he too get accused of miming the words to Galway Girl or the one about Lego?

Second thought: what's he doing at Glastonbury, anyway? Shouldn't he be helping the men of the Night's Watch guard The Wall against Mance Rayder's hordes, and those pesky White Walkers? (I'm only up to book four of Game Of Thrones, so if you know something I don't, please keep it to yourselves. If not, at least put “Spoiler Alert” in the subject field. Thanks).

Turns out the Jon Snow in question isn't the one who donned the black in the first of George R Martin's novels. It's the Jon Snow who donned the garishly striped tie in 1989 to read the Channel 4 news and who hasn't taken it off since. Except to go Glastonbury in an open-necked shirt where he (allegedly) shouted “F*** the Tories” in the company of some students. One Daniel Millea tweeted: “Boss place that Glasto. Having a dance with Jon Snow and hearing him shout f*** the tories is what dream [sic] are made of”.

Now, I'm sure Snow wasn't the only person partaking in this time-honoured verbal activity, which I've always understood to be a rite of passage for any sentient being. But, if it happened, he was the only person doing it whose day job requires him to assume an air of impartiality when interviewing Tory politicians on television.

Scenting blood – or maybe it was the infamous Glastonbury Portaloos – someone called Andrew Bridgen went on the offensive. “He should either resign or he should be sacked for that,” he ranted to a certain right-leaning English tabloid. “I think they're extreme views, aren't they?”

If you're wondering what planet Mr Bridgen is on that he thinks shouting “F*** the Tories” is an extreme view, it's called North West Leicestershire, he's its Conservative MP and yes, they did vote heavily for Leave.

Snow, who possibly knows his way round Ofcom rules better than the Honourable Member for North West Leicestershire – the political neutrality of journalists applies to their professional output, not what they shout when they're standing in a field listening to Ed Sheeran – has shrugged the whole thing off. “After a day at Glastonbury, I can honestly say I have no recollection of what was chanted, sung or who I took over 1,000 selfies with,” he said.

Way to go, fella. Now get back on your horse and head north. There's White Walkers to deal with.

WHEN there's something strange in the neighbourhood, who are you going to call? If you're shouting “Ghostbusterzzzzz!” at your newspaper/smartphone/tablet right now – or, if you're reading this over someone's shoulder on the bus, into a stranger's lughole – then you'd be wrong. At least you would be if you lived in Thailand where, Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd being unavailable for jobs outside 1980s New York, it has fallen to the Royal Thai Police to deal with a malevolent spirit.

It's their fault, really. The force's motto is “There's nothing under the sky that Thai police cannot do” and with that rash boast in mind villagers in a rural area of Amnat Charoen province have called them in to deal with a phi bob, which is a malevolent female ghost in northern Thai culture. Or, if not deal with it, then put people's minds at ease about it by wandering around doing the “Evening all” bit and standing under lamp posts so everyone knows they're there. Even – and particularly – the phi bob.

IN common with Kevins, Garys and, yes, Barrys, the Darrens of this world rarely feature in that socio-economic group for whom a seat at Westminster is the obvious next step after private school and Oxford University. Which is why Westminster is filled disproportionately with people who went to private school and Oxford University. Which is why the newly-elected Labour MP for Bristol North West, 30-year-old Darren Jones, is pleased as punch about being, in his words, “the first ever Darren elected to this House of Commons”.

With the Government close to collapse and Brexit looking more and more like the very definition of omni-shambles, it's a shame he hasn't found more to do with his time than pore over the vellum rolls looking for Darrens of yore just so he can be sure he really is the first. Still, well done him for diligence and the upwards pulling of bootstraps: a self-styled “working-class boy” and state-educated into the bargain. May we see more Darrens on both sides of the house. And maybe a few more Thangams too: Jones's fellow Labour MP from neighbouring Bristol West is called Thangam Debbonaire and no-one needs to check the rolls to know she's the first of that name to grace either the green or the red benches.