PRESENTATION is everything. It’s true that you – certainly by the looks of things – and even arguably I don’t give it much thought. But we are not important.

The people who would rule over us are important, and how they present themselves is a vital part of their likely appeal, or lack of same, to the electorate.

I speak with the Tory leadership campaign in mind, though I’ve no desire to address the substantive issues thrown up – I believe that is the apt expression – by the process, leaving that to greater minds than mine, belonging to those who, crucially and unlike me, have some kind of interest in current affairs. Such a lot of nonsense.

It was the frequently reproduced photographs of the candidates out jogging that exercised my interest. One reason for this was to accentuate the fact that these boobies were “in the running” – d’you see? – for the leadership. Not for the first time I feel ashamed at my profession.

But not as ashamed as I would were I snapped in a sweat-soaked T-shirt waddling with varying degrees of swiftness along the pavement in shorts and ankle socks. With the possible exception of Jeremy Hunt, they all looked dreadful.

Have they no dignity? And why are they all doing this? You would never have seen photographs of Sir Anthony Eden or Sir Harold Macmillan in sweaty T-shirts, puffing and panting down the road for photographs that, if anything, prove that jogging has no effect on the health or physique whatsoever.

Alert readers – I know you’re out there, madam – will want me to correct the above paragraph’s reference to them “all” doing this and, while I am unhappy to do so, I confess that I’m not sure if Sajid David, who has enough of a presentational problem with his ears, has been pictured thus.

Nor yet, to my limited knowledge, has Rory Stewart. Not with his knees.

Mr Stewart disgraced the profession of politician by taking off his tie in a marked manner during a televised debate. He’s also been criticised for the way he lolled about like a teenager on his chair, leading to accusations that he was practising pilates rather than paying attention.

Oddly enough, these same chairs came under fire from anti-BBC conspiracy theorists who claimed they were deliberately designed to cause the candidates’ legs to dangle, making them look even more ridiculous than they’d already managed through their own efforts.

Certainly, the whole show was a deplorable stitch-up, not only because of the standard-issue interrupting chairwoman but because members of the public were allowed to take part, adding an unwelcome note of cynicism to proceedings.

A tone of wholesome integrity was supposed to be injected by the aforementioned Stewart, but it all turned out to be a bit of a pose, striking attitudes and trying to present himself as “different” from the other Tories which, to be fair, he is on account of his deeply-held socialist beliefs.

At least Boris Johnson, the Scottish independence candidate, has never promised wholesome integrity. He has suffered the worst in the jogging pics, since the papers keep using ones taken from before his recent makeover, when he was a bit of a bloater, if that is the politically correct term.

He’s up against the aforementioned Hunt, the last rival not to be booted out and someone who is hampered by being known as Theresa in Trousers, which is at least better than Theresa in Running Shorts.

What a shower they all are. Perhaps it would be better if they were replaced by Liam Gallagher, out of Oasis, who said this week that he wanted to be Prime Minister so that he could “sort this pile of s*** out”. I see. Well, it’s a manifesto of sorts.

Alas, Mr Gallagher has previously said of such ambitions: “Imagine me stood there in my parka, you’ve got to wear a f***ing suit.”

This is substantially correct and shows that, while he might manage to make an alliance with the anarchically attired Mr Stewart, Liam has some way to go before

he reaches the presentational heights of Mr Johnson and Mr Hunt.

++++ NOW I’ve heard it all. Or at least I’ve heard a seal singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Zola, the creature under advisement, can also do a fair rendition of Old MacDonald Had a Farm, not to mention the theme from Star Wars.

I’d assumed this was poppycock, but video footage shows the beast making a fair fist or flipper of the tunes. It’s quite impressive.

Zola was one of several grey seals who were – though they probably didn’t know it – the subject of research by scientists of sound mind at the University of St Andrews. The boffins hope their findings will help in treating human speech disorders, which at least sounds more responsible than just doing it for a laugh.

If you haven’t heard the seal yet, print readers can do so by putting their ear right up against the page on this interactive copy of The Herald.

In the unlikely event of no sound being forthcoming, take your paper back to the shop and say: “I was promised a semi-aquatic marine mammal singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star – ken? – but got nothing. Please issue me with a refund or compensatory small box of Smarties.”

Let me know how you get on.

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LIKE many decent ratepayers, I enjoy feeding the birds. I stress that I mean garden birds. It’s become infra dig to feed bigger ones such as seagulls and pigeons. Some folk talk of the latter as “sky rats”. These people should be monitored by the authorities.

We know there can be a problem, but surely fining a woman who fed a pigeon a piece of sausage roll £150 is a bit over the top. Indeed, I did the same myself recently, while dining al fresco (ie on a street near Greggs). What the hay, it makes their day.

Sally-Ann Fricker was done in Bath for “littering”, which is rich as the “litter” lay there for less than two seconds before disappearing. After protests, the local cooncil is reviewing its action.

It’s getting difficult to know what you can and cannot do these days. Certainly, that old dear in Mary Poppins singing about “feed the birds, tuppence a bag” would be in prison by now.

Incidentally, I love how news websites illustrate such tales with a generic picture of a sausage roll, as if we didn’t know what one was. Makes you hungry, though. Wish someone would throw me a piece of sausage roll.

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IT’S easy to fall for a spoof. Every year, I spend most of April double-checking that something I’m writing about wasn’t an April Fool. It’s made difficult by the fact that so much that goes on in the world is bonkers or unbelievable.

So one feels for the editor of a new anthology of works by the poet Sir John Betjeman. According to a diarist on The Daily Mail, he fell for and published a fake poem written by the then editor of Private Eye, Richard Ingrams, in 1979.

To be fair, Ingrams and co-spoofer Barry Fantoni get all the metre, if that’s the word, and style right in ‘Lines on the Unmasking of the Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures’, about the spy Sir Anthony Blunt (knighted for services to Russian espionage).

Here’s a sample: “Old Marlburlian, I recall him/In his flannel bags and hat/Wandering by the River Talbot/Sometimes straining at a gnat.”

Pretty good stuff, though the spoofers’ added note, “Put it in if you like it. It’s not very good, is it?”, should have set alarm bells ringing, as they used it whenever taking off Betjeman.

Fake news is bad enough. But fake poetry is deeply disturbing.

Read more: Rab McNeil: Why we should start talking to strangers