Empty death threats and Fruit & Nut on the couch

For once, I was in blissful relaxation, as I flipped the switch and eased into the soft leather recliner.

It genuinely doesn't get much better than this after a long day's work, thought I, glancing across to the loving eyes of The Other Half to share in what Martine McCutcheon would call a Perfect Moment.

Then it happened. Out of nowhere – a death threat.

"If you get any chocolate on those new cushions, I'll kill you."

Blimey. That escalated quickly.

You see, those weren't 'loving eyes' at all. They were the Satanic stares of a girlfriend who'd just invested heavily in some fluffy M&S homeware and knew my propensity for dropping Cadbury's finest on the furniture.

'I mean it,' she reiterated, eyes narrowing and voice now in a low Willenhall growl.

'If you make a mess, I'll kill you. I've spent hours and a fortune on those and . . .'

It all trailed off as I glanced down and – the horror! – spotted an errant hazelnut resting on the pristine new additions.

Playing it cool (ha!) I distracted her with mock indignation and my boyish charm, while casually flicking said nut on to the fireplace and holding my breath.

Had I got away with it? Would I live to tell the tale?

Well, I'm writing this, so the answer's probably yes.

But was my life ever really in danger? Would she really have (and I quote) 'stabbed me in the eye'?

Well, she went to a Black Country comp so probably knows a thing or two about physical violence, but did she really intend to take my life over a smudge on the soft furnishings?

While those who know her may not put it past her and those who know me may find it understandable . . . I think not.

At no point did I think she was going to go all Beth Jordache on me and I'd end up under the patio.

It was just one of those off-the-cuff sayings that wives say to husbands, husbands say to wives, fathers say to sons and Wayne Rooney probably says to his teammates (although in Rooney's case, he'd need at least four shots to hit the target once). So why is it that arch wind-up merchant Yasmin Alibhai-Brown got her knickers in such a fabricated twist over a tweet from Tory MP Michael Fabricant?

Fab said that if he ever appeared on a discussion with YAB he would 'either end up having a brain haemorrhage or by punching her in the throat'.

Now, without doubt, it was a stupid thing for a man in his position to say in public.

And if he had uttered it in the privacy of his own living room he would have got away with it.

After all, who knows what Ms Alibhai-Brown says about Jeremy Clarkson behind closed doors?

Can she honestly say she's never wished for a brake failure, a loose steering wheel or an angry Stig to befall some physical harm on Jezza?

Probably. But she'd never reveal it to the bottom feeders on Twitter like Mr Fabricant did – and it's that hypocrisy that's been the biggest issue for me with this whole sorry episode.

Here is a person who, whether she'd admit it or not, aims to provoke, to wind people up, to get a reaction.

If she didn't have strong views, she wouldn't be employed by a left-wing newspaper and feted by left-wing broadcasters; they know she's going to be 'good value' up against Rod Liddle on Channel 4 news.

If necessary, she'd argue day was night and night was day, especially if it involved a Conservative policy. It may not be her primary purpose, but being 'outspoken' (not in a literal sense, obviously) is what she does.

She seeks attention, she seeks a reaction and pushes people into giving one.

So it's a bit rich to be soooo outraged when someone goes over the top.

I couldn't care less what her politics are and deep down, I wonder if she does either. She's done well enough to maintain a presence as a go-to talking head on the BBC and Channel 4 so why change a winning formula?

As for Fabbo, he's apologised (belatedly) and seems destined to see out what's left of his career sliding from one foot-in-mouth crisis to the next like a Parliamentary Sideshow Bob.

He can take comfort from knowing that all political careers end in failure, of course – but it would have been nice to have achieved something first.

In effect, they both do exactly what it says on the tin; she's a pretty good wind-up merchant and he's an archetypal Tory MP from the shires who can't help but get wound up.

But don't get me wrong.

For what it's worth I like Yasmin, she's a fine writer. And I also like Michael too.

But which is best?

There's only one way to find out . . .