2021:5 - 6

I am not averse to taking some vicarious glory when fellow King's alumni distinguish themselves. So for every Desmond Tutu I suppose I have to acknowledge that we have had our share of wrong-uns. In May 2021 Martin Bashir was (to no one's surprise) officially confirmed as one such. He had deceived that flawed but (to many minds, though not this one) saintly personage, Diana, Princess of Wales. I have often wondered about what sort of social death-wish I have incubated. My first serious ambition was to be a journalist and only after I had failed in that sphere did I decide instead to be a lawyer. No one likes us - we don't care. Is this not, in a small but important way, the best explanation of what it is like to be English?

As I trawl through last year for this thread, I am perhaps hoping to account for how, by year's end, I had become a different person. Changed, not massively, but changed nonetheless. I have become happily resigned to  the certainty that even minor eminence has eluded me - only as this desire has ebbed to nothing do I understand how it fed my insecurity for all those years. How silly. Do you think Bashir may have been the same? 

June. John Bercow joined the Labour Party. John, son, nobody gives a shit any more. You were a preening pillock as Speaker. May you grow to be as big an embarrassment to your fellow travellers as you were to your erstwhile Tory bedfellows. Your recession into the background of public consciousness has been a delight.

England And Its Empires

Sir Philip Sidney, described the English in his Arcadia as an elect and 'only'people, governed both by 'justice and providence'... Half a millennia later, however, the 'chosen people' seem, in Davies's words, to be 'manifestly bewildered'; abandoned by God, divested of their empires both 'outer' [the wider empire] and 'inner' [the supposedly 'united' Kingdom], tempted once again by the European res publica, but troubled by it too.

Ian Ward wrote these words in his provocative The English Constitution: Myths and Realities in 2004. We haven't come very far have we? If anything we are mired deeper in our confusion. Ward's sympathies are disestablishmentarian and republican; mine are not but I must confess I am wavering. The powerful executive that Ward laments has retreated a tad under the successive handicaps of coalition and Brexit but nothing has emerged to fill, even partially, the resulting lacuna. Parliament has flexed its muscles but so used is it to being enfeebled that it cannot manage a decision. All we get is the posturing of Bercow, who, Heaven preserve us, has become a cult favourite in Germany. I can't believe I'm saying this but the Germans may have a point.

Where I am undoubtedly ad idem with Ward is in his denunciation of the venality of modern party politics and the sheer, lazy, crassness of Tony Blair. Cameron has not, by the point when Ward writes, yet hoven into view. Don't start me off on all that again.

We watched a rather silly film last weekend, not that it was unentertaining just that it was, well as I say, silly. It was Angels and Demons, the preposterous sequel to The Da Vinci Code. 5/10. My mate JB (Viperjohn to the virtual world) has on occasion passed the opinion that Dan Brown's novels are great literature. I'm pretty certain he does this to wind me up, God love him. It must be said that he only produces these opinions when we are both copiously in wine. This is the week that he and I would, under our ancien regime, have been in Ireland for the Dunmore Golf Classic. As he wisely said in a text (we're so modern) this week, I don't miss the weather but I do miss the craic. No matter, OG, Viperjohn, Big Willy Mac and the Boy Bacon will be convening in Northumberland for golf and fellowship in the Autumn. By which time my adherence to a strict programme of Pilates and Body Balance will have me playing off single figures. Will it bollocks. 

Weather looking rather grim but no matter, we're of to Mon for a couple of days and next week I'm off with the Heineken crew to Newcastle for the European Rugby finals. It's a hard life but someone's got to live it.




   

Funeral In Berlin ... Funereal In Westminster

Things I like: the work of Michael Caine; the writing of Len Deighton. These two elements collide to moderate effect in Funeral in Berlin. The plot wanders hither and thither and I rather lost trace of who was following who in divided Berlin but there are plenty of worse cinematic ways to pass a couple of hours. 6/10.

Things I don't like: self-aggrandising, affected politicians. I mention this because I am at present watching half-interestedly the parliamentary shenanigans over Brexit and it is spoilt by the showing-off of that twerp John Bercow. He clearly sees himself as a bit of a character. He is right but that does not make it a good thing  

It's Just a Matter Of Putting One Foot In Front Of The Other

That's all there is to running, so I keep telling myself. Oh and you also have to pray (perhaps that's a bit strong - fervently hope then) that the bloody calf muscles hold up. And as you know the new orthotic insoles seem to be doing a job on the bloody calf muscles. So even on  a dank Monday morning after a dissolute weekend I was up to putting one foot in front of the other. Three miles of distance run. And it has the desired effect. Endorphins a-go-go.

But none of this improves, except on a very local level, the world at large. I heard that bloody Theresa May this morning giving forth on the enforced silencing of Big Ben (the tower needs refurbishing) - well quelle surprise, she even sounds ineffectual on that matter. Mind you, a good thing coming out of the confected silly season rage about that topic, is that John Bercow seems to be in the critical firing line. We don't like him - we've met him.

I have another film of merit to report: Disney Pixar's Inside Out. Honestly it is really sweet (not sure I've ever used that phrase before - too saccharine for the house style?) and one heart grabbing moment had Daughters Numbered One and Two (aka the Two Man Idiot Show - back in Brum for the weekend) reaching for the tissues. 8/10.

So often we come to good television late and courtesy of Netflix - thus with the bleak medical comedy Getting On. This is very dark stuff but with just enough human edge. Particularly brilliant is the jargon-fluent male Matron, Hilary Loftus played by Ricky Grover. If you haven't encountered one of his species, that is to say the over-promoted and clinically useless, then you are very lucky and have probably never worked in the health sector. If you don't laugh you have nowhere to go but to weep. Co-scripted by Jo Brand, Vicki Pepperdine and Joanna Scanlan (all of whom are integral to the ensemble piece) this is one to track down if you managed to miss it on the first pass. 

The Trump Conundrum

Donald J. Trump is the duly elected President of the United States of America. Said country is our most important ally in a disturbed world. Now clearly I've never met the Boy Trump but he seems to me to be an unforgivably ignorant bully.

John Bercow is somebody I did once meet - over lunch as it happens. He was then a tyro MP for an unelectable Conservative Party. He came across as a prig. I don't suppose he liked me either.

Yesterday Mr Bercow, long risen to the Speaker's chair, let it be known that he does not approve of the Boy Trump. So we agree. The problem is this: no matter how right Bercow is about the worthiness of snubbing Trump, he should keep his mouth shut and preserve the dignity of his office. Two wrongs do not make a right - sometimes only a well-worn cliche will do.

An Inglorious Conclusion

All political careers end in failure

And so today was the last day of the current Parliament and thereby the end of William Hague's legislative career. A man of obvious talent and one suspects underlying niceness he bowed out by trying to steer through the House a vindictive piece of procedural flummery whose aim would appear to have been to punish John Bercow for being, well, John Bercow. Now I'm all in favour of Bercow being penalised for being Bercow (and I should remind readers that yes I have met the man) but not by this clumsily chosen method.

Thus Hague's career ends rather fittingly on at best a misfortune, perhaps more accurately a misjudgement. Pity.

I have dream wherein Bercow and Alex Salmond are washed up on a desert island and in a sort of Lord of the Flies/Titus Andronicus mash-up manage to exterminate each other.

Rogues Gallery

British politics has been at its shameful worst of late.

George Osborne spinning (argot for lying) a settlement of our liabilities to the damned Grand Projet. I question whether I can vote for these shysters even in the face of the abject Ed Miliband.

The government pulling a stunt in the parliamentary debate about matters European. Wankers.

John Bercow poncing about indignantly in the face of said stunt. Wanker.

Yvette Cooper spouting ersatz indignation at the outcome on the radio this morning. Clown.

I've said it before I know, but really, what a shower of grade one unadulterated shite.

... Are Not Brilliant (An Occasional Series On Random Antipathy But With Some Reasons To Be Cheerful Artfully Chucked In))

I'm sorry to return to this pitiful whelp but really is there any excuse for John Bercow? Judge for yourself as he ventures a wholly unconvincing attempt at humility -  Bercow self-aggrandises

a big fan of my band
Strange Bedfellows

I have libertarian tendencies but there really is something more than a tad distasteful about the self-proclaimed champion of freedom of expression cowering, sorry sheltering, in the diplomatic citadel of that defender of all that is good and right, er, Ecuador. Sheltering moreover from that oppressor regime, er, Sweden, which Scandinavian banana republic seeks to bring him to book for being a bit too liberal in the way he availed himself of sex. Congratulations then to Julian Assange who joins the much maligned Saddam Hussein in attracting the sympathy of that other hugely clever and reprehensible character, George Galloway. Misery truly does acquaint a man with strange bedfellows. Strange Bedfellows, by the way will be the name of the jazz/fusion combo I will found when I learn to play the drums. Nice. I will wear the only wrist watch for a drummer, the Omega Incabloc Oyster Acutron 72. A little cultural reference there for all you Pete Atkin fans. You are not alone.

no offence Thommo
 but you just annoy me

I feel a bit of a heel about this last one because apparently he's not been well but shit here goes anyway: Derek "Thommo" Thompson. Am I the only one who squirms every time his gurning presence blights the laudably intelligent Channel 4 racing coverage? I know, I know, I'm becoming peevish in my old age, but what else is there left?

Ooh that's weird - I've got the old iTunes on shuffle and it's just started up with a Christmas song, in fact a perfectly good one, but you just can't listen to that stuff in August. It's wrong. I've shifted to the next track, The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Anymore by the Walker Brothers. Better. Which has now given way to track 2 side 1 of The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway, which if you don't know (and you really should) is Fly On A Windshield. Followed now by the theme tune from For A Few Dollars More. I know, eclectic! A fitting menu for a dilettante - which is one for 10cc fans who might be paying attention.

Finally, not a whinge but in fact a taster for a blog to follow. Here is a line from a television series I came to late but about which I am going henceforth to rave - "he's on our graduate fast-track scheme, but he's doing it at his own pace." If you don't know what it is you'll have to wait until next time dear reader because Lily Allen is now singing Cheryl Tweedy and that must mean it is time for bed.

Please Control Your Woman

I have had the dubious honour of meeting quite a lot of politicians. Some I like. Most are interesting. I have met two MPs who have served as Speaker in the House of Commons. With public figures I think it fair to make judgements on brief acquaintance. In fact with each of these two I had relatively leisurely encounters. Betty Boothroyd was diminutive, engaging, charming. John Bercow was merely diminutive. He is now shrinking the Speaker's role to match his own shadow. His judgement in marriage seems equally dubious - please see Sally Bercow . Oh deary, deary me. Move over Harman and Cable. Out of the way Lord Prescott. We have a new winner.