Looking Forward

We gave Dad the send-off he deserved. The church was packed and the wake at Moor Hall was a joyous celebration of his life. Rugby, cricket and his various schools and universities were represented and we could forget for a while the degradations that dementia had visited upon him in the last years.

I had kept my grief under wraps until after the funeral but then unleashed myself on a self-destructive binge. On the agenda for this year is the tackling of my troubled relationship with alcohol. You will forgive me if I tackle that one in private. It's not big and it's not clever.

But what else looking forward? Well we are now out of the EU and so far as one can tell calamity has thus far been avoided. The Jeremiahs tell us that the catastrophe will come as we struggle to negotiate the terms to succeed those of the transitional period. We'll see. Anyway the remaining Union does not have its troubles to seek - even the economic behemoth that is Germany is experiencing some nationalistic political ructions. Meanwhile little Ireland has now cast its majority vote in favour of revolutionary socialists with a recent attachment to terrorists. Ireland is free to do as it pleases (or rather it will be allowed so far as its European paymasters permit) but please don't lecture us on the running of a sovereign state. We will make our own mistakes thank you.

Talking of mistakes, the political rumour-mill would have us believe that the Tories are considering a 'mansion tax' to help raise money for the infrastructure projects it intends. This is a tax on assets paid for out of already taxed resources. It was a favourite policy of St Vince of Twickenham - that should tell you all you need to know.

Joy of joys, the Six Nations tournament is upon us. I did not share my predictions with you this year but I can confirm that I had a small bet on France to win the title before the odds got too skinny. Some shrewdies were on at very nice prices. France has deep playing resources and they now have a sane head coach, not to mention a defence coach who may not be entirely sane but is very, very good.

What of England? Well, for a start I'm already pissed off with the Eddie Jones show. The pre-match psycho-babble is pathetic and I take it as a persoanl insult when a coach departs from the orthodoxy that No 8 is a specialist skill position. Tom Curry is a superb player but is not a No 8. England got away with it against Scotland but the Irish lie in wait and will be encouraged by the prospect of indecision at the base of English scrums. Jones' talk of a new philosophy for the position is merely bollocks.

It's good to be back.   

The Unbearable Lightness Of Being A Binman

As I was running earlier this week I encountered several good burghers of the People's Republic of Four Oaks walking out onto their drives and fatalistically lifting the lids of their bins and thereupon raising their eyebrows in mild unexpected pleasure at the fact that the bloody things had actually all been emptied. For us (and I assume most of my near neighbours) this prompt double satisfaction (we have two bins - one for general detritus and one for recyclables) was being enjoyed for the first time since early December. All collections since that time have fallen victim to delay or cancellation due either to industrial action or plain old-fashioned inefficiency.

All of which made me smile sardonically as I contemplated our Council Tax bill which is knocking on three thousand of your English quids. I'm only saying.

Meanwhile our political class continues to bend itself out of any useful shape as it persists in its preferred intention of thwarting Brexit. And if any of these prize wankers mentions a wealth tax or a mansion tax (yes I'm talking to you Vince Cable) then I won't be responsible for my actions. Well actually I will be responsible - because I'm rather Olde England about these things. I'm only saying.

Meanwhile, back in my world, Grand National tomorrow. I'm due a change of luck (have been for about a decade) so take note folks - Vintage Clouds each way. I'm only saying.

Old Soldiers

A couple of old voices have been heard again this weekend. Voices of men I have railed at in the past.

Let's get the more tiresome of them out of the way. St Vince of Twickenham aka Sir Vincent Cable is back in the House of Commons and is once again spouting paternalistic drivel. He now ventures that he can see Brexit being still-born and that the status quo ante will assert itself. This is what C.H. Sisson deemed the loathsome 'apologetics of fact'. Cable comes across as reasoned and sensible - which is quite a stunt when you are offering up tired statist bilge. You have to admire his chutzpah I suppose.

Another man who likes the sound of his own voice is Lord Digby Jones. However when circumstances confine him to the broad question of commerce as the only engine for growth, he does us all a favour. He was on Week in Westminster yesterday and you should track it down on iPlayer. Nice one Digby. Not bad for a Brummie lawyer. 

General Election III: Liberal Democrats

Nicholas William Peter Clegg (who Benn-like prefers to be known by his diminutive 'Nick') may have become a toxic brand but you have to give it to the boy - he has come up with best soundbite of the campaign.

I'll add a heart to a Conservative government and a brain to a Labour one

I particularly like the disdain for Miliband implicit in that choice of words.

But sadly he still has St Vince of Twickenham in tow, a man who makes Ed Balls look self-effacing.

More Beginnings

A happy New Year to all our readers. Intoxication has been on my mind. I like a drink but sometimes it gets me into trouble so I shall try to be more careful in future. I like a nice dry white, a ruddy Barolo or a sound Claret. I should not however kid myself about the quality of my palate - I am often quite content to drink any old shit.

By one of those little accidents I have watched two dramas in the past week which are about intoxication and addiction. Both well made pieces of entertainment. The first was Flight, with the reliably brilliant Denzel Washington as a piss/coke-head airline pilot. A good piece of modern Hollywood product.

The other was the last series of Prime Suspect watched via LoveFilm. Proof that British television can be good.

I'll do Old Dave's Almanac another day but today I will share my most intimate new year thoughts with you. I'm resolving not to let the bastards get me down this year. It's the advice I always give others but I've never been too hot at taking it myself. In any event , who are these bastards of whom I speak? Well I'm not daft enough to name names even to my limited public. Actually I will make an exception of Vince Cable, David Cameron and Ed Miliband, all three of whom get right up my nose. But then you knew that already I suspect.

Twenty-eight pounds of avoir dupois. That's how much I think I need to lose. This sounds unachievable but I'm giving myself the whole year and I'm going to keep you informed. If I am to suffer then you must come along for the journey. In which spirit you should know that I ran for twenty minutes and forty-seven seconds of your English time today. I also got my hair cut today so maybe I'll have lost my first pound by weigh-in tomorrow. Oh brave new world. 

Just For A Moment I Thought I'd Gone Mad

It happened a couple of weeks ago when Vince Cable slagged off the government's wretched Help to Buy Scheme. Saint Vince was making the point that such interventionist policies can stoke up an undesirable asset bubble - he might equally have said that such schemes verge on the immoral, but then Vince is a liberal rather than a libertarian. But credit where credit's due - Vince you were spot on.

But then he started banging on about his bloody Mansion Tax again. I think we all know what I think of that. As for today well talk about having your cake and eating it - Biting the Hand

Why is it by the way that inflation is a 'bad thing' except when it applies to housing? Among much else Mark Twain got this right - Buy land, they're not making it anymore. One of the many wise things I never said but wish I had.

Life In A Day

It never completely leaves me alone and that bastard black dog has been growling around for a couple of days. I couln't get away from him today and had to keep reminding myself that he can be tamed. But then I found the answer - I channel flicked my way to Singin' in the Rain. Don't get all post-modern on me - this is a great film. 

To cheer me up all the more politics today gives us the spectacle of that odious shitbag Ed Balls toadying up to the gormless St Vince of Twickenham about his sodding mansion tax. St Vince of course believes this to be a compliment and doubtless harbours thoughts of being Chancellor in the next Lib/Lab government. Meanwhile Dave and Gideon announce that they're going to jump start the economy by allowing people to build conservatories without planning permission. God preserve us. 

Rejoice, rejoice. The Euro has been saved. The European Central Bank has today announced that it will lend to beleaguered governments at rates no sane investor would countenance. Thus goes on the whole wretched conspiracy of saving a political project which a particular elite has determined is too big to fail. I sleep soundly in the knowledge that these people know so much better than do I what is best for me. Stock markets have rallied. I am thereby richer. Temporarily.

If you want to see a real pro at work then track down the CSpan coverage of Bill Clinton's speech to the Democrat convention yesterday. We lack great platform speakers in modern politics and this was a real treat to watch. Obama rather gets up my nose but Clinton makes me smile. Chutzpah, that's the word. In amongst the rabble-rousing he also said some apt things about bipartisanship and the unworthy role of hatred in party politics. The thing I have always found depressing about the liberal left in England is how many of them hate people like me. I'm not that bad. Honest.  

Return Of The Grumpy Old Man

For various reasons I have been well disposed towards my fellow men of late. Even, to a degree, Saint Vince of Twickenham, who got jeered by Luddite muppets at a public sector trade union conference the other day. Wake up and smell the coffee lads. You used to bark on about 'comparability' with the private sector. Two way street me old fruit. If you would like to know what pension poverty is, take a look at what Standard Life have done with my pissy little pot. This is my problem, not someone else's and that is the moral of the story.

But now a few things have pissed me off. Most tellingly I have injured my calf muscle again. This is part of some kind of divine conspiracy against my triathlon efforts. It is neither fair on me nor on the larger sporting public. As I have said before - will this setback prevent me from competing (this term is used broadly) in Yorkshire on 19 June? Will it bollocks.

Intolerance. Stupidity. Asininity. These have been bugging me as well. Perhaps because I don't pay enough attention, it has only recently come to my notice that the city authorities in New York have legislated to outlaw smoking outdoors - Central Park for example is a smoke free zone. Now there cannot be any earthly pretence that this is a health measure aimed at the effects of passive smoking. This is an example of a shrill and unpleasant minority imposing its prejudices on everybody else. May this law fester and poison the Big Apple as assuredly as did Prohibition. I can do no better than quote my old hero Simon Raven who wrote this in an Introduction to the re-issue of Alms for Oblivion:

Raven - brilliant and bitter

The cry, 'If I can't, you mustn't', had some trace of justification, however sullen and unlovely the sound of it. Nowadays we hear instead an even less lovely cry, 'If I don't want to, you mustn't' ie. 'It is just possible that I am, after all, missing out on something of value which you have been shrewd enough to detect and I haven't, and that wouldn't be fair and equal, now would it?' Once upon a time, however strong and righteous you considered your message, you scorned to become a pest: in 1998, however trivial your grievance, you find yourself encouraged and even 'morally obliged' to to become not just a pest but a pestilence.

In that same Introduction one finds the following example of Raven's brilliant acerbity - about the sad death of a woman and the shameful hysteria it triggered - the public egged on remember by a shamelessly lachrymose Prime Minister,

Who would have imagined that a flighty, pea-brained princess with an addiction to publicity should become a cult almost in the degree of sanctity?

Louis de Bernieres accurately describes depression as a state of estrangement from oneself. As it happened it was in the year of Diana's death that I had my first brush with the black dog. The events after her death meant that not only was I estranged from myself but also from the country I had loved. And I would be so presumptuous as to suggest that this is not just my problem but a problem for rather more of us. Because goodwill greases wheels and there's precious little of it left. No man is an island? Look around you.

What Damage? Sienna Miller - The Naked Truth

So it turns out that the Geriatric Wankers Weekly really was hacking loads of phones after all. Comme on dit en francais, 'Quelle bloody surprise.' This does give us the chance to post a gratuitous snap of Sienna Miller under the guise of newsworthiness. Which will probably cause a mysterious increase in the number of hits the blog receives today, particularly as I contrive to incorporate the word 'naked' into my text. I regard anything that brings The Overgraduate to a wider audience as justifiable. It is for the greater good.

Because La Miller is at the heart of something that is mystifying me. The GWW has apparently offered to pay her a hundred grand in damages for the breach of her privacy. Now the GWW was surely breaking the criminal law in what it did and nobody will shed a tear if the whole excrement scented shower of them get put away - and that includes Andy Coulson who it would appear is either an egregious liar or an unbelievably lax/incompetent editor, neither of which is going to be an ornament on his CV you would think. But, and this is the bit I'm struggling to understand, how did Sienna suffer a cool hundred thousand's worth of damage as a result of what they did. Or indeed any of the other great and good who are queueing up to have a dip into Rupert's money. We note, by the way, that the lovely Max Clifford (who does at least choose to be well advised) has accepted the coin already proffered to him by GWW's retained shisters - definitely a good move since it is difficult to imagine anything that might have been published which in any way lowered him in the public estimation and thereby caused him damage. But lo, what is this I see - it is a judge talking some sense. Have a read and dig it out of the BBC report because this aspect of the tawdry spectacle will not get much attention. Being clever and a judge are not mutually exclusive - something else you won't find generally conceded. See Unspeakable/Uneatable



Big Dick  Ben

 And another thing. The Overgraduate's favourite politician, St Vince of Twickenham, has been at it again, swinging his political dick around. It has to be granted that once again he seems inviolable (PM Bottles It Again) yet more proof that those in our government with balls don't have brains and those with brains don't have balls. A larger number have neither. Bloody hell it makes you proud to be British.

Irresistible Cheap Shot

To far more important matters. My training and continuing injury woes. The triathlon is imminent and the all-important penultimate week of preparation is already scheduled to be spent on the piss in Ireland. Not good. Now public spending cuts and school holidays have malignly conspired to stop me swimming. The City of Birmingham has now confined the largesse of free swimming to the hours  of 1.00 to 4.00. This is manageable for the mature student but the City has also thrown open the pool to its yoof for the next couple of weeks so lane swimming is out in favour of dive bombing, heavy petting and other manifestations of pubescent natation. End result: can't run, can't swim; confined to the lovely new bike. Plus I've got final assignments to complete before I swan off to Ireland to rescue their economy. Bad planning. I blame the boy Cameron.    

Black Dog Days

It's the damndest thing about depression (or mine at least) that it spends most of its time secreted in the undergrowth of my life only to spring out and ambush me at inopportune moments. So today has been a poor sort of a day. I can at least rationalise it and assure myself that it will pass. But the worst times are when you allow yourself to speculate on what will happen if it proves stubborn. Keep taking the tablets I suppose, as God said to Moses, or was it Charlton Heston?

A better day for Egyptians though. The 'last pharoah' President Mubarak has bowed to the inevitable and resigned. Next stop Zurich to find a cash machine no doubt. I can only ponder pessimistically the prospect of the looming Muslim Brotherhood, the fabled face of 'moderate Islam.' No Egyptian woman need mither about the cares of presidential office if the Brotherhood take over - the post's duties would 'conflict with her nature, social and other humanitarian roles.' Nobody's business but the Egyptians of course but the world doesn't really work like that now does it. On which cheery note I'm off out for a meal.

Oh, one last thing. The average salary at Goldman Sachs (this includes the cleaners and other skivvies) is £289000. Now one thinks about it the Brotherhood might be onto something. Or even Vince Cable. Now I've gone too far. Peace out man.

Reasons To be Cheerful ... And Otherwise

Mostly otherwise I suspect. Today I find myself with a bit of a downer on the world and the world is retaliating by having a bit of a downer on me. I see on the horizon a future as an unloved and unemployable multiple graduate whose only marketable skill is the one he is adamant he does not want to use. It has come to my recent attention that I am not quite as clever as I would like to be, though I will bite back and say that I am neither quite as dense as my prime detractor would have it. The outcome is nonetheless disappointing. Heavy bummer man.

I ran the touch in a police cup match this afternoon which was a nice diversion but one spoilt by my thigh muscle straining itself again. My body is rather taking the piss out of my athletic ambitions at the moment. Further bummer man. To add to my self-willed gloom I timed my exit from the ground so that I could spend an hour and a half making the twelve mile journey home. Yet further bummer man. There was compensation in hearing my old mate Vince Cable on the wireless trying vainly to big up the inevitable inefficacy (see The Overgraduate 22 September 2010 where I told you this would happen) of Project Merlin, the optimistically named (inviting magic presumably) agreement by which the government has 'reined in' our fat cat bankers. As J.K. Galbraith might very well have said, what a load of old bollocks.

Not untypically a good old whinge has cheered me up so now I am going to tell you about our jolly good weekend in that London. We were there to celebrate (belatedly) the birthday of daughter number two who paid us the compliment of being pleased to see us. Good start. We went to see Blood Brothers at the Phoenix. For reasons not unconnected to blind prejudice I wasn't entirely convinced I would like this. I was wrong. Blinding good evening and the girl who used to be in Atomic Kitten (seriously, she played Mrs Johnston) was excellent. I had way too much to eat and just too much to drink both of which added to the fun. The underground was running smoothly and the hotel was good (inefficiency at the cocktail bar notwithstanding) so top marks to Boris's that London. I rounded off the weekend by watching the Superbowl which my Pittsburgh Steelers lost to Green Bay. I ate all eight hot dogs I had bought for the occasion from the 99p Store.

All of which left me decidedly leaden on Monday morning but my mood was considerably lightened by the delivered wisdom of the real David Roberts (Professor David Roberts) on the mightily important matter of Hamlet and other topics Shakespearean. I returned home feeling challenged, wiser and definitely curious. And when you sweep all the garbage out of the way that is what education should be like. That is what I am going to miss about it. Enormously.

If anyone out there has a job going which might suit a man like me, I'm available from May onwards. I scrub up quite respectably, I've been around some interesting places and learned a lot along the way. Put like that, what have you got to lose?    

Back On The Chain Gang

I've been away too long. All that December blogging wore me out, but now I'm back and the Beast remains untamed. He has a new tune ringing in his ears which he wants to share with you. He heard it on Radio 2 (alright, calm down at the back it's not that bloody funny) in the small hours of a wakeful night and here it is:



New year resolutions - I usually keep these to myself and casually ignore them but this time around I'm going to share them cryptically and you can try to guess what they are. If I actually manage to complete some of these tasks I will reveal all and we can have a jolly old vitual party on the interweb thing. All of my resolutions have numbers attached to them. The numbers are

one

four

eight

twenty

thirty-seven

one half

Ok folks step away from the enlarged colourful font please, nothing to see here. Yet.

To be quite honest 2011 has not got off to a great start. All has been well with me but the world is still going to hell in a handcart. Vince Cable is still in government. Some Americans apparently take Sarah Palin seriously. Even worse they like Piers Morgan. Biffo ('Big Ignorant F***** From Offaly) is still running what is left of the show once known as Ireland. Alex Salmond has been on Desert Island Discs. The producers of The Archers blew a perfectly good opportunity to kill the tiresome Helen and her poor benighted infant and instead pushed good old Nigel off the roof at Lower Loxley. Lewis Moody is injured and will miss the start of the Six Nations. I have quite unjustly put on weight and strained my hamstring. Vince Cable is ... sorry already said that.

Predictions for the year, O wise one, I hear you cry. Well since you goaded me here goes: myriad Liberal Democrats will continue to suffer political altitude sickness, some will ignore advice, look down and promptly fall off and land on Simon Hughes; England will win the Six Nations; New Zealand will finally win RWC again and Richie McCaw will go to heaven where he will immediately be sin-binned by St Peter for entering from the wrong side; I will pull my hamstring again; the Euro will implode/contract; The asset bubble in China will burst and my investment in India (which I keep meaning to make but never get round to) will look wise; Obama and Cameron will continue to refine the art of the platitude whilst doing very little of any import; finally and justifiably I will still be just as bloody cynical by the year end.

But you know what? My wife still loves me (at least she said she did this morning) and that is quite sufficient to last me several lifetimes. May you be as lucky.



Confused Old Bloke Swallows Own Foot Whole

I hope this is not some sort of elaborate Christmas hoax designed to cheer me up because it just keeps getting better and better. I'm going to start a Facebook campaign to inundate Saint Vince's office with links to the OED definitions of 'prejudice' and 'impartiality'. The story unfolds at just how stupid is this bloke?
Read it and weep. This is our governing class at work.

Confused Old Bloke Claims Possession Of Nuclear Weapon

I've been avoiding general blogging in favour of my little advent project but some things are just too good to miss. Even as one lamented the passing into relative obscurity of Harriet Harman so something almost as good hove into view on the horizon. Saint Vincent of Twickenham, self-ordained conscience of capitalism, can ensure that we poor little people sleep soundly at night, safe in the knowledge that if all else fails he will save the world. Far be it from me to advise such a pillar of rectitude but might he not want to pause to take his foot out of his mouth before he dons his cape of righteousness. The Christmas special edition of the Vince Show is available at Hubristic Knob-Head

Confused Old Bloke Given Position Of Power ... Meanwhile Welsh Take The Piss

On 22 September the Overgraduate/Big Fat Pig/Post-Stucturalist/Feminist admitted to confusion and pleaded to Saint Vincent Cable of Twickenham for help in understanding his position on property taxes. Vince has not been in touch, although we did modestly note his conversion on the question of a graduate tax - see Overgraduate Claims Another Victim, 17 October 2010. Well now we know why he has been too busy to contact us - he's having a complete breakdown which leaves him incapable of making his bloody mind up - http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-politics-11874406 Now I'm a reasonable chap but can someone please tell me how this bloke gets away with it and is not castigated for his intellectual poncing about. I like people who think an issue through but I don't want to watch and listen to them doing it, not at least when they are ministers of the crown. What we see here is the consequence of having in power people who had never seriously contemplated this happening to them. As a client of mine used powerfully to say, 'either piss, or get off the pot.'

And as for the Welsh (my ancestors of course) well you have to admire the sheer bloody cheek of it - http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-11878033 A rather marvellous effect of this will be to increase the number of middle class English families buying property in the principality. Plaid Cymru will be oh so chuffed at that.

Overgraduate Claims Another Victim

Meant to boast about this earlier but had an attack of modesty. That has worn off and normal service has been resumed. The Overgraduate can categorically claim full credit for this good news story http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/politics/news/2010/10/10/vince-cable-backs-down-over-graduate-tax-115875-22622665/
Incontrovertible evidence that the movers and shakers in society are reading this page. Well someone must be the straw etc so why not me? And in an instance of what we may term internet serendipity if you type 'the overgraduate' into Google the first three entries you get will take you to these pages and the next will alert you to Saint Vincent's damascene conversion. Spooky or what? By the way I am wholly aware that noone bar me has ever typed 'the overgraduate' into Google. If I am wrong please let me know and inflate the Beast's ego yet more.

Help Me Vince I'm Confused

Vincent Cable, Liberal Democrat Business Secretary this afternoon delivered a conference speech to his adoring fellow travellers. It's sounds like rather good stuff (full text at http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-politics-11390365) but I'm a simple soul and there are things I don't understand in amongst all this righteous indignation.

It may surprise some who have doubted my sensitivity that I have no problem with his reference to 'spivs and gamblers' in the banking sector who have strutted away with obscene bonus payments. He's spot on. There's some real low-lifes in the City who have the moral code of rabid jackals. But this is a human problem. Bankers (some of them) earn ludicrously more than is good for them. But so do footballers. In defence of footballers at least they seem to be reinvesting in small British businesses, albeit those of budding prostitutes. But what are we to do - make merchant banking (still one of the best pieces of rhyming slang that) and football illegal? Impose a wage cap? I can feel the lawyer in me salivating at the juicy litigation that will engender - what price Wayne Rooney's human rights anyone? My guess is about eight hundred quid an hour although my instinct on that score is probably out of date by now. But what I am really getting at is this - you cannot legislate to compel human decency. People have to behave humanely because they want to and for want of a better description I'm afraid we'll have to call this a spiritual issue. Which means Richard Dawkins can sling his hook as well. For years I was accustomed to people politely (well mostly) calling me a parasite and I agreed with them but I had to point out that parasites cannot thrive without a host. The host of the lawyer is human rottenness and do you know what, the number of lawyers per head of population just keeps on going up. Wouldn't it be rather wonderful if suddenly we were all redundant? Don't hold your breath.

And back to the sainted Vince. Let's consider an example, let's call him Dave. He's worked hard over the years and has never earned a dishonest crust. He's always paid his taxes in spite of the use to which they are put. Dave has a wife (we'll just call her bloody marvellous) who is a true example of the working class hero if ever such a thing existed. They give to charities but don't make a song and dance about it. They think they're passably good people. Everything they own has been paid for out of taxed income, everything. So quite how, Vince, is it right to seek to tax them again on the value of assets they may have chosen to buy with what the government of the day deigned to let them keep? If Dave wasn't such a model citizen he might well tell you to piss off Vince.

Ooh that's better. By the way I saw the Pope on Sunday which was intriguingly uplifting. I then had a kilo of excellent mussels at Cafe Rouge which was also elevating. As Dave Allen so wisely used to say - 'May your god go with you.'    

Lord Bloody Prescott

Does anything better sum up the slovenly mess we are in than the three words above? Of course I have never met John Prescott but feel entitled to dislike him on account of his having inflicted his nasty, ignorant, peevish, inarticulate and plain wrong opinions on me for the past couple of decades. If you're reading this Your Lordship here's some advice. Listen to Jim Hood on Radio 4 last Saturday - http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00th8xd
Jim Hood is the Labour MP for Lanark and Hamilton South, he may even be a mate of yours. He was serious, courteous and dignified. When, with the exception of your appearance in Gavin and Stacey, were you last any of these? Now I strongly suspect that if Jim and I took up conversation in a bar we would agree on practically nothing but I get the distinct impression that I would respect him. So John (is it ok if I call you that?) please take note that civilised human beings can disagree with you and it is not just because of their class or the bloody school they went to. You are an anachronism and for the record I went to a state school and had my university tuition (first time round) paid by the City of Birmingham, for which I will be eternally grateful. As my side of the social contract I have paid a small mountain of taxes (national and local) on time and without rancour even as my elected representatives have pissed a fair deal of it up the wall. So John while I've got you - if you bump into Vince Cable in the corridors of power please tell him where he can stick his graduate tax.