It's Beginning To Feel A Lot Like Christmas

No, not the winsome song. If you want winsome you'll have to tune in for tomorrow's advent calendar entry. 

Instead I'm taking time out from the calendar to let you know that I set yet another PB on my three mile run this morning. All this really proves is that I have not hitherto been pushing myself, but, what the Hell, it keeps me happy, particularly as, touch wood, the old leg muscles are bearing up. All of which semi-strenuous exercise puts me in a good mood, the more so as Christmas looms on the horizon. It will be different, because of the Covid restrictions, just Groupie, the Pig, DN1 and DN2. But, and I have a feeling I'm not alone in this, I sense a societal desire to make the best of this bad job and a consequent elevation in public goodwill. People are certainly nice when I plod past them on the mean streets of Four Oaks. Let's hope I'm right.

I've located one good thing about the virus - it acts as a fine distraction as Brexit reaches its wholly predictable conclusion, that is to say, repeated failure to achieve a free-trade deal with the EU. Even those old Jobs at the BBC are struggling to summon- up angst about this 'catastrophic' denouement. The public outside the bubble, don't give a toss. When dealing with a protectionist leviathan like the EU, we should not expect anything else. The whole thing is weighed down by its own preposterous arrogance. Plu ca change as we don't say over here. 

More good news - I've already got my bumper Christmas edition of the Radio Times. It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.

Now I've Had Enough (Part II)

 Let me quote to you section 38(1) of the European Union (Withdrawal Agreement) Act 2020:

The Parliament of the United Kingdom is sovereign.

No equivocation, no ifs, no buts. It does exactly what it says on the tin. Now, the difficult bit. Will someone please tell Gina Miller. Will someone please tell the Supreme Court. Will someone please tell Nancy Pelosi, no, come to think of it, someone tell Nancy Pelosi that it's none of her damned business.

It makes you wish that we could revive Tony Benn. Or Enoch Powell. Or Michael Foot. At least the debate/argument would be edifying and informative.

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.   

Good Stuff, Bad Stuff, Loads Of Stuff In Fact

Four days have now passed since the miracle at Headingley which saw Ben Stokes, by a combination of megatalent and towering will, lift an otherwise hapless England cricket team across the line to victory. Watch again the last hour of that match and then try to tell me that Twenty20 is other than a tasteless frippery.

cricket, bloody hell

That was good stuff. Bad stuff was the demise of Bury FC. Worse has been the quality (more markedly the lack of it) of debate that Bury's expulsion from the Football League has inspired. Even the usually sane, albeit hyperbolic, Jim White on TalkSport had lost the plot in the immediate aftermath. The questions no one has been asking and which need to be posed are these: What is it that dictates that we absolutely must have ninety-two functioning fully professional football clubs in this country? What other country has, per capita, a similar number of such clubs? Why should the insolvency of a football club be administered by any standard other than that applying in all other industries (bar banking I suppose I ought cynically to add)? I do not deny that football has a particuar problem in being invaded by shyster investors but the crisis of football is all about greed at the top of the mountain and envious chancers looking to scale the immoral peaks.

Brexit, bloody sodding Brexit. Boris Johnson's proroguing (alright I know it's technically the Queen) of parliament has got the Remainer luvvies all of a tizzy. There is sham outrage and pious bollocks about this signalling some death of democracy. Oh good grief, grow up. Parliament will miss perhaps five days of potential debate on a topic it has already wasted three years of fannying about upon. I am no fan of Boris but the outrage arises because just for once a Prime Minister has outflanked the Remainers, a group who have become used to getting their own way in the face of nothing more daunting than Theresa May's crass, appeasing ineptitude. If you're on the same side of an argument as Jeremy Corbyn, Gina Miller, two dozen Anglican bishops and, worst of all, John Bercow, you might just be wrong.  

All Political Careers End In Failure - But This Is Bloody Ridiculous

So Theresa May has finally admitted defeat and we shall soon have yet another Prime Minister. At her moment of resignation she was dignified and serious - have we ever found her otherwise? But we should not allow our instinctive sympathy for a kind soul to obscure the fact of her ineffectiveness. In my lifetime we have had some bloody awful Prime Ministers (Douglas-Home, Callaghan, Brown all spring to mind) and I'm certain that none of them was saddled with such malign mood music as May. Brexit is a shaming dog's dinner, the Conservative Party is an ungovernable dog's breakfast and, to cap it all, she let that turd Donald Trump hold her hand in public. Notwithstanding such unprepossessing circumstances, it has to be said that she has demonstrated an uncanny knack when faced with a fork in the political road for steering with utter conviction down the wrong way. In all of this she threatens to deliver us into the hands Corbyn and McDonnell, a gruesome pairing which should in any sensible world be unelectable. So, sorry Mrs May, I am not sorry to see you go. Brexit means Brexit indeed.

Much more importantly you will need to know that the Overgraduate has been suffering with that most debilitating of illnesses, the summer cold. I have been unspeakably brave about the whole thing as I'm sure the Groupie will confirm. I do just have to make it clear that this was not Man Flu - which as any fule kno is much, much worse.

Mission Impossible - Fallout - a film of sustained and explosive silliness. It has first Paris and then London being trashed in chases and shoot-outs before repairing to Kashmir for a climax that twins a helicopter chase with nuclear threat. Bloody silly. Bloody well done. 6.5/10. For people who like this sort of thing etc.

For a man who is an avid watcher of Gardeners' World Big Fat Pig is not a keen gardener. It seems to him that if you weed regularly this merely stimulates the bloody things to grow back even bigger. The Pig does of course like a well-kept lawn and is pleased to report that the new Precious Mower is doing a great job, both in standard mode and the alternative mulch mode which he uses when doing the Council's job and mowing the verge at the front of Casa Piggy. As for the institutional uselessness of Birmingham City Council, let's leave that for another day.

Remember you heard it here first: Brexit means never having to say you're sorry.



    

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.




   

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.

It's No Wonder I'm Depressed

I use the word 'depressed' with all due caution. I am a manic depressive (I've got the pills to prove it) so I know whereof I speak. It's not really bad just at the moment but the signs are there and on this occasion it's not anything particular to me or mine, it's bloody everything else. The world is, and I've thought about this, weathering a shitstorm just at the moment. I'm not going to go ranting on again about Trump, but, really, the a man is a scar on the face of a great and important nation. And the American left is responding to him in all the wrongheaded ways so favoured by your proper leftists. Please someone, just realise that what is needed in the face of ignorant ghastliness is an outbreak of decency and humanity.

Of course the other thing it is pointless for me to bang on about is Brexit. What a complete and utter shambles. What a missed opportunity. How very British.

Knife crime - this one makes me feel like crying.

But enough. Snap out of it Dave, the happiest four days of the sporting year are almost upon us - next week is the Cheltenham Festival. To cheer myself up I have been crawling the net and getting contradictory betting advice to the point that I have now heard persuasive tips for practically every horse that will be saddled next week. No matter, BFP will venture into the betting jungle fortified by the thought that because last year was a financial disaster, this year is bound to be better. In his heart of hearts, the Pig does know that this is deeply flawed thinking. But he doesn't care.

So don't worry about the Pig. He's feeling better already. Writers write.   

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  

This Sceptred Isle

I can bear it no longer. Having wailed for an age that we were all going to Hell in a handcart, it is my sad duty to announce that we have finally got there - please make sure you take all your belongings with you when leaving the handcart and remember that when alighting, never mind a gap there isn't even a bloody platform.

A new acronym has been floating around my poor befuddled head - BRINO - this one apparently stands for Brexit In Name Only. It is bandied about by those Tories who think (correctly) that May's benighted deal was inadequate. Maybe, just maybe, no better deal can be negotiated, actually no I withdraw that prevarication - of course a better deal could have been struck if we had ever been serious about it. And now that nice but ridiculous man Jeremy Corbyn wants us to go back to the negotiating table having publicly forsaken our right to walk away. I'm bloody glad I never had Jezza for a client.

I no longer care very much whether or not we depart the EU - we are led by such cretins (with other cretins standing in the wings to take their place) that it all makes no difference. What a complete mess. Those in government are not fit to govern. The alternatives are mostly barking mad. Was this my fault? That thought honestly keeps me up at night. I do know it wasn't all my doing but should I have taken up arms against this sea of troubles? Whilst I have (fairly) quietly been minding my own business, paying my taxes on time and being a good citizen, morons have taken over the country. Whenever my infant daughters used to say that they 'hated' something, I used to scold them not to be so vituperative - hate is always too strong an emotion. Well here's the news: I hate our political class. And I rather hate myself for feeling that way.

Oh well it's only a game - time to get back to researching the best place to which I can afford to emigrate.  

I refer You To My Earlier Answer

Today's unavoidable headline is the draft Brexit Agreement. I've been watching the proceedings in the Commons and have to admit to a grudging admiration for our poor beleaguered Prime Minister - she has dealt politely with a queue of backbenchers all waiting patiently to ask the same specimen of question - 'You no longer enjoy the confidence of this house, please therefore let us off the hook of doing our job by mandating another referendum, which will hopefully give a different answer and we can get on with the job of ceding our sovereignty inch by dying inch.'

I said grudging admiration for she has, of course, been comprehensively out-manoeuvred in negotiations by the EU mandarins. May is right up there with Major and Callaghan in the running for the title of worst PM under whose yoke we have laboured during my lifetime. Could be worse. Couldn't it? Corbyn anyone?  

Writers Write

Which, as those who have been with me from the outset of this journey will recall, is the First Law of Marchant, he being the man what schooled me in writing. I think you'll agree, he did a bang up job.

By turns this brings me to the crux of my dilemma (do dilemmas have cruxes? Is that the right plural? How did I get here? That last one a knowing crib from Talking Heads): of late I mostly feel just so low about the fate of Planet Big Fat Pig that I can't be arsed to write. This is silly (that's an understatement) because all is golden domestic-wise - the Groupie is still with me (she must be bonkers I know) and Daughter Number One and Daughter Number Two are both thriving, a credit to their parents in fact. No, it is the wider world that aggravates me. No, not just bloody Trump (doesn't help though); no not bloody Brexit (doesn't help though); No it is the sheer asininity (one of the Pig's favourite words - mind you, if you've been with me on the journey this far, you'll know that) of what passes for adult discussion these days. Just listen to serious radio news and hear what I mean. We live in interesting times but debate takes place behind a screen of mediated PC bollocks. Brexit is, I suppose, the biggest and best example - a major constitutional moment being mishandled by a failed political class whilst the unlovable and the condescending (work out for yourselves which is which) are pitched at each other in the deepest circle of Hell by a flippant commentariat. Too serious to be funny.

I'm avoiding the Trump business most of the time but he still makes me sick - how's that for a telling response to asininity! In that connection however my eye was taken by this:

[He] has been honest, but he has been vulgar; and there is no greater external misfortune ... than for a great nation to be exclusively represented at a crisis far beyond previous, and perhaps beyond future, example by a person whose words are mean even when his actions are important.

You may have guessed that this is our old mate Walter Bagehot. He was writing about another Republican President - one Abraham Lincoln, no less. You have to wonder what the Boy Bagehot would have made of the ghastly Mr Trump. Walter, by the way, had the decency (and one has to admit, unusually for him, the modesty) to recast his views on Lincoln as the full scale of Lincoln's political genius unfolded. I'm not even remotely persuaded that I will have similar cause to repent of my opinion of Trump.

On the subject (which I sort of have been) of the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable (another favourite BFP aphorism) Baron Hain (Pete to his mates) has used the cloak of parliamentary privilege to out Philip Green as the beneficiary of a super-injunction preventing his being named as an alleged serial racial and sexual discriminator. I could bore you on the rule of law on this one but, you know what, I can't be arsed. Green should know better - and so should Hain.

Grumbling And Some Antidotes

I'll tell you what is true: Donald Trump is an idiot with peculiar skills; Jeremy Corbyn is an anti-semite but is so far lost in his wretchedness that he has no access to self-knowledge; criticism of the state of Israel is not per se racist; the Brexit process descends daily into a less and less amusing mess; I'm struggling to think of a current public figure who fills me with confidence. It's not just today that I feel all of these things - a little cloud of reflective misery follows me most of the time.

an antidote

Antidotes: I played golf at Cavendish Golf Club with my great mate Big Willy Mac last week and it seemed that God was in his Heaven and all was well in the world, most particularly as I parred the eighteenth before retiring to the bar for a Guinness and a bowl of chips; the next day I played twilight golf at Pype Hayes with three old rugby buddies - once again there was Guinness but no chips this time; Daughters Numbered One and Two are both home for the weekend so my family are all to hand; we had a curry last night and then watched Rain Man, a good film but not a great one - 7/10.

multiple antidotes

Life's been good to me so far.    

As I Trudged The Mean Streets Of Four Oaks

I say trudged but in fairness it was what passes for running on the part of the Big Fat Pig. Those out for  Sunday strolls greeted me cheerily and a small boy waved. My four miles felt beneficial after a Saturday of slobbery. My best runs come when I have something other than the discomfort of running to ponder - and today there was plenty to keep me ruminating. I mused only briefly on the shameless mendacity of John McDonnell who could be heard spinning his web of cheery Bolshevism on 5Live this morning. I am also past worrying about the scandalous mess our political class is making out of Brexit. I have achieved a mood of oblivious determinsm - que sera sera as we used to sing at the football.

large

No I turned my mind away from my tired limbs and fell to consideration of two sporting stories. Firstly, rugby union and England's capitulation before South Africa - England Shambles . Tackles missed, penalties gratuitously conceded, points arrogantly spurned, there was very little to like in this performance beyond a sterling first dozen minutes. Please don't tell me about the long and exhasusting season they have just completed. I get it, but this is international sport, it's not supposed to be easy. Moreover South Africa's best two players, Faf de Clerk  and Duane Vermeulen, are respectively at the end of an English season and (possibly more ruinously) a year in French club rugby. Topping the whole sorry tale, certain of the England players decide to behave with a singular lack of dignity in defeat. Nice one lads. As for the Springboks - welcome back to the top table, taking the seat vacated by England.

Talking of behaving badly - hang your heads in shame Phil Mickelson and the spineless half-wits of the United States Golf Association who were too timid to disqualify him at the US Open - Crazy Golf. 

So there I am then - polishing my halo as I help myself to another pork pie. Big Fat Pig, out. 

The Winslow Boy

As England were getting their arses kicked by the Scottish rugby team last Saturday, your correspondent was enjoying some pre-theatre pasta before sitting down to The Winslow Boy at the Birmingham Rep. The despondency at England's capitulation would come courtesy of iPlayer.

You might be kind enough to remember that your correspondent played the part of Sir Edward Morton in the Erdington Players' production of this play eleven months past. What, you'd forgotten/never knew/don't give a toss? Oh darling you cut me to the quick. Well anyway I took a particular interest in this production and felt a vague and unjustified ownership of the text. Self-important bollocks on my part of course, but, hey, a man has to dream.

This production is very good. So it should be because this is a seriously well-made play. I must sing in particular the praises of Aden Gillett as Arthur Winslow but on the topic of self-important bollocks said Mr Gillett is quoted thus in the programme by way of explanation of the play's currency:

For those of us who feel thwarted by Brexit and Trump, it is the sense of this vast mountain of injustice and pain that's affecting the western hemisphere that you feel you're powerless against. Particularly now, points of principle and fighting for what is right seem very important.

Crap. The play's messages have always been resonant. I despise Trump (what you hadn't noticed?) but voted for Brexit on a principle - the  very principle I learned as a lawyer and officer of the court and which marks Sir Edward as such a compelling character. You are allowed to disagree with me but this clumsy conflation of Trump and Brexit as twin pillars of ignorance is patronising. Stop it.

Misery Acquaints A Man With Strange Bedfellows

Chuka Umunna has been out and about recently preaching his well-meaning, soft-left, we know what is good for you bilge. That's his right but the poor chap finds himself yoked to the absurd Anna Soubry, she who can hardly hide her absolute delight at the temporary fame her own soft-right, well-meaning etc drivel is bringing her. It's quite good fun when this unlikely couple get wheeled in front of the cameras and you can see the unspoken doubt oozing from Umunna's every pore. Aren't people funny?

Chuka: "You ain't seen me, right?"

Ruminations On A Year To Remember/Forget (Delete As Applicable)

2017. What to say? There is no doubt as to the person who hogged the news. An entire liberal class, in several languages, has been banging on about the one and only The Divine Combover, the supreme shit wagon that is Donald Trump. I'm sorry but even when the man does something laudable (low taxes anyone?) it comes across as self-serving and vile. Somewhere in the depths of the year I read a piece that argued for the bringing back into fashion of the word 'ghastly' on the premise that it best summed up Trump. Agreed, the man is plain ghastly. The great sadness - so is Hillary Clinton (though not I concede on quite such a grand scale), which rather explains how we find ourselves in a sorry old state where the President takes to Twitter to boast about the size and effectiveness of his nuclear button. Ghastly indeed.

It's a small thing (not something you'd ever hear Trump say - boom boom!) but in 2017 this blog passed its one hundred thousandth hit. Thank you.

Politics in Britain was almost as bad a joke as Trumpland. We had an election which Theresa May fought so ineptly as to defy belief. Jeremy Corbyn has come to look electable. Ed Balls is reconfguring himself as a cosy media personality. His former antagonist George Osborne meanwhile manages to project himself as an even bigger c*** as a journalist that he was as Chancellor. Brexit (and yes I know I voted for it) is being handled as brilliantly as the Tory election campaign. Mark my words - there will be tears, not all of them British.

Good thing: the drawn Lions' series in New Zealand, reminding everyone that there doesn't always have to be a winner. The hard-fought draw is honourable.  A great pity that this nostrum is lost on modern professional cricketers.

Bad thing: my betting record at the Cheltenham Festival. Not a winner in sight.

Good thing: the Cheltenham Festival.

Bad thing: my golf - infrequent and incompetent.

Good thing: Cleeve Hill Golf Club, where I played in the company of good men and true and my little brother won the Question Mark Trophy.

Bad thing: Donald Tru...... Oh sorry I've already done that.

Good thing: I'm still in there swinging.

Bad thing: I'm still in there swinging.

Here's to a year of sensible political resolutions, wise gambling and good golf. Some chance - I'll lay you 100/1 the treble. For those of you of a legal bent, this is an invitation to treat not an offer susceptible of acceptance. Just thought I'd make that clear.

Happy New Year.

What's Another Word For "Inept"?

I ask because in casual discussion I am running out of descriptors for our government's handling of bloody Brexit. We are being taken to the cleaners by an arrogant cartel that thinks itself invincible. In charge of our project of exit is an impuissant Prime Minister who never believed we should leave in the first place. At this stage we have the inglorious spectacle of the Taoiseach doing Sinn Fein's republican dirty work for it and proving that in the world of the EU a little bitty piss-ant country can, when the mood suits the grand panjandrums, hold another to ransom.

For a bit of insight on how badly we have played this read Lionel Shriver in The Spectator - EU Divorce Bill

The EU would seem to be like the Hotel California - you can check out any time you like but you can never leave. It doesn't have to be this way but we need some sodding strong leadership rather than the craven appeasement which keeps getting chucked back in our face. And my argument here is not with those Remainers who so patronisingly question my sanity (I'm sorry boys and girls but honestly I'm not a political mentalist) but with the soggy middle grounders who can't be arsed to do any job properly. For the record I go back to what I was saying two years ago: I believe in the nation state and I am that annoying hybrid, a Catholic Unionist. The greatest chance of my constitutional nirvana lies outside the EU, just as does the greatest hope for true Corbynite socialism. That's a democratic risk I am content to run. My respect for Corbyn might be greatly increased if he would stand up and admit this truth - a truth he stuck to for all those rebellious years on the back benches but which now conveniently eludes him.

Oh well, there's always Christmas to look forward to. Cheers all.

What's The Collective Noun For Tossers?

A certain Chris Heaton-Harris has written on House of Commons notepaper (so far so good - he is an MP so he's entitled to use the stationery) asking university vice-chancellors to kindly let him know who is teaching European Studies and what they are teaching about our old friend Brexit. You can find a copy of the letter here: Heaton-Harris letter

I've had a good think about it and on balance, all things considered, looked at from all angles, I've decided that this man must, charitably, be a tosser. The information he seeks would be interesting but his method of trying to assemble it is disingenous in the extreme. As I say, tosser.

However, the reaction to it from certain universities is a little pathetic - rise above it, let him do his own research. Bin the bloody thing.

And here's something that isn't a secret - yes our universities are a hotbed of self-pitying leftist tosh. They have been for all of my life and I suspect it will be ever thus - and I include in that disparagement both of my almae matres, the both of which I regard with proud affection. It is always open to people to go against the flow - I did and lost no friends through it. It is when they won't let you speak you should be worried. And I strongly suspect that this is what is in Heaton-Harris's tiny little mind. Certainly the shrill reaction to his tossery suggests that they fear that that tool of the assinine left, no platforming, is to be turned on them by the big bad bear that is the government. Don't worry yourselves my dears - this government has trouble in breweries, piss-up wise.

How about a 'throw' of tossers?  

Plus Ca Change

I have three pieces of recreational reading on the go at most times: early evening non-fiction; daytime fiction; nighttime fiction. From the first of these the following caught my eye:

"The Schuman Declaration of 9 May 1950, called for a 'supranational community' to be established in Europe. The first stage was to pool coal and steel resources in order to improve the efficiency of the European economy. From this would eventually emerge a project with the professed aim of establishing 'ever closer' political union in Europe." Citizen Clem, John Bew

Prime Minister Attlee's government is described as 'squirming' at Schuman's proposal - Schuman, by the way, was the Foreign Minister of the West German government. At least Attlee understood what this all meant - later governments practised wilful ignorance or plain deceit. Take your pick. And we are now squirming all over again, which probably serves us right.

My musical tastes puzzle me - today I have been listening to John Denver, a voice as clear as those mountian streams he sang about.