Time to legislate against freedom?

If Britain today were a cheesy Hollywood movie, the protagonist would be preparing to rally the good guys with one heck of a motivational speech for defeating the bad guys, taming the cataclysm, finding the missing, fixing the broken, stopping the rain and marrying the love interest.

Would such a call to arms be a table-thumper or a dignified delivery?

Certainly British Prime Ministers, at least over the past 40 years, prefer the dignified option upon first taking office before repairing a damaged country / political system / economy / society / environment / anything they think they can achieve before the next election campaign.

Margaret Thatcher in 1979 quoted from The Prayer of St Francis: “Where there is discord, may we bring harmony. Where there is error, may we bring truth. Where there is doubt, may we bring faith. And where there is despair, may we bring hope.” 

The Lost Generation

No, I’m not talking about the generation that came of age during the Great War; or the young lives that ended prematurely during either of the two World Wars; or the Yazidi girls abused so heinously by ISIS; or the Bosniak massacred by the Bosnian Serb Army; or the generations suffering ongoing inhumanity in any number of troubled nations, Yemen, Syria, Sudan, to name just three; or the A-level students whose 'lives have been ruined' by a flawed algorithm.

Why Would You?

(With a little help from my friends)

1.    Move to a farming area then complain about the farms (The number one Why Would You for all of us)

2.    Dress provocatively then complain when you provoke

3.    Marry into the Royal Family then complain when they ask you to behave like a Royal

4.    Keep a pet tarantula

Oh! The Ruin of Mandalay

It’s not often I’m relieved that my Dad is no longer around. This morning, however, is different. Yer see, Rudyard Kipling was his favourite poet, and my Dad knew poetry, having published his first when he was just 14 years old. It was a poem from the pen of an average-ish student who, if he was lucky, would one day take over his father’s music shop. But as a result of the poem being read by his teacher and his father, his true talents were realised and nurtured.

Several years later, he was awarded a scholarship to Oxford University, where he read English Literature under the tutelage of C S Lewis and J R R Tolkien. It doesn’t get much better than that. Except in Dad’s eyes it did, in the form of Kipling.

Downright Disgusting or Pure Poetry

Every now and again, I toddle on down the lane with a long-handled grabber in one hand and a bin liner in the other, collecting the detritus that others have either dropped while out walking, thrown out of their cars while driving, or that has been dropped elsewhere and blown in the wind – Sorry, Bob Dylan, but that is definitely NOT the answer.

People who litter are themselves detritus. Trash. Rubbish. Garbage. Ugly. If you litter, do not pass Go; do not collect £200; go straight to jail and rot.

From 9/11 to PC Andrew Harper

There is something to be said for the renowned stoicism of we Brits. Don’t talk about your feelings. Don’t show emotion. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start all over again … penned and sung by Americans so maybe a more appropriate British cliché is to keep a stiff upper lip. Such a lip used to be considered a sign of strength and dignity. I believe it still is.

It has become fashionable to talk to anyone who will listen, and even to those of us who really don’t want to, about one’s mental health. The Cambridges and Sussexes are to blame. Is everyone trying to curry royal favour and get an invite to a Buck House garden party by opening up, being true to themselves, and “sharing”? If I hear one more footballer / actress / student / thief / yummy mummy / Influencer (whatever that is) or Royal claim “My mental health has suffered,” I swear that MY mental health will suffer.