Enoch was right

In Mum and Dad’s library, I recently found Reflections, a book containing some of Enoch Powell’s speeches, interviews and essays. It was sandwiched between several books by or about Maggie on one side and Confessions of a Political Maverick by Austin Mitchell, a friend of Arthur Scargill’s, on the other. I’m wondering whether my Sis bought them this book as a joke. Can’t imagine why else they’d have a copy. Anyway, I commandeered Powell and Maggie while sorting stuff to go to the local hospice charity shop. Much to Hubby’s Horror, it was one box of books for the hospice, and one for me; one for the hospice, and two for me, etc.

The measure of weights

Not long ago, a post popped into my LinkedIn feed decrying the Government’s consultation on the privatisation of Channel 4 as a travesty of democracy, or some such hyperbole. I easily knocked that one on the head and moved on with my life.

Last weekend, another post appeared denigrating the Government’s consultation. on giving businesses and consumers more choice in selling and buying goods in imperial as well as metric units. According to the post’s author and various commentators, the consultation was a waste of time, a distraction from more pressing issues, and the questions were fiendishly biased. In fact, it sounded like the worst consultation ever. 

Some inconvenient truths

You’ve probably guessed from reading my posts that I’m opinionated. And you probably think that I can’t abide others’ opinions. That second sentence is so untrue it would feel at home in the Guardian. What irritates the hecky-thump out of me are opinions based on lies, damned lies, skewed statistics, inconsistency, hypocrisy and an uncritical adherence to Zen-like group-think.

When I come across stuff like that, I feel compelled to counter with at least an alternative 'fact', whether it completely holds water or not. As long as it’s as defensible as, or more so than, the stance I’m criticising, it’s job done. I’ve come across so much tripe in the past few days that I couldn’t possibly write a blog on each topic; instead, here are some soundbites to get you grinning from ear to ear, or foaming at the mouth:

Oh, what a lovely war!

Some might think it’s ‘sick’ to be light-hearted at the expense of the war in Ukraine. However, if the Ukrainian army can play “Don’t worry, be happy” in front of military barricades to keep their spirits up, then I can engage my weird and not universally loved sense of humour as a morale (if not a moral) booster.

Traumatic as it is, the war in Ukraine appeared to have united Europe, and united Britain and Europe, apart from a few wobbles early on when the Germans seemed to care more about their gas supplies than the lives of innocents, this united front was going swimmingly. We all managed to put aside our differences so that the EU could do its thing and the UK could do its thing independently and free from EU shackles, thanks to Defence Secretary Ben Wallace. He has outshone Foreign Secretary Liz Truss just as Michael Gove outshone Home Secretary Priti Patel. Not the finest hour for the ladies, is it. (I can say that; the men can’t.)

The Clown Prince and the Lord

I’m sure Hollywood will make a film about this; it’s full of intrigue, red herrings, outlandish personalities and a dead dog. They can even nick my title if they want, reminiscent of the Olivier/Monroe classic The Prince and the Showgirl.

The storyline is about BoJo forcing through a Lordship for one of his Russian oligarch chums in 2020. It’s topical on many fronts – BoJo bashing, oligarch bashing, unelected-upper-house bashing. I sense I’m supposed to find BoJo guilty on all counts – cronyism, security-breaching, hypocrisy, elitism, another party-gate (he enjoyed Olly-Oligarch’s hospitality) – but as evidenced in my previous blogs, while I can admit to BoJo’s failings, I can’t help but forgive him because the lovable rogue got Brexit done.

Blighty vs Krautland, plus the ‘OxCam Arc’

Knowing that I speak German, enjoy holidaying in German-speaking countries, my best friend lives in Germany, and I have a line of Zimmermans in my family tree, a mate sent me a link to an article in The New Statesman. Yeah. The New Statesman. To me. It was always going to end in tears.

The article (From Germany, the UK appears ever more dysfunctional and absurd) was penned by one Martin Fletcher. The name rang a bell. Even before I read the article, I found his website and recognised several of his previous articles in various publications.

Fletcher thinks anyone who voted for Brexit and then for BoJo, to get it done, is a fanatical right-wing ideologue, a jingoistic xenophobe, or was too exhausted to think straight, was easily seduced by lies and vacuous gimmicks. His vocab, not my interpretation. There’s no room in his closed, liberal-elite (probably metropolitan) mindset for the possibility of an intelligent, thoughtful, conscientious, responsible Brexit supporter.

Don’t blame Brexit or Covid.

Well we are in a dreadful pickle aren’t we. Christmas is going to be the worst ever. No cheap, plastic, Chinese here-today-gone-tomorrow toys under a non-existent Christmas tree. No factory-farmed turkey. No smashed avocado for breakfast. THE HORRORRRRRRRRRRR!

Oh, strap on a pair. What’s wrong with a jar of homemade marmalade from the mother-in-law (best in the world – the marmalade, not the in-law), paper chains made from discarded colour-magazines, a whole poached wild salmon, and my home-made, home-grown plum compote. Compared to Afghan women, Chinese Uyghurs, and white working-class northerners applying to university, what’s to complain about?

Marketeers vs. Musketeers

A headline in today’s Daily Mail Online reads, “Supermarkets are ALREADY selling festive products with shoppers urged to buy now and 'stock up' amid fears over Christmas food shortage due to gas crisis”. Another one reads, “Alok Sharma [Business Secretary] insists there is 'no immediate concern' … the supplies will be there for Christmas…”

I know what you’re thinking; you’d rather trust a supermarket than a politician, so there must be an imminent shortage and you must shop for Christmas without delay.

Nah. Let’s think this through, shall we?

I'm proud of my Scottish heritage, but ...

A few blogs ago I wrote about women leaders and listed a few “turkeys – either incompetent or dangerous.” I missed one out. How, I really don’t know because she’s the biggest turkey of the lot.

Scotland’s First Minster, Nicola Sturgeon.

2020 ended on a high

Firstly for Hubby, who exchanged his too-small gilet for one that fitted nicely, thus meaning I officially bought him a successful Xmas pressie (see previous blogpost).

And also for me, who had a letter published in The Times on New Years Eve. Always an ego-boost!

The muse this time was Brexit – no surprise there then – in response to the slew of Remoaner letters in The Times on the 30th. I know “Remonaner” is an insulting term and that we Brexiteers should be magnanimous in victory, but these letters were undeserving of anyone’s magnanimity, which is a polite way of saying they were pathetic.

Cummings' Reasonable Motives

Just got round to reading the local paper (Bucks Herald) to see the publication of my latest letter-to-the-editor. Also this week, the other local (Leighton Buzzard Observer) published my photo of a great tit leaving its nest in a ceramic deer head on our back wall, but that’s another story.

Back to the letter. I wouldn’t say I was unquestionably in agreement with Dominic Cummings’ dash to County Durham to secure necessary childcare for his son, rather I was pointing out the hypocrisy and nastiness of some of those railing against him.

My letter in full reads: