Thrii Chiirs for thu Inglish Langwidge

According to the National Literacy Trust, 16.4% of adults in England, that’s over seven million people, have very poor literacy skills. And another study in 2010 concluded that English-speaking children may take twice as long to learn to read and write as speakers of more ‘regular’ languages, because English spellings are so variable. One such variability, cited in a BBC-online article, is "through" and "trough", written similarly but consonants and vowels pronounced differently.

This has prompted something called the English Spelling Society to join forces with the ominous-sounding American Literacy Council to shortlist six alternative spelling systems. They are now asking people to vote for their favourite, which will be promoted as an alternative to traditional English spelling. The objective is to “help people to master English spelling more quickly and without the teacher's red pen".

Wen ay red abowt this projekt, may furst thort woz that kids hoo lurnt tu reed and rayt this new sistum wud strugel to riid enithing ritten tradishunali.

BBC Personalities – an oxymoron

The thing that gets me about the salaries paid to BBC “personalities” is not the exorbitant amounts, nor the gender pay gap, but the fact that these giant egos are paid at all. Many of them should be fired on the spot because most of them are USELESS with a capital U S E L E S S.

Take Fiona Bruce for example. Please take her. Away. Anywhere. As long as I don’t have to see or hear her on the telly. Her diction is appalling. If she’s not rushing words, she’s slurring or swallowing them. She says “Tharsands” not “Thousands” and her intense, brow-furrowing, chin-thrusting delivery makes me wanna not shout but puke. She’s false. She’s unprofessional. She’s trying to refocus the issue away from the news or the question or the Ming vase on to her.

Forgiveness? Not gonna happen

Went to church with Mum today. Pity. Lovely Indian summer day. Could have spent it in the garden or walking across the fields. But I had promised her on Thursday that I’d take her and, like a good Christian, except I’m an atheist, I keep my promises. Unless it’s a really huge inconvenience, then tough.

The theme of today’s service was ‘forgiveness’, and how even if the perpetrator doesn’t apologise / repent / make amends or wotnot, a Christian should still forgive them unconditionally, or God won’t forgive the Christian their own transgressions when the time comes. 

The Oldest Profession

I think I’ve just read an article penned by the most selfish person ever. In fact, I’m going to stick my neck out and say she’s so selfish she has a narcissistic personality disorder, defined as being self-involved and having a prolonged, inflated sense of self.

Take a bow Lottie Gross, who’s supposed to be a travel writer and whose piece of garbage spluttered from the Daily Mail online while I slurped my morning coffee. The journey she was on today, however, was not of the geographical variety, but the emotional and moral. She doesn’t want children, never has never will. Contraception has side-effects for her so she really really really must be sterilised. It’s not fair that no one will help her. Oh woe is me. 

It’s Supply AND, not OR, Demand

Boris Johnson’s prime ‘primeministerial’ mission is to ‘level up’ the UK economy. By that, he means improving the lot of the ‘left-behind’ areas. Can’t argue with him there. A secondary, but not-too-far-behind, mission is to build more homes and make them more affordable. He’s not alone in wanting to see that happen.

Specifically, he wants to build more homes in areas where people want to live. Very considerate of him, but how does he know where people want to live? Has he undertaken a nationwide survey to ask them? Course not. He’s using an algorithm. Oh no – the dreaded “A” word!

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.

Hell-icopters, Compasses and 007

I received a few neat comments on my first posting of Hell-icopters, so I’ve rewritten it to incorporate them. It starts the same way:

Here’s a first – someone (my neighbour and good friend) has asked me to write a blog on a specific topic. Yep, I’m now taking requests – how cool is that! Except the topic that has been requested is helicopter noise (probably prompted by my previous blog inspired by Bea’s wedding). Sorry. Bit technical. Bit dry. I’ll start typing and see if the muse strikes. If it doesn’t then that’s another post collecting dust in my drafts’ folder.

And I was indeed struggling. Totally uninspired, until one of the buggers buzzed me when I was out walking last week, on a sunny day, lost in my own thoughts, enjoying the birdsong, the bees, the rustling leaves, the snorting of cattle … and then pulse pulse pulse, chop chop chop, grate grate grate.

Hell-icopters and Compasses

Here’s a first – someone (my neighbour and good friend) has asked me to write a blog on a specific topic. Yep, I’m now taking requests – how cool is that! Except the topic that has been requested is helicopter noise (probably prompted by my previous post). Sorry. Bit technical. Bit dry. I’ll start typing and see if the muse strikes. If it doesn’t then that’s another post collecting dust in my drafts’ folder.

And I was indeed struggling. Totally uninspired, until one of the buggers buzzed me when I was out walking last week, on a sunny day, lost in my own thoughts, enjoying the birdsong, the bees, the rustling leaves, the snorting of cattle … and then pulse pulse pulse, chop chop chop, grate grate grate.

Helicopter noise is different from the likes of SleasyJet and SwizzAir, because choppers generally fly lower, much lower, can hang around (I believe the technical term is ‘hover’), and I’m always suspicious who’s been flown where. If it’s an air ambulance, coastguard, police or military (especially Chinooks; I lurve Chinooks; so distinctive, so solid, so sexy) then fine. But if it’s the brash and tasteless nouveau riche heading to Silverstone or Pinewood Studios, then the finger it is. Some people make socialism a very attractive proposition.

A dress, a poem and some helicopters

Princess Bea and her Beau Edo thought they’d pulled off the perfect-under-the-circumstances-wedding – small, discreet, a borrowed dress (but what a corker), under-styled but oh-so-effective hair, and that was just Edo. Even this poem by e. e. cummings (1894 – 1962), read by Fergie, couldn’t be beat:

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

Is this the worst magazine ever?

I’m not a great magazine reader, apart from Standpoint Magazine and The Critic. It’s an absolute joy to read so many beautifully crafted articles, even if afterwards I can’t resist firing up the old laptop to ‘pen’ a letter to the editor from Mrs Angry of Buckinghamshire. 

Less erudite magazines I normally don’t have time for / I don’t indulge in / how on earth do I end this sentence without a preposition? The exception is when I’m having my hair coloured and have to wait 45 minutes while the chemicals do their damnedest. This necessary hiatus in my life is filled with flicks through the likes of Homes and Gardens, and I really appreciate page-after-page of stunning architecture, interior design, landscapes, gardens and plates of food. I might read part of the occasional article, and they do the job that was intended. They’re fine. I couldn’t do any better. I end the session at my hairdressers relaxed, in good humour, and with a long shopping list of ‘indispensables’ for the home and garden, thanks to … Homes and Gardens.

Kneel to God only

I took my 90-year-old Mum to church today, first time she’s been since before lockdown and she was so happy to be there. Unlike Mum, I’m not a regular Sunday church-goer. More like weddings, funerals, the odd Midnight Mass, and tourist jollies such as Eucharist at one of the Four-Weddings-And-A-Funeral venues, or at Wells Cathedral, where my great-grandfather learned to play the organ back in the 1880s.

However, I used to go to church every week when I was younger, so some prayers, psalms and hymns I know by heart, even now. But today, while reciting one of those familiar litanies, I had an epiphany. I was reciting the Penitential Rite that includes the following:

From Elland Road to Corporate Alley

Sob sob. Where’s me ‘anky? Former Leeds United great Jack Charlton has joined his recently departed teammates Norman “Bites yer Legs” Hunter and Trevor Cherry to play in that great football stadium in the sky.

Tributes are flooding in again, not just for Jack, but for the Leeds team of 50-or-so years ago and their manager Don Revie, who took a very ordinary club and turned it into the most revered (derived from Revied? Or reviled?) team in Europe. 

Sing a Song of Haydn's

That’s what we, the Stewkley Singers, were going to do this May. We had been rehearsing Haydn’s Nelson Mass since January, had covered just about all the movements, then wham-bam lockdown cam’, and rehearsals and the concert were cancelled.

At the time, I felt it was “a shame” but nothing worse. I was too busy enjoying the crystal clear, azure-blue, quiet skies because of the delicious lack of aircraft, and relishing the empty roads whenever I drove to Milton Keynes to visit my elderly mum. The town almost looked appealing.

Dr David Starkey

No need for a clever headline to attract attention for this post, methinks.

Unless you’ve been hibernating on Venus, you’ll have heard that Dr David Starkey CBE, Cambridge historian, writer and media presenter, said some apparently racist things and was promptly ostracised from society.

I have two questions:

How to lose friends and alienate people

Yes I know that’s the title of a Simon Pegg film – we watched it the other evening, which is what prompted the plagiarism. Not his best film, but it still contains some laugh-out-loud moments, like when Kirsten Dunst kicks Pegg on the shin. It doesn’t sound much but I thought it hilarious.

Talking about hilarious, I’ve had one of those anything-but weeks when I couldn’t stop annoying people. The first was during a hang-over morning, when I did not want to wake up to a half-a-mug-a-coffee-long email from a complete stranger having a go at a local project I’m leading on. We are trialling a voluntary reduction in the village speed limit from 30 to 20mph before deciding whether to go for a legally enforced limit throughout the village, for part of the village, or leave well alone. He said things like: why stop at 20 and why not 5; traffic-calming was more effective; ‘Community Speedwatch’ was even better. I fired off a polite (honest, it was) riposte that included variations on a seen-that-done-that-got-the-T-shirt theme.