Boadicea's Chariot

I travelled back to Blighty for the second time in late December. After three increasingly depressing Christmases and New Years with a Danish Christmas looking grimmer yet, going to Britain seemed to be the better option.

Gatwick is not my favourite airport. It’s not the worst, but it leaves much to be desired. Still… It works. My flight arrived, I was able to get through passport control quickly and was on my way without a hitch. The trains ran on time and were in a reasonable state of repair. Although nowhere near the same standard of trains in Japan, they were vastly better than trains on the Continent.

I arrived early in Dorchester and had a proper flat white. Coffee in the UK has improved. The chains are dire, but independent cafés are increasingly solid. At the B&B, I was put in my regular room — one en suite and with a large, comfortable bathtub. Due to the time, regular service was interrupted. Normally, a full English breakfast is included in the room rate. Two of the four nights, I was sent to the restaurant the innkeeper and his wife own. Bubble and squeak with black pudding and bacon both times. One morning, they cooked an egg and bacon butty. Christmas morning, they were with friends and family as can be expected.

I went to Midnight Mass at my old Anglican parish church. It was full of people. Some I knew, many I did not. We held candles and sang carols. The next day, there was a Christmas meal in the church hall. Just the regular… Roast turkey, parsnips, Brussels sprouts, carrots, mashed potatoes, pigs in blankets and brown onion gravy. This was followed up, of course, with a good selection of classic English puddings.

That evening I had a bit of a falling out with someone. Months of increasing irritation and tension boiled over. Because I came later than she wanted me to, we had a bit of a row. Well, she had a bit of a row and I was a bit confused and apologetic about the whole thing. I knew that I’d not have ideal access to the internet for about a week, so I tried to pack in nearly two weeks of calls and meetings during the first four days. She never gave me a time, so I thought coming between 6-6:30 would be reasonable. Apparently, it was not. Because there were four people trying to talk to me at once, I was a bit short when she rang up. After being screamed at and denigrated for a couple hours, I left. The following day, I tried to be the bigger person and came for our pre-arranged meeting. It was calmer, but the tension was palpable.

The following day, I travelled to Bath. Bath is beautiful, but the cracks are showing. There is incredible wealth and it remains a place where people go to be seen, but there are also many shameless grifters. There are the wealthy and the poor living side-by-side, the beggars seeking the alms of those with more money than sense. It’s a city of £12 cream teas and £80 high teas, but also a city where the broken sleep in the doorways of abandoned shops. It’s a city of polite gentility, but also a meanness that you just don’t see in Dorchester. A day or two in Bath suffices for me. I stayed at the YMCA. It was my first time staying in bunk beds. It was a step-down for me, but not as bad as I thought it would be. Actually, it wasn’t a bad hostel. It’s just that I’m more comfortable with boutique hotels and family-run B&Bs.

I enjoyed going to my favourite Nepali restaurant in Bath as well as Sally Lunn’s. Even if a bit touristy, Sally Lunn’s is still worth it. It’s not as dear as one would think and the quality is excellent — although having a card reader shoved in my face made me feel ill at ease, my preferred method of payment being cash. The Nepali restaurant is consistently brilliant. The food is lovingly prepared and absolutely authentic. The décor is much like you’d see in Kathmandu.

The falling-out of Christmas carried over. I was initially supposed to spend a couple nights at said woman’s flat, the person who originally promised to host me having cancelled in early November due to an extended visit to Ireland. She accused me of causing a major rift and that she needed time to heal. (Because I came an hour and a half, two hours later than she thought I should come — even though she never told me that I should come at that time) That left me with two days with nowhere to go and nowhere to stay. I was offered a night in an unknown man’s guest bedroom, but communication broke down and after an hour and a half waiting around, looking for anyone, I rang up the innkeeper who had booked me in for the following day and asked to extend. He said that there was one room left, but it was not en suite although I’d still have my own bathroom. No worries, I was happy with that.

New Year’s was fun. I went to Wetherspoon’s and met up with some of the lads. Two had cider, one had beer and I had a decaf coffee. We rang in the New Year at the town pump, the town crier celebrating his last New Year. Oyez, oyez! God Save the King! It was small, but it was Dorchester. It was open for everyone. There was no need for tickets, security or listening to Saddiq Khan’s appalling agenda. It was simply cheerful, good-natured and quintessentially English.

The following day, I took the train to see Araminta. The heavy rains put a bit of a damper on plans to take a long walk or do much of anything except hide in any open establishment and try to stay dry. Still, it was good to see her. That evening I went back to Wetherspoon’s and met up with one of my mates from the night before. We chatted for a while. I lent him a book I had bought — a history of three generations of an Irish working class family who had served as members of the Royal Hong Kong Police. I had heard of the book after listening to multiple interviews with the writer on the Hong Kong Heritage Podcast. He is also from a working-class Irish family, having grown up in the UK and Ireland.

On the second, I travelled to London after getting my haircut at my old barber’s in Dorchester and meeting a shopkeeper I’ve known for some time for coffee. Oh… And buying a lot of British cheeses to smuggle back to Denmark. The train was delayed due to flooding, but I arrived in London where I stayed in another hostel. It was a bit difficult, but I survived. The cost of living crisis has really forced many to make sacrifices.

London was not as bad as I thought it would be. Then again, the hostel was in Bayswater and I only went to the better parts of central London. Hyde Park is as lovely as ever. I can never get enough of the V&A. The British Museum was top-notch as always, but it can get a bit too crowded. London is in many ways the centre of the world. New York City thinks it is, but it’s not. I did, however, notice a meanness, a nastiness in London that I hadn’t before. Saddiq Khan has been an utter catastrophe. Although I never felt unsafe in London, you can see a staleness to it, a sense of policies being reached not because they are good or even reasonable, but because local officials with a lot of power want to stick it to the national government. London still looks like London. In some ways, it still feels like London — but it’s not that London I remember from my youth and that wasn’t even all that long ago.

I travelled back to Copenhagen on British Airways. It was better than the last few times I had flown with them. Heathrow is massive and busy, but it’s well organised and logical. I managed to get through everything quickly. Amazingly, the Danes were actually capable of doing their jobs and I didn’t have to stand in queue for nearly two hours like I did in October. In fact, I was silently waved through by a disinterested Danish woman. She took a look at my passport, a look at me and considered me unworthy of a first, much less a second, look. The only somewhat unsettling thing for me was passport control in Britain. For so many years, I had gone to Britain and lived in Britain. I’d integrated so well and made a life there. I can still go, I’m still treated better at the UK border than at the Euroborder, but there is a difference. In the end, I’m now merely a Eurowog. It’s not a comfortable feeling for me as I despise Europe and have no real connexion to it, beyond inheriting my mother’s citizenship at birth. In Europe, I’m classed as being somewhat too British to ever qualify as being European. In the UK, I am now legally a Eurowog — despite having stronger connexions to the UK than any part of the Continent.

In April, I will move to Ireland. Travel between the two countries will be easier, less stressful than between Euroland and the UK. After five years, I’ll be classed as Irish and will have essentially the same rights as a Briton. I think I’d prefer that than being a Continental. As for that rather difficult woman… I blocked her number and email address. She had been growing increasingly toxic over the past half year. Her narcissism, when blended with a growing drink problem, made it intolerable.

To all who still visit here!

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Albo was always a bit of a plank. A poor imitation of Bob Hawke, he could turn on the charm when he needed to, but it was always very superficial and clumsy. Still, Peter Dutton has been somewhat bland as opposition leader. Had Albo played his cards wisely, he would have had an easy go of it. Of course, that’s not what he did.

Albo chose to call a referendum on a “voice to parliament”. For those of us who don’t know, Australia’s constitution is notoriously tricky to amend and Australians are immensely fond of voting “no” to any changed to their constitution. Bob Hawke’s efforts, with bipartisan support and input, to make even modest, inoffensive changes to the Australian constitution were voted down.

Perhaps having been stung by Australian voters emphatically rejecting the 1999 referendum on becoming a republic based on a combination of the broad distaste for the model on offer and a view that there’s little point in fixing what isn’t broken, Albo and Ilk were rather secretive about the details. Was the Uluru Statement From the Heart one page, eighteen pages, twenty-six pages? Nobody really knew. What form would the voice take? There were no real specifics. Nor, for that matter, was there any real bipartisan support or even an effort placed into getting a broad spectrum of Australians to contribute to a final product. The vote, in the end, became a hyper-partisan war of words with accusations of racism and bigotry being hurled at even the most measured criticism. When indigenous Australians like Jacinta Price and Warren Mundine dissented, they were smeared and degraded. When Warren Mundine wouldn’t let himself be talked over by the ABC, he was subjected to ad hominem attacks on air.

In the end, it failed. In fact, the referendum was voted down in a landslide in each Australian state and the Northern Territory. The ACT voted yes, but nobody wants to claim responsibility for that. The response to that has been vicious. The claws have come out and the veneer of politesse by many backers seems to be wearing off. When the UK voted for liberation in 2016, when US voters refused to accept the chosen president, the gloves came off. I dread that Australia will now be subject to the same abuse.

Australia’s favourite dictator, Comrade Kim Jong-Dan of the Democratic People’s Republic of Victoria, has struck again. After spending months negotiating for Victoria to hold the 2026 Commonwealth Games — and running on that platform — he cancelled the games. After only a few months, the same people who said that the games would cost A$2 billion suddenly realised that they’d cost A$7 billion. Of course, cost overruns and unexpected cost increases are part of any building process. But… A difference of A$5 billion within months is a bit much. Part of the Victorian Labour Party’s strength in regional cities at the last election came from the promise of new infrastructure and facilities as a result of the Commonwealth Games.

That the games would be expensive was already well-known. South Australia had explored a bid, but chose not to proceed after they concluded it would be a loss-maker. Other Australian officials, such as the premier of Western Australia, held the same stance. That’s political maturity and responsibility. If something is going to cost more than it’s worth, don’t bid on it — or, at very least, cancel a bit early on. For athletes from Commonwealth countries, the Commonwealth games are a good chance to shine. They receive global exposure, but don’t have the Americans or Chinese crowding them out.

The games themselves are not in doubt. The UK and India are ready to host the games on relatively short notice, should the Gold Coast, which is prepared to hold the games, not go through. (Anastasia of the South Seas and Canberra would have to provide some funding — a possibility, but not a guarantee) What bemuses me is that Comrade Kim Jong-Dan acts with such brazen impunity. To begin with, the cost overrun of A$5 billion within months is not insubstantial. In any reasonable jurisdiction, heads would roll. The sudden cancellation will most likely cost billions in compensation. Again, in any reasonable jurisdiction, the head would be in hot water. Not in the Democratic People’s Republic of Victoria, it seems. Although there is a Senate inquiry in the works, it’s less certain what will come of it.

In recent days there has been a viral video circulating around the world of a German woman dragging an eco-freak off a road in Bottrop by the hair — twice. For those who have not seen the masterpiece, I have found a short clip which has the bonus of a driver in a black Mercedes-Benz knocking another-freak over.

There has been some confusion about what will happen. I will seek to explain the German legal context to you, my dear fellow Charioteers. Under German law, the eco-freaks will be charged with various offences. This particular group were merely annoying. Others attach themselves to roads with resins, etc. They will be removed, using jackhammers if necessary. They will be held financially liable for the damage done to the road in order to get them unstuck.

The amount of assistance provided to remove them from the road will, however, be strictly limited. Once removed, they will be sent on their way with court dates to follow. In many cases, they will still have blocks of asphalt, cement or concrete attached their hands. If two people attached themselves to the road in close proximity, they two will remain attached to either other. It is up to them to get the remnants of the road removed. Depending on what was used, it can be a very long, painful process.

Unfortunately… The heroine of the day, the woman who pulled the eco-freak by the hair, will most likely also face charges. However deserved, German law frowns down on people taking physically aggressive action against others — even if they’re in the wrong, unless it is strictly necessary for self-defence. The Mercedes driver will most likely also face charges. That this will turn them into martyrs with an international following is entirely irrelevant. German law, and German prosecutors (persecutors?) are almost autistic in their inability to understand when prosecuting (persecuting?) someone will cause the people and the state more harm than good.

Recently, at a work-related meeting in Copenhagen, I had the opportunity to here a republican Scotsman opine about the nature of monarchy. In his view, it’s an essentially racist, classist and parasitic institution — whether it’s back in the UK, Denmark or Sweden.

I didn’t bother engaging him all too much. It did, however, make me ponder that thought process. He is a reasonably intelligent man, but his views are not grounded in reality.There is a myth of the republic — that a republic is somehow more meritorious, that it is somehow more egalitarian.

The two great modern republics, the United States and France, would seem to embody the exact opposite of those republican myths. Both the US and France have social hierarchies, both have a history of less than stellar treatment of visible minorities and it’s hard to argue that American or French presidents have been “men of the people”. The United States, in part, was formed as a response to growing pressures in Britain to end slavery. There was a sense that it was not a question of if Britain would end slavery, but when. Twelve of the first eighteen US presidents were slave owners.

In South Africa and Southern Rhodesia, part of the drive towards becoming republics was the desire to remove the influence of the Crown in domestic race politics. On his visit to South Africa in 1947, King George VI defied South African politicians and personally pinned medals on black South African soldiers. The Crown was making its discomfort with Apartheid and its Southern Rhodesian equivalent known with some regularity. Even that pales in comparison with the brutality of Argentinean and Chilean republics. Without the brake that the Spanish Crown had been, early South American republics engaged in genocides against indigenous peoples. There was a fear that they, too, would become mestizo societies in the Mexican fashion.

I have similarly wondered about the nature of cost. French, American, German, Irish, Italian and Austrian presidents receive pensions for life. Former PMs, when applicable, also receive life pensions. In the USA, that means that six men are receiving presidential salaries. Likewise, in France, relatively recently five men were receiving presidential salaries. In Germany, it’s six. American, French, German, Irish, Italian and Austrian presidents live in mansions/palaces. These are not humble, modest estates. A primary difference is that these residences are not necessarily open to the public as museums. Although visits are possible, they’re strictly controlled.

Nicky the Fish has been arrested. What will come of this is anyone’s guess, but it’s refreshing that she has at very least been held to account — at least to a degree. At any rate, it’s not a good look. Alex Salmond and Nichola Sturgeon were the SNP’s big beasts. There was the possibility of having a reasonable, pragmatic leader after her resignation, but the SNP chose someone utterly useless. Now, with an ever-growing scandal that is going all the way to the top at a time when Scotland is suffering after years of chronic mismanagement, it’s hard to see a way out for the SNP.

It’s been three weeks since I started living with the Swedes. For the sake of clarity, I mean the northern European people normally resident in Sweden, not the root vegetables. That said, after having met and observed some of their adolescent and university-aged specimens, the distinction between the two blurs.

For the most part, I enjoy living in Sweden. Swedes, in general, are kind and decent people. They’re a bit reserved, but they’re polite and helpful. One thing they’re not known for is being boisterous, something which on occasion becomes a problem for me — especially when Spanish Inés and I start having heated arguments in Castilian. I made sure to have our last heated argument in front of Malmö’s famous windmill.

There are, however, certain, infuriating things that are rather typical for Sweden. When visiting Italy early this month, I was able to wash my clothes at a laundrette near where I was staying in Milan. Whether in Japan, the UK, Italy, Germany or Australia, there was always some possibility for me to wash clothes. In Sweden, there is not. Some years ago, the Swedish government passed a law which required all housing units to have access to washing machines and they must be free. On paper, that sounds good. In reality, it’s a bloody nuisance.

I’m still in the process of settling in. Part of that involves my living in short-term lets, usually shared. It’s not an issue, really. Though somewhat inconvenient, especially when having to head out with three suitcases, it gives me a chance to spend time in different parts of Malmö and to see which areas I like and which I dislike. It does, however, become a nuisance when I have to rely on others to handle booking a time slot for a washing machine. Yes, it’s based on a reservation system. What that has meant is that I’ve had to cross the Øresund to Denmark on a weekly basis. For the past two weeks, Viking-type chum has granted me the use of his washing machine. As his schedule, for the time being, does not permit it, I have had to find another solution. There are no laundrettes in this part of Sweden. They became redundant some time ago. Instead, I get to cross the Øresund to Amager and make use of a Danish laundrette.