. . . sworn in and raring to go.
Over the last decade, we’ve had more Prime Ministers than clean knickers. Kevin Rudd, Julia Gillard, Kevin again, Tony Abbott, Malcolm Turnbull, and now Scott Morrison.
On Monday, Malcolm himself called for a spill in an attempt to defeat an imminent challenge from Peter Dutton. He won, but only by a small margin, so a demand for a second spill was anticipated. Our doughty Malcolm was not going to give in gracefully, so he set a couple of difficult conditions on Peter D, for a meeting to be held today (the last day such a meeting could be called for a couple of weeks – don’t worry about why).
To his surprise, and chagrin, the conditions were met, and the meeting held. A second spill was approved by vote, but only just, 44 to 40 I think, and lo and behold there were three candidates on the ticket. They were Peter D (pushy, right wing, youngish ex policeman), Scott Morrison (“ScoMo”, middle-of-the-road, 50 years young) and Julie Bishop (62, vastly experienced Foreign Minister, known and respected by many colleagues around the world, Deputy Party Leader and in both positions for many years, middle-of-the road, described by some as “Turnbull in a skirt”). The pundits mostly said JB should win, but that PD probably would, because she was another pesky woman.
So whaddyaknow? ScoMo walked it, and another lad won the deputy leader job (JB didn’t stand for that, this time).
So Malcolm has resigned his commission to the G-G, and as soon as ScoMo gets sworn in (by the G-G), he’ll be head honcho. Talk about revolving doors. 😎
Entertainment in the ’50s and ’60s was all about sound, not so much about images. The wireless played a leading rõle in family life, with the morning pips reminding us we were already late, the evening news gathering us together at 6 o’clock and favourite programmes on weekdays and at weekends. And in our house the cricket coverage was eagerly awaited, especially the voice of John Arlott.
So it was probably my generation of listeners who first welcomed what is now known as TMS; a sporting institution. Down the years Brian Johnston (sans the ‘e’) and his younger pupils have bemused and amused us every year.
But Henry Blofeld has been a star in the firmament, with erudition and wit we should hardly expect from a mere sport programme. And now he too is going to retire.
Thank you, Bloers!
Stop calling it the Czech Republic! It’s Czechia! Just like Slovakia.
Yeah, right. And Holland? Or Taiwan? Or Belarus? And Cologne? Or Calcutta! Not to say Copenhagen.
I know we can’t say Ayer’s Rock any more but p-lease! Potayto, potahto, tomayto, tomahto – who cares? Unless you want to talk about scones.
At my local convenience store today.
The hitching post and buggy parking spots have been there for a while and are often used (sometimes just to leave a deposit as evidenced), the electric car charger is new and as far as I know, unused.
A few captions spring to my somewhat biased mind:
Sublime or ridiculous
Charging or discharging
Bullsh!t or horsesh!t
Nonsense or horsesense
OK, in common with several other Charioteers, I no longer have a vote in the UK – my citizenship counts for naught, except taxes.
And agreed, I am a long way away from the action – but I have read extensively on the subject and Boadicea remains close to the debate, as one would expect from a Doctor of Economic History from the LSE.
I have been impressed by the standard of debate on the Chariot, which has been streets ahead of the scare tactics and downright lies promulgated by many senior UK functionaries who really should know better.
There is a limit to the applicability and validity of too much analysis – one can easily lose sight of the big picture by searching too assiduously for the devils in the detail.
So here is the summary of my conclusions –
Everyone should vote to leave the EU, because a vote to remain betrays the individual as either corrupt (cherchez l’argent) or terminally stupid.
I’ll get my hat.
Sad to read of the departure of Victoria Wood.
A brilliantly talented woman, with faint echoes of Joyce Grenfell and a dash of Pam Ayres creeping in there somewhere.
RIP ducks – the world will miss you.