I’ve mentioned before that the Danes are a precocious bunch, especially at this time of the year. Celebrations start on 23rd – known as ‘little Xmas Eve’ -and continue until after the noisy New Year bashes. Hence my bah-humbug picture.
But hey! (happy seasonal retort) Backside and I wish all you intrepid Charioteers the holidays you wish for – for yourselves and your families. Ding dong as merrily as you like, deck your halls and save a glass for poor old Santa!
And a Good Brexit in 2018!
Well, generally speaking, not very much, in my opinion, except when it comes to Ashes cricket in Australia, at which we s*ck, as the Yanks say. Continue reading “What’s wrong with England?”
It amazed me, gladdened a few and perhaps amused many to read that Coventry has been named City of Culture 2021. It’s hardly a natural epithet for a city whose history might better be described as dour, bordering on tragic. Oh yes, it’s had its moments of industrial significance (is that the word?) with Frank Whittle’s jet engine and a string of well-known badges gracing its car factories. But genuine culture is harder to discern. Does Mary Ann Evans count? She was born nearby in Nuneaton but lived in the city for some years as she became the noted novelist George Eliot. A bit ponderous for my taste.
But soft ! (etc.) What about Philip Larkin whose only widely known poem starts with a very rude observation? Yes, he counts as culture and he went to ‘my’ grammar school. Even more significantly his poems are imbued with a fatalistic gloom that is an essential part of being a Midlander.
So here’s one of his best poems, Afternoons, written in 1959.
Summer is fading:
The leaves fall in ones and twos
From trees bordering
The new recreation ground.
In the hollows of afternoons
Young mothers assemble
At swing and sandpit
Setting free their children. Continue reading “Home town thoughts”
My reader may not remember 1963, owing to age or wha’ever, but it was a year when the Tories had little local difficulties as potentially disastrous as their current turmoil. They also made prurient reading – often referred to as the Keeler affairs, with her famous beau, Cabinet Minister John Profumo and a Russian diplomat, Yevgeny Ivanov.
We were entertained by Christine Keeler’s fellow ‘escort’, Mandy Rice-Davies, immortalised by her comment in Court when confronted by a Defence Barrister: ”Well ‘e would say that, wouldn’t ‘e?”
The gubmint fell and Labour’s Harold Wilson became PM.
https://news.sky.com/story/profumo-affairs-christine-keeler-dies-at-75-11157992
I think it would be fair to say that Britain has not always dealt with Ireland fairly or squarely. Think famine and the Troubles. But I have always wondered why the Protestant Sect in the north has been allowed to create endless mayhem when it has been obvious that the best solution would have been a united, independent Ireland. There are enough precedents around the world that would support the idea.
Of course it won’t happen but I’ve had anough of the tail wagging the dog over there. And now the Republic wants to impede progress with Brexit. Typical.
Our thoroughly modern royal house seems to be keeping up with the latest trends (may one say, at last?). Their Spare Scion, only likely to succeed if four others fail, has introduced novelties of Churchillian proportions by proposing marriage to a Yank and that’s not all. Dare one say a colourful choice?
But more significantly, the worldly-wise Windsors are alleged to be avoiding the Trump factor altogether by simply not inviting him to the nuptials. I mean, who would, under any circumstances? That’s what I call Realpolitik. He of course will claim to have better things to do, whenever it is. But won’t he be a tad hurt with such a stellar rejection? One hopes so. (That ‘One’ may or may not refer to Harry’s Grandmama.)
Even more important – what will the bride wear? Will the groom’s best mate be revealed well in advance so that dirt he can be royally dished, character-wise, in good time? These and so many other vital issues to consider and so little time. So good wishes from me.
Thomas Hardy dun gud, lik wiv pomes. So eres won wot I lik. ‘The Darkling Thrush’, 1900
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
And that’s only the boys, if Archbishop Welby has his Christmas wish. (Sorry to mention the C word in mid-November, but M & S started it.)
I am married to a life-long smoker. Some years ago, by way of gentle retaliation, I calculated her consumption had already exceeded over half-a-million fags but of course I had not yet worked out the potential cost in time-outs in the modern world. But in Japan…….
I retired before smoke-free offices were enforced but I do see groups of addicts standing outside their places of work at all hours of the day. So I can see the problem. Meetings interrupted or postponed. Phone calls unanswered or delayed. Simples.
If they wish to claim their addiction is a medical problem, then they must submit to treatment. If not, the Japanese solution is fair.
What is it, this month?
Well, it’s sex scandals of course, mainly tales of starlets from many constellations being abused and exploited. The hypocritical tut-tutting echoes around the lots (of everything) in Hollywood and the corridors of power in Westminster; fuelling the flames of feminism and sending whiffs of grapeshot among the moguls and mandarins. Continue reading “Flavour of the month”
Boadicea's Chariot 
You must be logged in to post a comment.