Linear Philanthropy

It's that time of year again. Christmas! 'Peace on earth to men of goodwill,' and all that sort of stuff.  But, let's not forget, that it's also a time for huge over indulgence and simply bucket loads of questionable TV 'entertainment.' At our home, we've begun to accumulate bottles on the theme of alcohol, the like of which we've not tasted since last Christmas; it's what's expected in a monetarist society. "Another mince pie, anyone?" "Baileys?"

It's to be hoped, of course it is, that most families (those who behave like families) are able to muddle through to at the very least an acceptable, or maybe a passable, Christmas. Also that they make precious time for their more elderly and lonely family members, and manage somehow to resist getting sucked into the spending spree maelstrom, that's been chugging up through the gears since mid October. In my humble opinion many of the most delightful children often transpire to be those who have not systematically been overindulged at these times- of course there may also have been one or two other contributory factors.


Thanks and seasonal greetings to Constance Wiebrands

Fortunately, if one is not overly dazzled by the constant bombardment of TV, radio, high street et al glitz, one is still occasionally reminded that there's a tad more to Christmas than indigestion and hangovers. Hell, yes, there's also crippling hunger, the freezing homeless, aching loneliness; oh, and that humiliating guilt that many families are forced to undergo, when they can't afford the price of these seasonally prescribed overindulgences.

Just a teeny tiny point at this juncture, more than a 'fair' deal of the above is as a direct result of the current government's austerity drive. In the interests of political balance, it should also be mentioned that Cameron, Osborne, Johnson and the likes would have been driving home much the same sort of divisive measures, entirely without the operating screen of a recession.


Fantastic! Thanks to Alex Laurie

We have come to expect the precipitated excrement generally to prevail, regardless of the misnomer labels 'our' political 'representatives' choose to hide behind. In my defence, this is absolutely not a personal acceptance of the current government approach to anything- if there's something upon which we chance to agree then it's generally because I've overlooked or misunderstood something- yet it appears to be something into which the majority of those who still bother to vote have been prepared to sleepwalk. So, there we have it! I'd say the future looks sort of sludgy.

So, in the light of the long overdue 'revelation' that successive governments have finally managed to achieve their unstated goal, that of reversing the trend towards a more egalitarian society, is there still a line left to be crossed? In good ol' Britain, where the London Mayor may now openly celebrate spiralling inequality as, "incentivising," where the inheritance twins of Cameron and Osborne * may openly refer to many less-fortunates as being of, "a dependancy mentality," should we simply hunker down and prepare for the engineered return to an openly feudal system? Or are there still lines that should not be crossed?


Exactly, Byzantine_K

"And the generals sat and the lines on the map moved from side to side," but where are those lines today? Allow me to suggest that the following is still an example of just such a line being crossed. Stomach-churningly, such an occurrence as the following is by no means an uncommon mishap.

So finally, to clarify, my stated line was rudely violated the other day by one Giles Brandreth (BBC 1, The One Show). I would strongly urge that he is the type of character of whom we should all be wary. The man speaketh with forked tongue, he doth. On this occasion he was lecturing to the nation, on the theme of Victorian philanthropy. "Hmm!" we might be forgiven for thinking, particularly if we were unfortunate enough to have witnessed Giles's dalliance with politics in the eighties.

Yes you, much as I do, will no doubt recall that the very same Giles Brandreth once slotted perfectly into one of our more callous governments, even by today's 'standards' and that's saying (writing) something. Under Thatcher the word philanthropy was allegedly deemed unpalatable- "let the oiks eat cake!" Rumour has it that, prior to the facts being politically sanitised, Anne Widdecombe once almost choked upon the word. If you don't recall, I'll just whisper the words, "queen mother," and "fishbone," into your shell-likes.


Here we go, Giles. National Library of Ireland...

Anyway, Giles was recently savouring the sound of his own plummy voice, as he professed empathy for the less-fortunates of Victorian times. This he did through the painterly perceptions of Samuel Luke Fildes, a Victorian painter, of philanthropic bent. Giles was referencing Fildes' painting, 'Applicants for Admission to a Casual Ward,' in which we may witness a depiction of destitute Victorians queuing for tickets to stay overnight in a workhouse.

"Where was this pseudo-compassion, during your time in government?" the more elderly viewer should have been thinking- not necessarily shouting, red-faced, at the screen, as I might have been. Giles, replete with self-assembly acme spine in situ, could be heard to feign sympathy for the, "hard working man who's lost his job," and the, "widow with child." I'll bet he forces out a few crocodiles, during Christmas screenings of 'The Christmas Carol' too.

Again, in the interests of a bit of balance, Giles did also get around to heaping much praise upon the 'underground' benevolence of Victorian Britain. So, perhaps we should give him the benefit of the doubt; perhaps, in his self-appointedly Scrooge- like way, all he really hopes for is a Britain where the likes of the modern day Samuel Fildes will be able to salve his conscience by painting huge canvasses of the created poor. Happy Christmas, Giles!

And finally, let me also wish the equally benevolent Bono a plentiful New Year!

* Could sitting on an inheritance cushion of millions ever be considered a, 'dependency mentality?' Hmm...

Magic

Had you been fortunate enough to have spent Saturday night (7th December) at the delightful Norwich Arts Centre you'd have witnessed the gathering of a slightly older generation of music types. More to the point of this post, I'm delighted to report that The Norwich Arts Centre is where I had chosen to spend my evening.

The attraction, on this occasion, was The Magic Band- that of Captain Beefheart fame, no less! Sadly The Captain is no longer with us, having succumbed to MS some three years ago. Entirely given to that of a somewhat complex persona during his performing years it is most unlikely that he would have put in an appearance, even if he'd been a spectacle of perfect health. The recorded history of the band leaves us in little doubt that he was not a man with whom to trifle over musical differences of opinion. But, boy, was he a producer and performer of edgy music.



Perfect, from Sundaram Ramaswamy

At the Arts Centre, as many of the man's loyal following gathered, words like 'gig' were once again heard to be uttered, coffees instead of beers were seen to accompany many of the punters into the hall; no pushing to the front, many of us were simply grateful to find a patch of floor upon which to sit and wait. Many in the crowd were older than your's truly, the prospect of all present standing throughout the concert had seemed a touch daunting at the outset.

I should never have doubted my own stamina; the mere sight of Rockette Morton, Denny Reebo Feelers Walley and John Drumbo French striding onto the stage was enough to transport me back three decades. Sadly no Zoot Horn Rollo on this occasion.

For those unfamiliar with the music of Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band any amount of wordy explanation  could only fail entirely to convey even the merest essence of their unique style. Those lurching asymmetrical rhythms, the surreal poetry of numbers like 'Golden Birdies,' where on earth could one even start?



Many thanks to the creative brx0

In the absence of the band leader, the gravel-throated John Drumbo French had stepped to the fore, voice resonating up through the floor, from whence it seemed to gather force in the gut, partying with Morton's driving bass lines.

Excepting the notable error of permitting a short drum solo to start the second set- I find that they're never quite short enough- Beefheart aficionados could not fail to have been thoroughly delighted. Worth the ticket price just to listen to Denny Walley bending the hell out of those immense slide guitar notes.

For those familiar with the music: 'Sun Zoom Spark,' 'Moonlight on Vermont,' 'When it Blows it Stacks,' 'Alice in Blunderland,' 'Click Clack' and the immense once-heard-never-forgotten 'Big Eyed Beans From Venus' might have even impressed The Captain.

Well, if not unreservedly The Captain, they certainly kept me and a happy gathering of like-mindeds fully wired.

Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?

As yet another unseaworthy vessel slides off the scaffolding we brace ourselves for the inevitable exponential inflation of the housing market. 'Your' government, in 'your' best interests, you must understand, has decreed that 'hard-strapped' developers now need your money to help them sell their shoebox-sized properties- the smallest in Western Europe and probably set to shrink still further, with more deregulation in the pipeline. Stage two has hit the ground running, perhaps dancing to the tune of, 'I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles.'

So, after years of BBC et al prodding- property programs might even outnumber those featuring so-called celebrity chefs- one of 'our' cloned governments has finally come up with that long-anticipated half-baked attempt at appeasing the property developers/investors.



Perfect. Thanks to Alexandre Dulaunoy

Much as the creation of the NHBC was almost entirely aimed at creating a climate in which cowboy builders might more easily do a runner, rather than offering any form of after-sales security regarding recently thrown-up houses, 'Help to Sell' is entirely a means by which overpriced homes might once again flood onto the market, underwritten as ever by the tax-payer. Because it makes far more sense to have hundreds of younger home-buyers mortgaged up to the hilt than to bring down those inflated prices to affordable levels. What could possibly go wrong?

Hark to the sound of Veuve Clicquot corks a-popping in Tory-landlordshire! Oh, the twists and turns that we might endure in order to further ramp up those most-wealthy to least-wealthy differentials.

Naturally, it 'wouldn't' have been possible to have invested in the building of more Council properties, which might have forced down exorbitant private rentals. Not only are current rentals hugely out of kilter with the value of the properties offered, extortionate letting agencies are now charging the earth simply for handling now-demanded-references. That's right, one now requires the good-character references of others before one is permitted to pay in excess of £600 a month for a damp cellar. Remember the red tape bonfire we were promised, worked a treat, hasn't it?

Perhaps I'm wrong, perhaps this 'Help to Sell' scheme will curtail exorbitant rents, but then again the inability of first time buyers to afford a mortgage didn't manage to bring down house prices, did it? Curious that, don't you think? Clearly market values, though much trumpeted, are not always the most favoured route of the wealthy market manipulators.



Precisely. Thank you, davelocity

Returning briefly to the issue of 'character references,' I've found myself writing more than one or two of these, in recent years. I've written the things, charged nothing- unlike some professions that I could mention- hand-delivered them to the agency, Hell, I've almost ushered the process from inception to conclusion, and yet it is the agency that charges in excess of £300 simply for... and the rest, alas, remains a mystery, another deregulation mystery, one by which yet more wealth seamlessly slides from those who earned it and into the pockets of the parasitic classes.

So, in the dark-light of the launch of this 'caring' policy what, do you suppose, are the chances now of any government minister seriously reigning in those payday loan companies? Good, or perhaps not so good?

The Exits Are Here, Here And Here.

Having flown Iberia Airlines, to the magnificently captivating Chile, I was initially struck, at the instant of safe touchdown, by the seemingly spontaneous round of applause that had broken out amongst the passengers. I was later to learn that, upon ostensibly Hispanic flights, such a rousing response is in fact traditional; gratitude, if you will, that one might live to savour another day. So touched was I that I have never since failed to participate; it seems the very least that one can do.

Although I have never really felt in personal peril, even during bouts of prolonged turbulence, it is clear that, for many (oft-frequent) travellers, any flight can be an anxious time. Thus, for the duration, the location of those emergency exits may remain etched firmly upon one's mind.

Back upon good ol' terra-firma, once those massive airliners have yet again shrunk to the occasional audio-interruption, or merely the high altitude glint of mirrored sunlight, even the most nervous of travellers may happily revert to regarding the Earth's unyielding surface with a becalmed indifference, those half-forgotten emergency exits once more banished to insignificance... at least until the next time.



As always, many thanks to Nigel Goodman

Down here perceptions of our immediate surroundings may be, at the very worst, poorly informed, whereas those of places further afield, where we are momentarily entirely captive, may far more readily be subject to the whims of Mother Earth. The statistics are generally strongly in our favour but, ultimately, it is the emergency exits that are the illusion, and not the vagaries of the elements. We chance to fate and technology invariably provides most of the required answers.

Ever-present death, potentially lurking just around the next corner, should merely serve to sharpen our senses, heighten our awareness of all that is good and great, perhaps occasionally nudge us circumspectly back onto the pathway to long(er)evity. It should not be permitted to cuckoo the nest and out-bulk its usefulness. And, should you ever doubt its (that is death's) value, imagine a world still encumbered with the likes of Hitler, Mao, Vlad, Idi and Thatcher. Allow me to suggest that, even here on Earth, there might well be times when we wish that we'd listened somewhat more closely to where those emergency exits might be situated.

Three current and ongoing instances spring to mind, each urgently requiring easy-access emergency exits to which one might retreat or, if all else fails, at least provide a direction- exits wide open, please- towards which one might shove the offending cause.



Also, thanks to Ashamar

1. Education:
The Gove's latest heavage- far in excess of any air journey- has me, as it should the entire thinking nation, flailing about wildly, searching for those emergency exits. "Why have not the oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling?" one might be forgiven for pleading. The man-puppet may yet be the most dangerous 'creature' yet to have been permitted to crawl close to such a treasure that is the means to the education of our children, and this is up against some mightily stiff opposition. "Where are the parents, for God's sake!" the saner listener or viewer should be screaming. I shall not attempt to over-elaborate- it might demand more than several entries- suffice to write that Michael Rosen has here put it far more concisely than ever I could hope to do.

But, of some immediate pertinence; precisely how many years of denigration might serve to best elevate, does one consider, this profession to its optimum teaching capacity? One for you to ponder, the Gove, should those blinkers ever be temporarily removed.

2. Health:
Of perhaps even greater weight there remains also the ongoing concern for our National Health Service. Highly pertinent to which, is it not somewhat alarming to have in charge someone who, in a more accountable society, would be this very moment serving a prison sentence for what was for all intents and purposes insider trading? JC, perhaps the Devil incarnate?

Cameron and his ilk may well spout untruths about the safety and security of this jewel (the NHS, not JC), 'entrusted' into the hands of his 'beloved' Jezza, but the true picture is hardly secreted that carefully any more. In the shadow of such wholesale destruction elsewhere, maybe it is felt that the public stomach for staunch resistance has entirely wilted. Should the Unions raise their heads above the parapet there's always the sniper-rich 'free' press to pin them down. We certainly won't want the Unions standing up and defending our health service, do we? Think of the damage preserving such might cause. And, also in the interests of 'patient care' (not) JC has 'selflessly' decided that next year's 1% pay increase for NHS staff can no longer be afforded. Everyone pull together now!

And those emergency exits? It seems more than plausible that these may currently be entirely blocked by wardless patients, lining the corridors, shouldering some of the burden of those PFI 'efficienecy' cuts. We can't have those 'benevolent' major 'investors' losing out, can we?

3. Public Services:
Although the term Public Services has become very much of a misnomer in recent decades, these war-battered  remnants remain the lifeline to which many of us still cling. Now we are all apparently customers, not necessarily greatly valued ones, seldom if ever right, but customers none the less, and far more importantly handsomely paying customers.



Thanks, so much, Alan Stanton

If you are of an age you will recall the wholesale selling-off of all that was or might have been regarded as a public service. Thatcher, you'll no doubt also remember- I certainly do! We were promised that, "competition in the market place will drive down prices," were we not? And, very much in the shadow of that lie, the 'free' press endorsed public give-away almost overnight obliterated our public services.

We now have energy companies that freely crank up their prices unilaterally, no longer feeling obligated to fully-justify these rises. Any half-pretence at yielding to market forces is just too much bother now, the extortion cartel is far too busy wallowing in excess wealth to care about whether its customers (victims) are keeping their heads above water or not. Our railways offer the most expensive journeys on the continent (cost per mile). Environmental concerns have been entirely subsumed by the entrepreneurial 'right' to develop, as has town planning. In the total vacuum that was Council housing, unscrupulous landlords now routinely rake in more than double a property's true value. And the police force is little more than a mercenary remnant, available to hire- at a cost to the taxpayer- purely in the interests of royal pageant, capitalist interests and anti-democratic practice.

Suddenly those turbulent flights, with their illusory emergency exits, don't seem half as daunting. It would appear that the far more urgently required exits, here on terra-firma, have long since been chained and padlocked closed, rusting neglectfully into stasis.



And finally, thanks also to Brittney Le Blanc

I was there, in Manchester, conceivably the only fully sane mind present, one might be forgiven for thinking. I was certainly in a very small minority. And, when the Gove received his statutory round of applause, when JC was 'warmly' received, when Georgie Boy was roundly 'congratulated' for dragging the recession into unchartered waters of longevity, I wasn't the only one nervously searching for an exit. We really could have done with a few more in the nineteen-seventies, when the ratio of relative incomes of the most to the least wealthy was about 50:1. Instead we've allowed successive governments to usher in a discriminate recession, where these ratios have been stretched to 400:1.

Much like those anxious passengers on the plane, with the notable exceptions of the surgically-altered cabinet, my impression was one of intense-collective-relief that the barrage of lies was finally over. Even the dogmatically-faithful had barely dared to prize their eyes from the emergency exits.

Head Over Heels.

Saturday (31st August) found me kneeling, perhaps as if in prayer, upon the gravelly tarmac of one of our North Norfolk country roads. Had one asked me, prior to this event, whether the old knees were up to it I'd have very much doubted it. But circumstances had other plans afoot, so the choice was no longer mine to make; adrenalin had temporarily usurped coffee as the drug of choice.



The 'life-saver,' looking surprisingly sprite and sparkly.

Kerry and I have attempted, more than once or twice, to recall exactly what transpired to bring about this unlikely eventuality but, alas, we continue to draw just so much of a blankness. And, with time remorselessly continuing to transport us ever further from the event, it seems unlikely that we'll ever fully unravel more than the vaguest of recollections.

Suffice to write that my most stomach-churning *memory is one of Kerry (*sailing over her handlebars and) thudding, face and shoulder first, into the road, at something in the region of twenty-five miles an hour. I cannot even begin to approximate the 'sound' that Kerry emitted, upon impact with such an unforgiving surface; something perhaps occupying a space that is neither entirely sound nor tactile sensation, the pained acknowledgement of unequal contact that might also reach up and grasp one somewhere directly below the heart and wrench downwards with an unforgiving might.

My very next recollection is one of looking down at Kerry's tightly shut eyes, her hand clamped over her mouth, body- appearing alarmingly smaller and more fragile than usual- static and locked tight in anticipation of imminent pain. That not a single tooth was so much as chipped almost defied belief, no soft skin grated off to hang displaced, from a throbbing and bloody chin. The chances that such luck might have held seemed to fluctuate considerably over the following seventy minute wait for the ambulance.

Eternal thanks must go out to the angelic Karen, her family and friends, without whom I'd have been worse than hopeless. Kerry, ever eager not to trouble the locals, was 'game' for cycling home after the briefest of recuperative rests at the side of the road, but Karen was having none of this; within moments she'd wedged Kerry's head between two towels and covered her soon to be shock-convulsing body under an array of items of clothing. My far less technical role was to one of ensuring that Kerry did not fall asleep, hence the 'kneeling in the road' scenario. Despite frequent requests from Kerry at no point did I consider the incident deserving of photos.



Now no longer with us... thankfully just the helmet.

A series of urgent spinal checks were undertaken- at the same time both reassuring and unnerving- and an ambulance duly requested. That so many first-aiders slowed to offer assistance would have been heart-warming, were one's heart not otherwise occupied, pumping endless volumes of adrenalin through one's system. Cups of tea and blankets swiftly arrived, the offer of a temporary store for two bikes, offers of transportation for the same, much concern and sympathy from a wide array of concerned locals.

So, Karen's vehicle tucked into the verge, affording ample protection from other might-be-less-observant motorists, our extended party arranged around the immobilised Kerry, we waited, whilst the ever-diligent Karen became evermore insistent that the ambulance hurry. And we waited! Through bouts of shock induced shakes, through teeth-chattering shivers, and- most alarmingly- periods of sudden drowsiness, we waited!

The Police road block arrived after perhaps forty minutes and, following a further ten minutes or so of trying, finally managed to extract an estimated time of arrival for 'our' ambulance.



Obviously this needed to remain strapped firmly throughout to Kerry's head.

We were eventually able to scale down our levels of concern, once the excellent paramedics had arrived, been able to confirm Karen's initial diagnosis and tentatively remove the above cycling helmet. To be replaced by a neck brace and an elaborate array of immobilising blocks, an aluminium body-board and several metres of heavy strapping.

The ambulance had travelled out from Norwich- nothing any closer, thanks JC!- thankfully not at the wrong end of a full twelve hour shift; not really the ideal working day for anyone charged with such vital responsibilities. Again, thanks JC!

T'wasn't really until about six o'clock, emotionally drained, X-rays studied, that we both eventually felt at relative ease, mingling with the lost or confused patients of Norfolk and Norwich Hospital. Naturally everything had shut down, various corridors were locked down and no longer accessible. I'm guessing that the patient we encountered, searching for a snack and a newspaper, was ultimately unsuccessful in his endeavours.



Bye, you lovely 'life-saver,' you.

And, surely, this must also be another cheer for the cycling helmet; heartily deserved! I'm not of a medical persuasion, but I saw (or conjured up) the impact- conceivably just one of several impacts, as I suspect that Kerry may have bounced at least once- and I picked up the pieces of a damaged bike. Consequently, I shudder to think what might otherwise have been...

The replacement helmet is, naturally, a far more grand affair. And we're currently- one week later- speculating as to when we'll feel brave enough, and Kerry mobile enough, to venture out again.



And it's bye from the casualty. The NHS tag worn entirely in recognition of all NHS staff involved, entirely not in recognition of the Secretary of State for Health.

"The best thing about dying is when your life flashes before your eyes and you remember all of your passwords." This did not happen.

* Unsure if this is a half memory or a false memory.

You Feel No Pain

The armchair sumptuous, the selected novel beckoning invitingly, the coffee copious, aesthetically presented. The best coffees invariably are, or should be; it's integral to the coffee experience. Long hours stretched out before me. Perfect!

One final glance towards the beverage of choice, steaming patiently upon the occasional table. Audrey Niffenegger's 'Her Fearful Symmetry' perched expectantly upon the right arm of the armchair. I breathed in the heady, coffee-enhanced woody scent of the summer house and raised a hand. But the moment had already been ruptured.

From somewhere without there came an intrusion. I cocked my head and waited, urging the distraction to pass. To pass! To damn well be on its way! But the invasion persisted, drawing me reluctantly from my meticulously prepared cocoon, to drag me, heavy-hearted, through the house to investigate.

The culprit sat, immobile, eyes to the road, perhaps concussed senseless by her ill-conceived choice of volume. The windows were down; why not 'share,' impose upon a whole neighbourhood? I squinted into a right ear, lest I might detect a point of sunlight glinting through.

Now, I love my music. Love it! I've thought about it, agonised about it, meditated upon it. I've clung to it, hung upon the rise and fall, the rhythm, the perfect interplay of the instruments, the raw emotion, the virtuoso brilliance of it. I've marvelled at its complexity, its naked simplicity, its surreal sensitivity. I've allowed the notes to nestle inside my being, to settle, to strengthen the foundations and to resonate within. I've experienced that inexplicable otherworldliness in the pit of my stomach and, in its appreciation, I've cried, cried bucket loads.



Technical competence, bugger all, but emotional investment, it's right up there, chock full!

Yes, I've got friends who are enviably gifted, who compose, who perform, who teach and delight others, that I might stand in awe and marvel. But I was looking in very much the wrong direction when that particular ship set sail, so mine is simply the role of empty vessel, within which the brilliance of others may chance to effervesce.

Music has fed my soul, left me ever nourished, yet always slightly peckish. Shakespeare allegedly said, "If music be the food of love, play on." But, as we all know, some of us to our costs, there's music... and then there's 'music!' And the 'music' that had drawn me, exasperated from my chair, was plucked very much more from the McDonald's or the KFC 'convenience' range, than that of 'The Fat Duck' choice menu, far more indigestion than temptation for the soul.

The brilliance of music may feed yet it never bloats. And, by this measure, the mediocrity of music sits like the very worst polystyrene tray of (in)convenience foods, gnawing irksomely at one's stomach lining. Because music is also very much capable of mediocrity and, like the very worst of KFC joints, the airwaves are bloated with it, as one insensible driver had just painfully reminded me. Much in the same vein that McDonald's shouts its identity at you, from any high street corner, the worst of music may thump at you from many an open window. It's never going to be Bach's Magnificat, far more likely something voted into prominence, via 'The X Factor,' or, just conceivably, something a tad rappish that's going to slam, uninvited, into your eardrums.



"Without music, life would be a mistake," Friedrich Nietzsche once claimed. At the time he couldn't possibly have imagined just how mistake-bloated that music might become, spinning in never-ending pursuit of yet further profits. Why waste time composing when one can simply recycle? Thus much of it is about as pleasing to the senses as the damp card and broken glass corner of many a supermarket car park. How could it be otherwise, given the rabid haste with which it may have been 'produced?' A world in which the Christmas number one might be pre-ordained, as voted into prominence by an audience, hyped into standing ovation at a single strained, oft-missed, note? Really? And we want to celebrate this achievement, do we?

Of course, even the best of musicians, have had their off days. And, being an art form, one listener's perfection is, indeed should be, another's abomination; art is, by definition, subjective.

So, the heft of my contention is really two-fold; firstly that the route towards artistic integrity is never going to be achieved through the majority voting of attention-deficit audiences. Wonderful music is far more likely to be that one glimmering pearl produced from within a sparsely populated oyster-bed, than any and every form from the selection of worm casts extruded from the surrounding sands.

To saturate the airways with mediocrity just creates more noise, within which to obscure those precious gems. I can only speculate as to the chemical enhancements or other inducements to excellence that may have produced my musical choices; I merely thank the heavens that 'public' voting wasn't involved.

And secondly, should we embrace the subjectivity of artistic merit, that my music should not (and will not), uninvited, be permitted to pollute your airspace, and that your's should not corrupt mine. Plato was attributed, amongst his many wonderful insights, with these words; "Music gives a soul to the Universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination." History did not record him muttering, under his breath, "and fatigue to one's integrity," as he shambled off in order to avail himself of some much needed peace and quiet.



The noise that had interrupted my reading had pained me and, as Bob Marley once said, the "One good thing about music (is that), when it hits, you feel no pain." Thus, to my ears, it was just that, noise! Painful noise!

The stern faces of those walking past seemed to, very much, echo my sentiments.

To Whom It Really Should Concern.

Of course, it never does. And, therein, lies the problem- one of the problems. One of the many!

My thoughts were refocused just the other day, whilst queueing to pay for some Coffee Mate at Budgens in Aylsham. My wandering musings, in lazy tow behind the eyes, chanced upon a Norwich Evening News headline; "Judge Praised For Upholding Norfolk Man's Death Crash Driving Ban," (3rd August 2013).

In the time that the short queue took to disperse I was able to wander over to the news stand and to familiarise myself with the details. I was informed that one Jake Riseborough had recently failed in his attempt to have a five year driving ban lifted. His appeal arose as a consequence of Jake not being able use his car in order to avail himself of a job. Such responsibility, I was almost tempted to snap him up myself.


Thank you,  Lee Haywood

Gleaning information entirely from the Evening News I was able to deduce that, in his appeal, young Jake, had not considered the death of Stacy Cutts (18) to be deserving of such a lengthy punishment. Nor had he considered the act of burning rubber in a supermarket car park, whilst still on bail, to be relevant. Nor did he consider the fact that he would effectively only be expected to serve an eighteen month ban to be of any relevance. My God, I thought, let's get this responsible and contrite young man back on 'our' roads as swiftly as is humanly possible.

Jake wasn't alone in the act of causing one family to be plunged into some sort of living Hell. Heavens no, the responsibility was shared by one other heavy-footed youth, the boyfriend to the victim, Tom Wright.

Road Safety Campaigners, Stacy's family and, hopefully, many far more considerate road users will have been heartened by the outcome of Jake's review. But, I was given to wonder whether all culpable parties had been duly brought to justice and fully held to account.


Thank you also, John

I'm prepared to stick my neck out here, and to suggest that Jake's short driving life- he was eighteen at the time of the fatal crash- was largely akin to an aggressive-mobile-accident scouting for a 'suitable' location. I would go as far as to presume that Jake's travels in and around his hometown of Diss had already been cause for some concern, perhaps that some of his fellow residents were quickly learning to recognise the thunderous approach of his, no doubt modified, exhaust, that those who were unfortunate enough to reside within earshot of his regular and over-zealous travels were already growing tired of his antics. I'm guessing also that Jake, prior to his absolute loss of control- assuming that he ever really had any- was far more interested in late night demonstrations of speed and noise than he was in finding any sort of gainful employment.

Highly significant, I'm going to suggest that Jake's woeful ineptness behind the wheel of his car was almost certainly already known to the 'local' police, to whom one or two of his 'fellow' Diss residents had already expressed concerns regarding the safety and legality of his driving. Hands up, I could be wrong, but I don't think so!

I base my assumptions upon- absolutely related- numerous conversations and exchanged correspondences that I've had with Aylsham's 'local' police officers, regarding Aylsham's own 'show' drivers. Certainly, my experiences have confirmed that officers here are fully aware, regarding who does and who does not display aberrant driving tendencies similar to those of the subject's.


And to H.L.I.T.

In Aylsham we are 'blessed' with, amongst others, one child 'motorist' who will daily and nightly over-rev and deliberately misfire his engine in order to create maximum disturbance. Late into the night, well into the early hours of a morning- often in the Bure Valley Railway Station car park- he will spin his shiny red hatchback in tight screeching circles, or gun his modified exhaust, 'cheerfully' disturbing anyone and everyone within earshot. Given, also, his zippy nocturnal excursions through the town's streets this may well often be almost the entire population of the town. I think it would be fair to assume that in excess of a couple of hundred households are more than fully aware of this particular accident-in-waiting.

In fairness, I've not contacted police officers regarding the child, but I know that several others have. My faith in the police 'service' no longer affords me the energy, nor the expectation, to even bother. I find that the sour taste of failure is frequently more dilute should one not have bothered in the first place. This could almost be a running slogan for Twenty-first Century Britain! Sums 'us' up a treat!

Let it suffice to be written that several weeks of uninterrupted nocturnal revelry has thus far gone totally unchallenged. And previous police dismissals, regarding my once 'voiced' concerns, had often alluded to the, "every town has its youth issues," gambit. I don't believe that it's stretching credibility too far to assume that this would necessarily include Diss.



Thank you to jenineabarbanel

Lest you should, mistakenly, believe that the country has recently elected accountable Police Commissioners- what otherwise was the point?- I suggest that you just once- any more will drive you to violence or despair- try to report the next bout of boy-racerish-ineptitude that you witness in your nearest town. And, before you are driven to act further, I would suggest that vigilante solutions really will wake up those sleeping policemen. We can't have people just doling out their own forms of vigilante justice, that's what the police are for- 'justice,' not 'vigilante justice'- isn't it? It might, during our darker moments, be comforting to envisage the masked vigilante winning the day. But, 'vigilante?' imagine the types most likely to take up these particular reigns!

To draw a fair parallel, allow me to conjure up an occasion for you. After an evening dinner party one of your more bull-headed guests has consumed well in excess of a reasonable volume of wine. He- it's invariably going to to be a he- announces his intention to drive home.

What is your role? Where do your responsibilities lie? Are you duty bound to confiscate the keys, or to alert the police to this act of irresponsibility? And, if you do nothing, other than to metaphorically cross your fingers and hope, are you not also, at least in part, culpable? Are you actually partly legally responsible for the potential carnage that your guest might be about to wreak?  And, should the worse happen, if you are a compassionate individual, you'll almost certainly feel culpable.



And finally, thanks to Mark Hillary

And, by the same measure, in the case of Jake Riseborough and many more like him, I believe that the 'knowing' police are also culpable. I wonder if there might not be statistics available, whereby we can see exactly what percentage of crashes and consequent deaths, like the one devised by Jake Riseborough, are caused by known persistent offenders?

Thankfully Budgens is usually well stocked up in Coffee Mate.

Auspiciousness

In the news again, although the clock is ticking loudly regarding this particular issue- mortality duly considered- WW2 Nazis. The topic of conversation? Should WWII Nazi war-criminals still be hunted and finally brought to justice? What do the readers/listeners/tabloid-consuming reactionaries think?

Sticking my neck out, I'd be prepared to commit to an opening gambit of, "It's a bit of a tricky bugger," working inexorably towards the far less fence-straddling stance of, "Absolutely, nail the bastards!" 

But, having thus committed, I've also come to recognise the immense part that context must necessarily play in such matters. Should, for example, the age, or the ailing health of the alleged perpetrator be considered, when 'justice' is about to be doled out? * Exactly where to draw that super-sensitivity line?

Draw it in the wrong place and Lord alone knows what might transpire. And who gets to pick the particular brand of Nazi/fascist/war-criminal anyway? Recalling the relatively-recent conflict in the former Yugoslavia, one camp's ‘solution’ swiftly and seamlessly managed to create the opposing camp's 'perfect' model of hunted and hated war-criminal. Undoubtedly, this is not the type of synchronicity we're aiming for!

Many thanks to Danny Sullivan

And, did the Iraq and Afghanistan invasions, purportedly aimed at bringing certain individuals to task, even half-pretend to feign an attempt at creating greater harmony? Or did these actions simply transpire to fuel bucket-loads of anti-Western sentiment for generations to come? Indiscriminate bombing of civilian targets is never going to be a huge vote-puller, regardless of the volumes of oil concerned, or indeed the misdeeds of the hunted.

Again, with regards to the Iraq and Afghanistan situations, I'm once more prepared to stick the ol' neck out and contest that very much more of the latter appears to have resulted.

I think that it would be more than fair to presume  that any individual's ‘informed’ and stated opinions upon any afore-alluded-to 'war-criminal', is frequently going to offer more than a huge insight into that same individual's own particular value system. Even more so the methods that might be employed, should they ever find themselves with the thankless task of having to unravel the consequences of any national or international conflict.  

Thatcher’s admiration for the genocidal General Pinochet (incidentally installed care of a US-aided coup in 1973) was well known, as was her opinion of Nelson Mandela. Which, I would contest, aligned her far more readily with something Nazi-slantish than anything aspirational-one-nation-thinkerish.

Sadam Hussain, way, way before he became US public enemy number one, was handsomely supported by the USA, through both Ronald Reagan’s and George Bush Senior’s terms in office.  He was deemed a valued US 'friend'- also buffer zone- to the ‘more-unpredictable’ Iran. Did Sadam’s nature really change that much, during his reign? And, if not- latterly tried and executed as a war-criminal- where does that place his most robust supporters?

Thank you, Patrick

‘Honest’ Ronald Reagan developed quite a taste for covert intervention, during his demonic reign, funding the deaths of thousands in Central America. This ‘lovely’ man used illegal funding to disrupt the democratic processes in Nicaragua, much preferring the dictator, Anastasio Samoza, and his Contra supporters, to the democratically popular Daniel Ortega’s Sandinistas. In 1984 (very Orwellian!) the CIA quite brazenly supervised the mining of Nicaraguan harbours. Ron, of course, was merely following an age-old tradition of very-hands-on US foreign policies.  War crimes, what do we think?

In the face of the growing Anti-Apartheid Movement, the UK Government (including Thatcher’s) unilaterally ‘supported’ the South African Government, almost to the point of farce, rather than sanction the abolition of this virtual-slavery endorsing system. Husband, Dennis knew where to invest his dosh, and human rights were never going to be permitted to eat into ‘this particular investment.' I don’t think her son ever quite accepted the concept of democratic representation, either.

Thanks, also to Andrew

Once, finally elected, Nelson- Thatcher’s ‘terrorist’- Mandela, certainly recognised the sensitivity required to finally dismantle the abhorrent, and embedded, Apartheid system. His Truth and Reconciliation Commission proved infinitely superior to the Yugoslavian-style genocide that might otherwise have resulted. Thus, if I were required to choose between the Thatcher and Mandela ideologies, I don’t think I'd need long to consider.

Much insight into the minds of those who might choose to ‘sleep with’ brutal dictators can also be gleaned from many Western Governments’ tacit support for all manner of dubious Middle Eastern Countries; highly questionable human rights but surprisingly cosy relationships to be had with ostensibly oil-seeking Westerners. Where to start with this tangled web?

So yes, absolutely, bring those ageing Nazis to justice. But why not, while we're at it, also all manner of minor and major cogs, who are/were also responsible for unspeakable global suffering in more recent years? And, if hunting the Nazis is still pertinent today, how come we missed so many of the buggers in the first place, way back in 1949?

Many thanks to  Premasagar Rose

Approximately, how many escaped to South America, thus having to seriously compromise their, somewhat misguided, Aryan Race ideologies? And how many were welcomed, supposedly with open arms, into the US of A, where they could more 'happily' continue to pursue their former military ambitions, in the development and production of arms? Which is fact and which, fiction?

In 2007 Google Earth sleuths found that San Diego’s Coronado Naval Amphibious Base resembled a swastika, when viewed from the sky. One wonders how such an oversight might have slipped past the planners. Perhaps there were no plans. Perhaps they just made it up, at ground level, as they went along; "Shall we build in a bit of a bend here?" sort of thing. No architect's plans that might afford the opportunity for one last moment to ponder and, perhaps, rethink?

There again, maybe the plan sought to conjure up much more of a Sanskritish 'auspiciousness,' or one of 'higher thinking?'

And, finally, thanks to Sam Teigen

The swastika had been reproduced and revered through history for over 5,000 years, before the Nazis went and buggered things up. Maybe, in due course, this fact will come to (happily) usurp and overwhelm the swastika's far more sinister, 20th Century, connotations. Perhaps the St George's Cross might also, one day, be liberated from today's, more educationally-compromised, Nazis.

Somewhat mysteriously, if one studies a map of Norwich, factoring in all of the various Tesco stores (Superstores, Metros and Expresses), one becomes gradually aware that they form an almost 'perfect' swastika. A sense of 'auspiciousness,' or one of aspirations towards world dominion? What do we think?

I'm edging strongly toward the latter...

* Did the Nazis consider any of their victims too old or too young for persecution? I don't believe they did.

Half United We Also Fall (Part 2)

So where was I? Oh, yes, the Unions, "who held the country to ransom in the 1970s." It's fantastic, isn't it, to listen to individuals, whose Daily-Mail-fashioned view of the world, in their own eggshell minds, has now entirely usurped fact, objective thought, or even genuinely personal opinion? Apparently, it's now what they actually 'think.' Worse, it's what actually 'happened!'*

"Everyone's entitled to an opinion!" Well, yes, of course, barring genuinely offensive thoughts (and those usually tend to 'slip' out anyway), but my contention is that the planet would be so much the richer were those 'formulated opinions,' based far more upon genuine personal insight and a closer observation, rather than upon the festering bigotry that is being spoon-fed by the likes of The Daily Mail.

"Apologies" to the Mail; it's just that more than one or two individuals whom I happen to know partake of this paper's particular brand of social intolerance, covert racism and jingoism. In fairness, many of the 'alternative' tabloids offer a similarly repugnant slant on current affairs. Hope that clarifies this point.

My frustration- it should really be far more widely shared- is that individuals whom I know to be, in many respects articulate, urbane and 'seemingly open' to contra-opinions, daily subject their minds to this ostensibly right-wing propaganda. A particular favourite of one elderly lady is, "I think Mrs Thatcher was good for the country."



Thank you, Romel

Well, where to start? An 'opinion' 'formulated' through decades of Mail-Express-Sun-Telegraph exposure. There really should be some sort of protective mind-cream that one can slap on- SPF 100+ should do the trick! My particular response, tongue-bitingly proffered, is usually, "Good? Please be more specific." And, of course, that's often where the short 'discussion' tends to stall, based on the thoroughly-well-documented fact that Mrs T did nothing of value for the working people of the UK. We live today, in her demented wake, with the ballooning damage that her plague of greed has biblically visited upon 'our' planet.

Other oft-encountered preludes to 'opinion' might include, "I know what I think!" Hmmm! And, "The Daily Mail is an easy 'source' of news and, politically, I 'know' where it's coming from." Somewhat like stretching out 'harmlessly,' beneath a sizzling summer sun, uttering the words, "I know I should really bother with some skin protection but..." And that's fine, as long as you 'know' you're effectively perfectly protected within an invisible and impervious shell.

My recollections of the 1970s, in so far as the Unions were concerned, are based largely upon power cuts and an almost rabid hatred of Unions in general, care of the family newspaper at the time, the Daily Mail. T'was then a 'more serious' paper, broadsheet format, so pretending to take a more objective view of the world. That 'we' have seen even this remnant facade of decency stripped away- now bullish tabloid and proud!- also marks an alarming shift, in very much the wrong direction.

When the lights went out we lit candles and pondered the possible conclusion to the film or drama that we may have been watching. What was never really made clear, at the time, was that when a Union action spilled over, to affect the wider public, that this had invariably been by 'mutual consent,' the action of the Union's members with the 'consent' of the Management/Company. That is not to write that the action was ever the most desired option of management, but then this could also have been fairly written of the Union. The point of 'agreement' would have been that the requested improvement to working conditions or pay would have been denied, thus permitting power cuts or other Union action to broaden. Had the workforce not been unionised, then, perhaps pay and conditions would have been permitted, instead, to worsen; Management and Company would have been content and the outcome would invariably have been deemed no longer newsworthy.



Also to Tela Chhe

Perhaps, before 'we' consider jumping, so heavy-footed, onto the anti-Union bandwagon we should make time for such ponderances.

I recognise that many visits to one's GP are now far more akin to a short interview with a particularly frugal accountant. Several years ago I had an anomaly burnt from my forehead. "A wise precaution, as these aberrations can sometimes develop more malignant cells," would have been an approximation of my then GP's diagnosis. More recently, "Let's wait and see, shall we?" appears to have sufficed. Well, a hearty thank-you, and best wishes to your family, Doctor. At what point in the future might I be permitted to question your appraisal of my health?

The Health Service may be sinking fast, in the hands of the Tories, but had Clement Attlee's and Aneurin Bevan's Labour Party, as heavily funded by the Unions, not been victorious in the 1945 Election, then we might have found ourselves with immeasurably more pressing health concerns, some of us.

When the Luddites set about opposing the introduction of greater technology, initially into the textile industry, battling with the British Army and generally smashing up the place, there was actually a strong rational, and a moral standing, to their methods. Backs against the wall, they were effectively fighting for their livelihoods, their means to feed, house and clothe their families. "But you can't fight 'progress!" the bosses, and what ever passed for The Daily Mail at that time, would have wailed.



Thanks also, to Brian Talbot

Nor should we. But what we should do- much like that naive TV programme, 'Tomorrow's World,' was always 'suggesting' might happen- is to ensure that technological progress, or any other kind for that matter, is doled out relatively fairly. Otherwise we find ourselves operating under a different kind of apartheid, whereby 'our' society surmises itself increasingly subdivided; the wealthy and the rest, men and women, whites and non-whites, the healthy and the sick, Muslim and non-Muslim, Christian and Pagan. Certain divisions are already evident, others less so, a comprehensive list would occupy more space than one might imagine. The point being that 'progress' unevenly divided is only really 'progress' for some sections of society, that it might transpire to be precisely the opposite for the rest of us, invariably the majority. And that, historically writing, the Unions and their ilk have been a means of attempting to ensure a fairer distribution of 'progress.'

When The Tollpuddle Martyrs were being vilified by the 'free' press- was it even referred to then, by its current misnomer?- and being sentenced to transportation to Australia (by no means then the holiday destination it is today), it was because they had attempted to collectively gain better working conditions. Well, 'we' couldn't have Unions holding the country to ransom, could 'we?'

And when The Suffragettes found themselves with too much free time, in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, all of that confounded railing-chaining and mail-burning wasn't just because they were bored, it was because- administrative cock-up, political oversight, call it what you will- somebody had 'forgotten' that half of the country had no right to vote. Oops! Emily Pankhurst was so outraged that she attempted to head butt the King's horse!

When the 'right to vote' was finally extended to women in the UK, less than 100 years ago, it was still thought prudent to ensure that only the landed classes would be  troubling the polls. A societal concession aimed more at prettying-up the vote than affording it the opportunity to do any serious damage to the status quo. Most women still had to wait a further decade, until 1928.

Bizarrely, my late grandmother, given her Sun-reader great affection for Mrs T, and oft-spoken soft spot for, "the darkies," whilst living in Apartheid South Africa, would, quite likely, have regarded The Suffragettes as extremely bothersome.

Until the mid 18th century less than 3% of the UK population were permitted to vote; not markedly less, I would imagine, than the percentage of viable voters who today make any significant difference to the system. Had collective bodies of men, like the Sheffield and London Corresponding Societies- surely Unions by any other name- not campaigned for universal manhood it is doubtful that those languishing in the parliamentary bars would have deigned to even notice, or care. And, when, in the afterglow of the French Revolution, voting rights were reluctantly extended, care was again taken, to ensure that only the landed gentry would be on hand to largely endorse the inequality that parliament habitually chose to perpetuate.



And, finally, thanks to Adam Foster

Procrastination and obfuscation were pretty much the order of the day, and for many days henceforth, until, reluctantly and with a fair deal of snot and tears at every minute concession, universal suffrage was achieved. Kicking and screaming, it took approximately a century to get there, during which time a great many collective bodies- shall we term them, "Unions holding the country to ransom"- had been or were involved.

Lest you should, mistakenly, consider it a case of job done, let me refresh your ailing memory, regarding two highly topical instances of current regression within 'our' social system.

Firstly, there is the instance of non-Unionised Sub-Postmasters, whereby The Post Office were freely able to blame and recoup monies from more than 100 workers, because of a recently discovered glitch in The Post Office's computer software. Non-guilty individuals were duly ordered to make up non-existent shortfalls of up to £9,000 and, in some cases, also made to serve gaol sentences. The corporation duly used its enforcers, the legal system, in order to hasten a resolution. Best not to overburden the system with bothersome things like justice or facts. "What's that you say? A computer glitch? Oops, sorry! No hard feelings." Thank the Lord above that there weren't any troublesome Unions to muddy up the waters.

And secondly, I hear that The National Farmers Union- this one a 'good' Union, a boss's Union, much like the Confederation (Union) of British Industry- is currently pushing for the abolition of the Agricultural Wages Board. No doubt so that they will be able to give their workers a whacking great, inflation-busting pay-rise, or, alternatively, perhaps a significant cut in employees' already overly-low wages. Who could possibly say?  

Perhaps, when all is said and done, all options perused and considered, if one is really so very, very anti-Union, one should wash one's hands of all of their doings. Go on, dig your heels in, none of that working wage nonsense for you, none of that interfering NHS shenanigans, none of those workers' rights- shortly to be extirpated anyway- and do be careful not to vote against anything Union. Of course not, it was the bloody Unions who fought for and earned the interfering right to vote anyway. Dirty, dirty voting!

Feudal Britain here we come! Have you missed us?

* It's not what actually happened.

Half-United We Fall (Part 1)

Bovine waste matter alert! The Unions are again plotting to hold the country to ransom! 

So, forgive me, but The Labour Party is up against the rocks, listing heavily, most definitely away from the port, correct? Dave and his mates, predictably, are up in arms, "We don't want a Labour Party that acts at the behest of the Unions. This would not be due and fair democratic process..." or some such accusation. A fair assessment?

The political polls, reflecting what the tabloid-driven public 'think', have delivered their verdict; the general public is not happy with Labour's close ties to their 'union paymasters.' As a consequence Labour's standing in the polls has dropped by as many as a non-specific-guessed-at number of points.

Hurrah for Prince David and his charred-souled-Knights! Mount up Sir Rupert, Sir Jeremy! Ride for queen and country... and justice!

Writing as a true democrat- an aspirational goal with a definition that might truly occupy whole volumes- and in an approximation of an ideal world, I would not wish to associate myself with the defence of such alleged democratic malpractice as that being 'tied' to Len McClusky and the Unite Union. Pause for thought...

Many thanks to Andi Jetaime

But are we not missing something here? Is there not, perhaps, a wider context within which to consider this alleged subterfuge? 

Are the Tories and Labour really arguing for greater democratic accountability? Really? And why is it that the ‘free’ press and wider media are always so swift and ready to present such findings with a tsunamic tirade of ‘moral superiority?’

We listen, we watch, we are presented with the ‘facts’, the ‘opinions’ of experts with political ‘insight’; the revelation is bathed in a ‘righteous’ and ‘cleansing light’ and yet we are left feeling somehow still very much in the dark, an Antarctic winter of radiance has again flooded the scene!

Also to Jeannie Fletcher

What can we possibly have missed, in a country so ‘loyally served’ by such a ‘wide-ranging’ and ‘free’ press; one in which such democratically accountable servants work so tirelessly in ‘our’ cause?

Gleaning information from The Independent, easily one of the nation’s more reliable newspapers, I will summarise:

Mr Milliband (Labour leader) has been, “locked in a damaging war of words with Len McClusky (Unite),” over allegations that some of the 100 recently recruited members, in Falkirk, were asked to, “allow others to cast votes on their behalf.”

Apparently Unite then went on to attempt to install Kate Murphy (office manager to senior Labour figure, Tom Watson) as Labour’s election candidate for Falkirk. Mr Watson has recently resigned and, pending further investigation, Ms Murphy has been suspended by the party. 

A lot of not-happy bunnies have been quick to board this proverbial bandwagon! But I’m going to suggest that we might just take a slightly wider view- well, how on earth could we not? Blinkers off now, everyone!

Many thanks to Adam Cohn

Firstly, let's take a brief detour into the world of Tory-supporter-influence, which every day goes largely unchallenged, even supported and celebrated by ‘our’ media. Relevant? Of course it’s relevant, it’s the context, the very political environment, within which the aforementioned, alleged wrongdoing has supposedly occurred. 

Immensely more alarming, and significantly outside of the ‘alleged’ categorisation, we might peruse The Gove Academy Thrust, whereby Ofstead have been charged with placing huge numbers of schools onto the business opportunities shelves. Once there, not entirely unlike a Cybermen-featuring episode of Dr Who, the structure may be stripped bare, to be replaced by a far more ‘generously funded’ alternative. An alternative that might, should it so wish, discard the staff's current pay scales and contracts, discard even the necessity for basic teaching qualifications. The ‘ultra-essential’ National Curriculum may also be dropped, if it so suits the business sponsor, sorry school Head and Board of Governors.  

The Gove is currently ‘selling off’ potential business influencing opportunities to industry, encouraging companies to ‘sponsor’ a brimming reservoir of recently converted schools, rather like a demented store manager in an Everything Must Go sale. What could possibly go wrong? The ever-scrupulous British businessman or businesswoman can surely be trusted to act with honour. Or just conceivably not, given the current trend for, and rate of, deregulation.

And finally, thanks to Brian Snelson

Our next port of call might be the recently-in-the news-again instance of JC’s (Jeremy Hunt) closer-than-democratically-apt dealings with the Murdoch bid for BSkyB, whereby the lying toad (JC) was outrageously preparing the ground for yet further incursions into ‘our’ remnant democracy, by the likes of the Murdoch Empire.

Although charged with conducting a ‘fair’ and ‘open’ process, involving the sell off of BSkyB, JC’s advisor, one Jeremy- it must be something about the name- Smith, ‘opted’ to supply covert and up-to-the-minute news on the bidding process, solely to News Corp. JC, as befits his persona, thus acting as the oil in the cogs of Cameron/Osborne’s desire to develop a “mutually beneficial relationship with Murdoch’s media empire.” The e-mails cited in the Leveson Enquiry really do leave no other sensible conclusion.

Depending upon how many threads one wishes to pursue, one might conceivably drag in half of the then ‘serving’ Cabinet. But, at this juncture, I should just like to tie in the involvement of one Andy Coulson; he who moved from News of the World Editor (during the widespread use of phone hacking), to becoming Cameron’s media advisor during the JC-BSkyB attempted shoo-in. Insider-dealing by any other name?  

Somewhere a prison cell pines for an oily and absent occupant! Several, not unlike sardines in a can, marinating in their own oil!  

And don’t even get me started on IPSA’s review of MP’s pay.