and for Germany, General Jodl signs!

Some seventy years ago, come midnight, the second War to end all Wars came to an end, in Europe at least; the Far East portion lasted a little longer until the Japs saw sense with aces represented by two nuclear weapons back to back. The evil genius which had been Hitler was dead, the Russians were in the suburbs of Berlin; the armoured columns of the Americans, the British and the Canadians were racing towards the Elbe. Most of the German Army was trying to go west, in order to surrender to the Americans or the British; anything to get away from the avenging ferocity which was the artillery and tank columns of the Russian Marshal Zhukov. The war was ending, and it was almost as though Wagner’s Gotterdammerung was coming to reality. The promised Thousand Year Reich was slowly being pounded into the rubble which was all Germany’s cities had become; the adoring crowds at the Nazi ceremonies had somehow dissipated, the cheering was silenced long ago; and all that was left was the signing of the Surrender documents . Our Navies had vanquished the submarines which nearly starved us into surrender; our aircraft had swept the skies clear of the formidable Luftwaffe. The death camps were being discovered and liberated. Our forefathers, nearly all now dead, had vanquished the best trained, the most formidable War Machine on the planet, and it was time to celebrate.

I have a painting as a desktop on my computer, which I lifted from an Air Battle catalogue. and I was explaining to one of my grandsons about the brave boys and young men who flew bombing missions against Germany, whilst the fighter flyers of the German Luftwaffe were trying to kill them, and he asked me a very grown-up question; “Grandad, why?” The only answer which I could give to a seven-year-old boy was simple, “You see, the men who told those flyers to fight were really nasty people, and they had to be stopped!”


Yes, our peoples sang, and yes, they danced; but the ground upon which the dancing took place was soggy with blood!

As a reality check, just see what the younger generation believes why the 8th May was so very important.

Ah well!

From now on, I’ll believe in Muhammad ….

I decided to go to the local Mosque for the first time, to see what it was all about.

I sat down and the Imam came up to me, laid his hands on my hand and said: “By the will of Allah the All Mighty, and the Prophet Muhammad, you will walk today.”

I told him I was not paralyzed.

He came back and laid his hands on me and repeated the same thing. Once again, I told him there is nothing wrong with me.

After the prayers, I stepped outside – and fuck me – my car was gone!

Now that’s a Question!

Over the past six-odd weeks of this seemingly-interminable run-up to the General Election, thousands of interviews have been completed, hundreds of thousands of statements made, simply millions of words printed, read and devoured/ignored by a bemused British populace; unused as we are to even having someone ask our opinion about anything at all.

But in all that time, with all those earnest politicians in semi-shrouded view, with hardly any direct questions asked or answered by anyone, no-one has asked the one question which maybe should have been asked on the first day, perhaps in memory of Charlie Hebdo which, in retrospect, mention of which seems to have disappeared from the headlines and pages with extreme haste..

Dear Mr./Mrs./Ms. Political Party Candidate, Does an ordinary British voter, or even newspaper publisher, have the right to draw and publish a picture of the muslim prophet, whatever he may be called; or otherwise poke fun at a religion, despite whatever anyone else’s religion states?