If his lips are seen to move…..

When writing of politics, and especially of European Union politics, with their attendant politicians, we must always remember the only thing which matters to the core, the Brussels bunch who believe that they, and they alone are right; and every other so-called ‘Citizen’ is wrong. It is a truth which most of our home-grown bunch of weasels, Tory, Labour or Lib-dim, conveniently ignore, or attempt to forget, or brush aside as of no consequence.

‘Our Dave’, and his own acolytes, all bowing down before the great European gods of accommodation, all wish to hide the basic truth about the so-called ‘re-negotiation’ which is trumpeted in loud but exceedingly thin details, is that nothing can, or will be guaranteed in terms of European Law without those same details being laid out, and signed, in a Treaty. ‘Dave’s’ widely acclaimed ‘block’ on migrants from other European States, tenuous and futile though it may seem to those of us sceptics, but welcomed by the converted europhiles; isn’t worth the paper it is not written on. Any agreement, any changes to European Law, can and will be discarded almost at will, until those same changes exist within a Treaty.

We could, in the past, vote any change down in the European Commission or Council; but once Lisbon was signed, and after Parliament accepted the changes including ‘Qualified Majority Voting’, we have not won a single item on which we demurred; because we have been consistently outvoted.

But this is exactly what Cameron is asking the British people to do. He is asking us to believe that his valiant efforts to alter the immigration rules, to set in stone rules regarding the Euro, a currency which we do not choose to use, to change in miniscule detail some things which do not matter at all to we British will stand for one second longer after the result of the Referendum is announced. He is lying; they are lying: and I would be lying too if I said I believed that he would or could succeed.

not an unusual story, unfortunately!

Most of the stuff I write about these days concerns politics, of one branch or another. But ocassionally , I read something which annoys me so much that I am compelled to respond, if not with automatic cannon-fire, then the only possible alternative, which is a response e-mail. Consider the following, which forms the beginning paragraph of an op-ed piece in today’s Sunday Times which concerned the high cost of energy:-

elderly003

My response follows:-

Dear Mr. Clover,

With regard to your article on the high costs of energy and the reluctance of many British people to switch energy suppliers. Learned and informative though your comments may have been, I am of the belief that you completely ruined any rapport which might have been established with your reading audience by your use of the totally derogatory term “Our Elderly Forgetful One’ in respect of your father or father-in-law. This is the man who fathered either you or your wife, this is the man who helped raise you; who funded your very existence throughout your probably expensive childhood; who wryly gave you room and board completely free of charge while listening to the thinly-disguised moans of how he just didn’t understand you!

He may be suffering from the onset of Dementia, or of Alzheimers, and this may be both annoying and exasperating to you and your family: but this man, this one of many millions of my generation who probably looked on with pride as he viewed, in earlier years, his family, the fruits of his passion with your mother, and possibly felt some pride as he watched as those same fruits blossomed. I wonder if he would have felt that same pride if he knew that he would be viewed and discussed as ‘the burden’, the odd-one-out at the table; or as you so sympathetically placed it, ‘Our Elderly Forgetful One’.

Shame on you; Mr. Clover!

I sign myself as an Elderly but happily still Mentally-active Father and Grandfather

Mike Cunningham

Updated:-

I got it slightly wrong, as Mr. Clover’s ‘Elderly Forgetful One’ is in fact his half-brother, and for that supposition, I apologise, but for little else; because that derogatory epithet was applied to his relative!

 

Just a car? Have you gone mad?

Until this morning, I had believed that these tired old eyes of mine had seen it all; from the truly silly, through the bombastic, to the downright insane: but, T’Internet, like the Universe, is always ready to dumbfound the observer.

Item, you drive out in your car, to go shopping, for entertainment, for relaxation, for a family event or celebration: whatever! You leave the shop, or the bar, or indeed the house you have been visiting, and then you realise that you cannot REMEMBER WHERE YOUR CAR IS! You cannot recall where your  transport is, a vehicle which possibly cost thousands of pounds to buy! Are you insane?

All, however, is not lost, because you can buy one of these, and all will be soon perfect again!

I agree that the way men’s minds work is sometimes subtly different to that of women, but how great a gap has never been quantified. To that end, I reproduce a superb example of the way some guys’ minds work; see if you agree.

acarlost

Recalling a moment from my elder brother’s personal history, he and his wife were travelling north on one of the main motorways. they stopped at the euphemistically-named ‘Service Areas’ for a rest, a cup of coffee and fuel. My brother got out, but my sister-in-law remained in the car. He wandered into the main cafe complex, used the toilets, walked on the bridge, bought a couple of cups of take-away coffee, and started to return to his car, but could not spot it. His car, and more importantly his wife, had disappeared. He dashed back into the complex, called the police, and stated his belief that his wife had been kidnapped. The police swung into action, and within a very short period of time, a squad car appeared, coppers alerted and ready. They began to question him, but appeared puzzled when he stated that he and his wife had been driving north before his car, and wife, had disappeared. They stated that all were standing on the Southbound services: and it was then he realised that he had crossed the bridge, and was standing in the car-park on t’other side of the motorway.

The fuzz took it well, and laughed, a lot, but his wife didn’t smile at all!

H’/tip to Nick Lowe

The Vultures hover ever closer

We heard, via the Beeb’s Today Programme, that the NHS Blood and Transplant bunch, to be known henceforth as ‘the Vultures’, are unhappy that some five hundred odd families have denied the NHS permission to scavenge and pillage the mortal remains of loved ones who were on the verge of death. These unfortunate people have signified their wishes to donate their organs for medical science, transplants, whatever; but the families have dared to override their signed consent, possibly because, like me, they do not believe in the removal of human organs, tissue, so that they may be used in transplant operations by others. As I have written before, the truth is that all organ removals are from living bodies. Those bodies, under the term ‘brain dead’, are kept alive with expensive machinery so that the Vultures can swoop in, slice and dice at their leisure; and in the process ‘save lives’.

NHSBT says it will no longer seek a family’s formal consent, in order to reduce the number of “overrides.”

The NHS B & T teams are therefore arranging for specialist nursing staff to berate family members who have had the temerity to say ‘NO’ to the Vultures queuing to begin feeding on the carcass of the family member who is ‘brain dead’, and furthermore make them sign a ‘Special Form’ which will signify that the bereaved families are unfeeling, uncaring, and devoid of all that is human: by the very fact that they are denying the truth; which is that, in the eyes of the Almighty NHS, the State owns those bodies, and it can do with them whatever it likes!

Josef Stalin would be really proud of the manner in which the NHS, and of course our own totally benevolent and caring Government; is bringing the truth to this once-proud and independent Nation of ours: the truth which states that The State is the owner of your body, and it can bury, burn or slice as it wishes, and there will be f@$k all you can do or say about it!, as is presently the case in Wales!

So simply state NO, I REFUSE TO DONATE, and let the fuckers whine on to their hearts’ content!

Censorship, or just ‘as usual’?

I offered the following as a comment on a review of ‘The Danish Girl’ which appeared on a well-known Tory women’s blog. Needless to state, my comment was deleted, possibly because I write as I live, rather bluntly.

Once more, we are subjected to reams of praise for a film which, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t get a screening in the ‘coolest’ of art cinemas unless the producers paid the cinema a healthy lump sum to defray the inevitable losses, caused by nobody paying to see the latest load of old rubbish.

Consider, if you will, two films which emerged onto the screens throughout America last year. One was entitled ‘American Sniper’, the other was ‘Selma’. The first was the story of an American hero, a soldier who killed his country’s enemies with a awesome precision; the other was the rehashed story of a ‘civil rights march’ some forty-odd years ago.

American Sniper was the highest-grossing film over the long weekend with over $200 million, playing in  3,705 theatres across America. American Sniper, a movie celebrating the heroics of a white man (a white man whom every institution – television, Hollywood, academia, government, and commercials – in America works overtime to denigrate) had one of the most astounding opening weekends in the history of cinema.

‘Selma’ was an astounding flop, and this was mirrored by the offering hoovered up by some 275,000 ‘students’ who were given free tickets to see a film which not many other people wanted to pay to watch, and of course was the critics’ darling and ‘best film’ and all that rubbish.

As with ‘Selma’, so with ‘Danish girl, or man, or just ‘confused other’. These stupes just cannot understand that we, the people, are just bored with their constant whining on about their need to be ‘accepted’, and instead of the shrill calls for ‘equality’, ‘diversity, and all the other clarion calls to watch and ’understand their pain’; a few more straightforward comments to the effect that they are either a bloke, complete with penis, testicles and literal oceans of make-up, is now wearing a dress, or a woman trussed up to disguise the fact she’s still got tits and a vagina; might be more appropriate.

That which imprints:

I do not often think of poetry, of lines learned and prose discussed; those times and conversations happened when still a young man, but passages still stick in my mind, and, ignoring the modern trash, filled with bile and class hatred as one should, I prefer the classic lines of the masters who conjured sweat, blood and honour with words instead of steel.

The poem of which I write is perhaps, by some, overlooked, but in its skein of words lives all that is honourable, and good, and brave. I commend the words of Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay:-

Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the gate:

“To every man upon this earth  Death cometh soon or late.          

And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds

For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods,

For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods.

I have lived by these words and ideals, have faced down arrogance in officialdom, as well as bullies, and know that this world would be perhaps a better place if more thought and acted as I.

 

For those in peril on the sea

These days, I must profess that religion does not play greatly in either my mind or my life. But I still consider that there is a Supreme Being, because all that is beautiful in this world cannot have happened purely by chance. When you see a reddened golden sunset, or a tiny infant grandson, serenely smiling in his total dependence on mother and father; when you have watched the tremendous power of waves generated by a hurricane, awesome as they casually lift a massive ship and just as casually pass by, because that ship is well-designed, well-founded and well run; when your senses are lifted by music which literally speaks to your soul and mind: one must accept that chance cannot account for everything which happens on this planet of ours.

So, join with me as we salute the 32 men whose remains will probably never be found which lie together with the man who almost certainly killed them with his suicidal plan to keep to a shipping schedule despite the presence of a tropical storm, destined to form Hurricane Joaquin; presumably to appease his directors in Tote Marine, now all of whom are sheltering behind a lawsuit which will disenfranchise the families of those seamen whose bodies now lie mouldering 15,000 feet below the surface.!

 

Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep,
O hear us when we cry to thee
For those in peril on the sea!

 

Lord, stand beside all those who sail
Our merchant ships in storm and gale,
In peace and war their watch they keep
On every sea, on thy vast deep.
Be with them, Lord, by night and day,
For Merchant Mariners we pray.