Beware: Zombies on the line!

My thoughts and opinions tend to vary by about 180 degrees from those espoused by the Guardian. That particular left-wing and ultra-lefty organ considers people such as I, who hold trenchant right-wing views and are disinclined to be quiet in the promotion of those views, as dangerously ‘populist’, probably fascist; and definitely worthy of a slow extinction event. But, once in a blue moon, they produce a true gem of fairly impartial reporting, such as when they print this op-ed item which discusses, in incredible detail, the ‘ins-and-outs’ and tortured birth pains of HIGH SPEED TWO, or HS2  as it is commonly known. The article sets out, in great detail, how momentous, expensive and sometimes biased political decisions are actually made, how influence is brought to bear by lobbyists with a financial axe to grind, and how, in the end, the taxpayer is left holding and funding the abortion which resulted from these decisions.

When the Guardian sets out to do a hatchet job, they do it extremely well, and I commend it to readers as a striking example of what British journalism is capable of. Now all we have to do is to persuade the Guardian to repatriate their governance and cash from Jersey, and they can rejoin the MSM without the cant of doing one thing, whilst saying another!


Another article from the Guardian which I have just read myself tells of the price paid by betting shop staff through cost-cutting measures; along with the  true scourge of FOBT’s, or Fixed-Odds Betting Terminals,which are rightly regarded as the ‘Crack cocaine’ of the betting industry. Read at your leisure, before wandering down to the ‘betting shop’ to give your hard-earned cash to the bookies!

My D-Day story

My mother had taken myself and my two brothers down the road some quarter-mile to our local Catholic  primary school that breezy June Tuesday morning, and delivered us into the capable hands of the headmistress and teachers. Whilst being uncertain of the lessons taught, from a vantage point of seventy years, I can confirm that there was no talking back to a teacher, no insolence, no backchat. Apart from the truth that we, as somewhat small children were in awe of our teachers, we knew that if word got back to our respective mothers, we would never hear the end of the trouble we would find ourselves in. Readers would note that I stressed ‘mothers’ as the recipients of any disciplinary comment from the school, as just about all our fathers were away, in uniform, serving our King and our Country. We probably played a little in the schoolyard at break time, but we were always aware that we could not leave the school, even for a short while because there was always the possibility of an air-raid warning siren, and the teachers warned that we had to be ready to run for the shelter entrance.
I was four years old, nearly five , and me and my brothers were just schoolkids, but we knew that people all over Newcastle were doing ordinary things, going to school, shopping, writing letters, the normal stuff of everyday life; we did not understand that over 150,000 soldiers; British, Irish, Canadian, American had poured ashore over a twenty-odd mile length of the Normandy coast line, aided by an armada of ships, a veritable cloud of aircraft and a hope that this invasion would be, literally, the beginning of the end. The end of the Nazi’s ‘Thousand year Reich’, the end of the Nazi dream of being ‘JudenFrei’; although we did not understand what that really meant until later in life. We were the victors, that breezy day in June, 1944, and we owe it to ourselves to remember that brave men and women fought and sometimes died so that we might recall a time when politicians had not given much of our freedoms away in an illusory dream of ‘Togetherness!’