Hobby Horse

Owen Jones wouldn’t like it if he got what he wanted. The very press freedoms and freedoms of speech and commentary that give him a soap box and a decent living would just not be available to him under the system he says he wants, unless of course he was of the ‘more equal than others’ variety. He thinks it would be different if the People’s Assembly were in charge but it wouldn’t be – it would proscribe and limit, restrain and control and ultimately constrain human nature to behave in a way that is simply unnatural.

And the ultimate irony of the well-meaning actions of Labour and the unions is that they are ALWAYS hijacked and brought low by simple human nature, which they think they can change. On Friday I tweeted: “I am fucking LOVING this Paul Flowers business - Labour, the party of corruption and greed. Every single time.” Because that’s how I see it. If you are going to be the party of loving kindness you have to be whiter than white. Not ideologically derelict, as Britain’s left-of-centre thinkers inevitably are.

For instance, if you ever hear or read the word 'ethical' in a company mission statement you KNOW, sure as eggs is eggs, that they  are conmen. The true purpose and the only true purpose of a business is to make a profit. Whether it’s me, a one-man band with an odd, portfolio income of physical labour, consulting and a tiny amount through selling my literary wares or whether you are a multi-national conglomerate selling anything from military tanks to washing powder your existence is only justified if at the end of the day your outgoings are exceeded by your income.

There is no such thing as a non-profit-making business – we call that a hobby. Not making a profit simply means you’re either not very good and are destined to fail, or you are very good indeed at balancing your books so you don’t have to pay the tax man, perhaps by donating to charities who in their turn might further the causes of political parties, etc. Corrupt? Of course it’s corrupt; it’s human. So, in a way the Tories are far more honest by making no pretence that they are doing it for the good of mankind. I just wish they’d stop believing every single vote relies on trying to look as if they are.

To deny the proclivity of our species to exploit every little advantage is to deny humanity itself; a thesis I took to over the weekend. Commencing at about quarter-to-four on Friday afternoon I began to write a stream of consciousness account of the world according to me. For no particular reason I decided to write 15,000 words (About 30 times as long as this) to describe the ascent of man. Jacob Bronowski  eat yer heart out!

The Prophet motive

So, yeah, this blog is really about nothing more than me plugging my novella-length outpouring with which I expect to earn literally hundreds of pence. You can find it here on Amazon, where you can also, for the miserly outlay of mere pennies, gorge yourself on my other scribbles. I’m not begging but, you know, Christmas coming up and all and charity begins at home… Gawd 'elp you, every one! :o) 

The Great Escape

The searchlights swept the waste ground outside the perimeter as the siren wailed, raising the alarm. Four pig-dog Englischermenschen had escaped and the Commandant of Stammlager Luft III, deep in occupied Poland, was extremely displeased. He ordered the dogs unleashed and search parties set out in pursuit as fifty of the remaining prisoners were rounded up and made to stand in the exercise yard, stripped to their underwear in the freezing blast of easterly air which swept across the steppes from the Urals. Some would not survive the night.

In the distance the dogs were becoming frenzied as they scented their quarry and shortly afterwards shots were heard in the distant woodland. Soon the noises of chaos gave way to order and minutes later the headlights of a returning vehicle threw the barbed wire coils into stark relief against the deadly night. One escapee recaptured, the others still at large seeking destinations unknown. The bedraggled prisoner was brought before the Commandant in a bare interrogation room.

The harsh light cast deep shadows and bleached out all colour as Colonel Fuchs paced back and forth, causing Flight Lieutenant Atkins to blink as he tried to fix his captor with a challenging stare. Fuchs stopped pacing and positioned himself so that Atkins had no option but to squint against the cold beam directed in his face. For long seconds both men regarded the other with cool disdain. Eventually, Colonel Fuchs spoke, in quiet measured tones.

“So, Tommy, you vill not talk. But it iss no matter . Vhile you sit here, silent, ve are rounding up ze last of your men and if you do not talk, ve have vays of making zem tell us everysink ve need to know.” He began to pace again as he delivered his well-rehearsed lines. “You sink ve vill tortue you? Vell don’t you vorry, Atkins, ve von’t.” He snapped his fingers and a junior officer clicked his heels to attention and marched out of the door, returning seconds later with a bound, half-naked prisoner flanked by two burly guards. They proceeded to beat him to his knees. “Ve vill torture him, instead.”

Atkins flinched but the prisoner, shivering violently and with fear in his eyes caught his gaze and with an almost imperceptible shake of his head indicated he would not break and Atkins should say nothing also. He nodded back; Colonel Fuchs noticed the gesture.

“Oh, you English, you sink you are so clever. Say fuck-nothing, yah?” he took a backhanded swipe at the prisoner as the guards held him upright. “Und don’t sink zat I do not know vhat you say behind my back. You take ze Mickey Mices out of my name. ‘Fuchs zis’, you say and ‘Fuchs zat’. You sink zis iss funny, hein? Vell let me tell you Britischer; my name, it means Fox, you see. I am a vily old fox and you – you are just my rabbit. Und now it is I who haff you in my headlights.”

Atkins looked at the colonel, trying to discern what he already knew and whether he understood the bizarre mixing of metaphors which conjured up the image of an intrepid fox driving a Bentley along Wardour Street. If they had been overheard mocking his name maybe, just maybe, they also knew that this escape had been a mere decoy to dilute the garrison strength. Right now, if all had gone according to plan, a hundred more allied airmen would be preparing to storm the weakened perimeter defences and escape to victory. If Fuchs knew, then Atkins had to give the signal to cancel.

I see nothing!

“Oh yes, “ the colonel continued, his pace quickening as his tone of voice became more strident. “Oh yes, you English think that ve Germans know fuck-nothing. Vell, let me tell you, Flight Lieutenant…” Atkins felt a panic rising in his breast as the Commandant lowered his glowering face to within an inch of his own. If the Germans knew the plan they would be ready with machine guns. If the Germans knew, he had but one chance to shout the abort command and save their lives. A moment’s silence, Atkins tensing, ready to cry out… the colonel continued. “Let me tell you, Flight Lieutenant Tommy Atkins. We Germans do not know fuck-nothing.

Ve know fuck-ALL!”

Of Pies and Men: John Prescott’s Diary - 1st January 2017

Dear Diary,

Well, today’s the day they said could never ‘appen. It’s seven in the morning and still dark - the sun never rises on the glorious People’s Republic of Kingston upon Hull – or Ull, as it is properly known - as she embarks on a whole year as European City of Culture. And what a culture it is. I am dead proud to be cutting the ribbon on the inaugural wife-beating ceremony down the docks. Pauline is 'aving her ‘air done just now and as soon as she’s finished, about half-eleven, a fleet of Jags is on standby to escort 'er for wobbly coffees wi’t’ladies wot lunch… then it's us dinner time.

Just time to put the finishing touches to my big speech:

‘Friends, Ronan, people of Ull. Unaccustomed has I am, it is your great pleasure to ‘ave me back on terra cotta in my ‘ome town. Actually, it’s not – I’m as Welsh as they come, really – but you ‘ave took me to your ‘eart and that’ll do. As I said a few years ago “the city of York already is a city, as is my own city of Hull is a city, and that I think is the definition of city and town." And I think that's pretty clear,really.

First off, I must say a big thank you to t'caterers for that magnificent blow-out. I have to be careful with my bulimia nervosa and all that, but the pork pie was magnificent, As were t’mushy peas – now you don’t get food like that in the ‘Ouse of Lords, which ennoblement I only ever accepted against my better judgement for the good of you all, which fact is well known and noted in t’committee minutes. Ta.

I’m known for my plain speaking and I’m not going to stop now. No, I’ve only just started, so you might as well get comfy. Now, when I first come ‘ere, Ull were a shit’ole. But look at it now. There used to be green fields over there, but now; concrete as far as you can see. The Green Belt was a Labour achievement… and we built on it. The schools were rubbish too, but as I said a few years ago, “the trouble is, if you build a good school, they all want to go to it" so we stuck to us guns and what ‘ave we got now? The people of Ull stay ‘ere and loyally ‘elp to build this strong community. They ‘ave to; nobody else wants ‘em.

But it works both ways, see. As immigration swamps other cities in the country, thanks to those Tory bastards, trying to rub us noses in diversity, ‘ere in Ull the only bloody foreigners we see are them on t’ferries from Rotterdam. And they come ‘ere, tekk one look and go straight back ‘ome, no bother. And them others, ‘oo come in via Dover, they can never find us. Nobody else in Britain knows where Ull is… and that’s ‘ow we like it.

In Ull we are proud of our working class roots. My roots, my background and the way I act is working class, but it would be hypsocritical to say I'm anything else than middle class now. And a lord, think on. So, as I unveil this statue to Ull’s greatest son – me - I thank you for the council taxes that paid for it. But there’s more than that and I bring you today, one of my former flagship policies, one that will help to preserve the purity of Ull’s culture for decades to come.

'Oo's laffing now?

For them who’s worried about this City of Culture award raising our profile and bringing more strangers to Ull and trying to change us ways. For those concerned at the possible influx of teams of documentary makers and anthropologists, probing our foibles and spending in our shops. For those anticipating a rapid change in our fortunes I say don’t worry, prepare for history. I give you, the new M62 bus lane! 

The Glass See-Saw

Nobody would look to this blog to provide balance. Why would you? If you want ‘balance’ you simply queue up at the EU admin counter and get your card stamped to say you’ve achieved it having paid the appropriate fee. As long as the quotas have been filled and the paperwork has been completed that all-important equality objective has been ticked off and whether or not anything has actually been achieved, social justice is seen to be done. Or not. Whatever – as always in politics it’s the perception not the real outcome that matters, which is why those of us who live outside the political vacuum can see things that the apparatchiks cannot.

Take gender balance. Yesterday, although I was dimly aware that such moves were afoot, I became aware of the utterly deluded ambitions of the EU to impose gender quotas on the membership of company boards when it cropped up on the Daily Politics. Now this is not some report that points out the positive effects of diversity – real or imagined – on society. Nor is it merely the promotion of the desirable and sensible British government policy to have equality of gender representation in government departments such as health, education, law enforcement, social services and the like. No, once again and without meaningful consultation it is the direct imposition of EU political will on private companies, whatever their business.

Whether you are in the arms trade, heavy industry, engineering, football or space exploration you will, by mandate have to have 40% of your non-executive board made up of women – like it or lump it. Before you even begin to call me a bigot in this regard, let me state that I believe that who makes up a company’s board is the business of that company alone and it should be comprised of the best people for the job. If that results in a board of ALL women or ALL men so be it, but it is a matter for the shareholders to decide and I don’t know a single sensible person who believes otherwise.

Shortly after I joined the Royal Navy, Britannia Waived the Rules and not only allowed what were formerly called Wrens to serve at sea, but also brought to an end the long and proud history of the WRNS. In order to push through a policy that the navy hadn’t asked for – and neither had a majority of serving Wrens – a lot of young women were advanced beyond their capabilities in order to make up the numbers, with consequent resentment from longer serving and better suited male candidates. Those who did not want to volunteer for sea service (why should they, this wasn’t what they had joined up to do?) suffered a consequent lowering of their prospects. Many of both types, disappointed, opted for PVR (Premature Voluntary Retirement).

Stock market listed engineering firms – I was with one for a while before it disappeared up its own backside (not my fault, honest) – applied the same positive discrimination so that organisations of almost wholly male population were managed by a disproportionate number of young women, often with little understanding of the work. I’ve been there and seen just how difficult it is for a pretty, young female graduate from an entirely different discipline to motivate a hairy-arsed team of forty-year old, deep engineering specialists. It is ugly and demoralising and just plain wrong.

The usual escape route for said young graduate of the politically-correct gender when the project founders is promotion out of trouble.  Each according to their abilities? From an avowedly socialist European Union surely the notion of forever hammering square pegs into round holes must sit uneasily? But no, for the projekt has dictated we must be equal by decree even if we’re not equal to the task and it provokes nothing but an uneasy tension between unwilling participants.

What next? Enforced equal participation of men in aromatherapy, nails, feet and Avon? At least 30% of births by 2020 to be to male mothers? A major newspaper investigation to reveal the horrifying reality that almost all NHS breast enhancement surgery has been carried out on women? Women to be compelled to grow moustaches every November? All schoolgirls to attend compulsory arm-wrestling and farting classes? And operation Yewtree officers to be deployed to investigate just why it is that so few men are inclined to take up careers in childcare?

Let companies choose, for goodness’ sake. And let the life choices of men and women affect their careers, proportionately. The ceiling isn’t glass at all; it is built from the resentment and bitter frustrations of private companies just trying to turn a profit. The equality see-saw will forever be canted one way or the other; why not let it find its own preferred position without the interference of all the cants in Brussels? Mind you, having said all that let’s give total equality in all areas a go – bring on the heavyweight boxing.

Goodbye bar t’at*

The old certainties are gone.

Nobody now expects a youthful marriage to last beyond a few short years, the outrageous cost of the big day rising in inverse proportion to its expected longevity. And as it gets rarer it obeys the laws of supply and demand and becomes more expensive still. Consequently many just don’t bother and go ahead to raise unconsidered quantities of children (the misguided commitment to a current partner being measured in procreation) who will grow up to not know what a family life could mean. Their life chances are limited and they go on in turn to repeat the mistakes of their parents.

I have always considered it an act of supreme arrogance to bring, kicking and screaming into the world, a child who has not been given that most basic of human rights – choice - and then to cast its fortunes adrift on the rocky ship of state. Of course there are good parents to which none of this applies (still the majority I dearly hope) but even their careful ministrations are wont to go astray if they do not have the means to pass on privilege to their offspring. If you can’t afford private education, or you don’t have wealth to confer, or at least a stake in the family business, your children may have opportunities barely better than the guttersnipes.

But it wasn’t always that way. A mere half a century ago it was possible for a dull but assiduous child to enter a trade, learn skills for life and have a reasonable expectation of being able to rely on those skills until such time as the state repaid all those years of taxes by providing for a basic but comfortable old age. Even a drone by nature could have a fulfilling life and a gentle retirement, provided for by a system in a state of balance. Once graded and sorted, your part of the bargain was that you could dream but not expect too much, living your life in your allotted place. It wasn’t as bad as some would have you believe.

There were always opportunities of course, as there are now, for the bright and the beautiful, the gifted, talented, special and just downright lucky to break out and scale the dizzy heights of material success or widespread acclaim, but just as before, such bright-burning stars are the exception. If your sprint for the tape fell short you could always fall back on what you knew, eat humble pie and get your old job back; we always needed your skills or your graft.

But all of that has gone now. The world doesn’t actually owe you the living that a few short decades ago you had a reasonable expectation of having; a stable foundation on which to build a modest family and lead a useful if unexciting life. There is no longer a permanent local industry in which to stake your place, because the world is different and the globalisation that makes it so cannot be reversed except by you becoming parochial and diminished; giving up your iPads and living off the land. I can’t see that happening any time soon.

I was thinking all this as I sat in my car at the little gravel car park below White Well Spa Cottage on Ilkley Moor, as the rain poured from the grey veil of clouds shrouding that totemic slab of gritty Yorkshire landscape. And as I watched the rain slick the short moorland grass I realised I may not get many opportunities to see my home county again. Don’t panic; I haven’t been diagnosed with anything nasty and terminal, but rather than eke out a miserly retirement, watching the once greatest nation on Earth rapidly and ignobly sink into the dreary sludge of mediocrity, I plan instead on embarking on one last big adventure. And what greater adventure could there be than to leave these blighted shores and settle in a far-off land?

Goodbye to all that 

Rather than feel a stranger in my own country, as I have for many years now, I feel there’s more honesty in becoming a real foreigner in a proper foreign country. Instead of watching the news with anguish and bemoaning the demise of donkey strangling, or joining protest at the lack of facilities for public wife-restraint, I’ll be able instead to just sit back on the sidelines, pointing at the quaint locals going about their incomprehensible business. In some ways it will make more sense than watching the death throes of a nation I used to understand all too well.

So over the next twelve months I will be making my preparations to say farewell to Yorkshire and farewell to England. And when I go I will definitely be taking a hat.


(For Americans, southerners and those of a southerly disposition, the title is derived from the well-known Yorkshire folk ditty "Ilkley Moor bar T'at", which translates as "without a hat". If you don't believe me, go here.)