Marmite

Premature perhaps. We’ve only just had Easter, when Christ rose from the dead. Alleluia or Bah Humbug, depending on your inclination.

Stewkley Singers rise to a challenge. We enjoy it. We must do, because we’re still here after 20 years of being stretched to the limit, stamina- and talent-wise, by Our Jen, our delightfully demanding Musical Director.

Unless you’ve been impersonating Rip Van Winkle, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White or Rachel from accounts, you’ll know that Trump is waging war on Iran. This has prompted the usual keffiyeh-wearing klowns to object to a regime getting its komeuppance for torturing and murdering women and gays simply for being women and gays. The klowns’ rationale is that if Netanyahu doesn’t like the Ayatollahs, they must be the good guys even though they murder women and gays for simply being women and gays. Ah, the Hope-not-Hate brigade has been exposed for what they are: Hateful no-Hopers. Meanwhile Greta Thundabunga, the Scandinavian and female (at a stretch) clone of Chris Packham, is bleating about Cuba, thus sending the message that the war with Iran is of little consequence, and there’s no longer a climate crisis. By careering from cause to cause, just like Packham, she’s trying desperately and failing comically to be relevant and to achieve something. Anything.

I was expecting ‘it’ but not the detail of it. I certainly wasn’t expecting my reaction to it, which was sang-froid with a dollop of chocolate ice cream.

It was St Valentine's Day recently, and the Great British Courts gave a smacking great kiss to Palestine Action (PA) by decreeing that their proscription as a terrorist organisation was unlawful. For every force or action there’s an equal and opposite reaction, and the inferred opposite of the mwah-mwah to PA is a poke in the eye to the law abiders and enforcers that make up the bulk of the population, especially our Jewish friends and neighbours.

I can’t put off blogging about Plato any longer. Why? In a nutshell, Plato was all about morality, and everyone these days is obsessed with Jeffrey Epstein, who was all about living a most immoral life, as was Peter Mandelson, the aptly dubbed Prince of Darkness. Once UK Deputy PM, UK Ambassador to the US and (still) a peer of the realm, Mandelson was successively promoted and protected by Blair, Brown and Starmer, who are tainted by association. Yet Boris ate cake, and I can’t find many Boris-critics venting the same level of rage against the Labour hierarchy as they vested on him. For eating cake. I ask you. Get a grip. This madness even stretched in my direction when I voiced support for the blond bombshell for pragmatic, proportionate purposes. On the other hand, for partisan, prejudiced purposes, Private Eye and other red media are still trying to deflect flack, or at least dilute it, away from the lewd Left and towards Nigel Farage, the left’s (and remoaners’) post-Boris nemesis...

This blog title is in German. It means ‘trigger warnings’. I initially thought that if I blogged about something as inconsequential and uncontroversial as our recent trip to Austria, I wouldn’t traumatise anyone. Is that naïve of me? Should I anticipate that some malcontents have nothing better to do than waste their time looking to be traumatised? Should I forewarn them of anything that might take them out of their safe spaces and echo chambers in a froth of ire and retribution? Should I, mischievously, satirise the concept of trigger warnings to raise a laugh here and a temper there? Oh, if you insist.

I’m taking a break from blogging about Plato – yes, that Plato – to rise to a challenge set by a blog fan. Responding to ‘ 2026 and all that ’, he remarked: “You almost had me feeling sorry for Hinton [CEO, South East Water]. Given what’s happened since, I bet you can’t carry on being nice to him.” A bet? How much? Game on!

The New Year seems to have got off to a catholic start. I was going to say ‘eclectic start’ but the word ‘catholic’, which is a synonym of ‘eclectic’, has a less inclusive feel to it. I like that. 

This blog title sounds like the opening salvo of a Boxing Day football score, something like: ‘Forest City 1 –  Meadow Town 0’. Except it’s not. Forest City 1 (FC1) is actually the uninspiring moniker of a mega-development concept spearheaded by a former Guardian journalist in partnership with a 28-year-old something-or-other and backed by a one-time Labour Secretary of State. I’m tempted to stop now but, in the seasonal spirit of following a star in the hope it’ll lead me to the promised land, I’ll persevere. For now. 

About a year ago, I penned a semi-tongue-in-cheek blog entitled Happy New Year . Judging by the polarised reactions from respective political camps it was one of my best, so I thought I’d emulate it here, complete with a one-size-fits-all trigger warning for the congenitally perpetually outraged and offended. Here then are just a few recipients of a big beautiful Merry Christmas from yours truly.

As a youngster, I never did drugs. Or cigarettes. Maybe the occasional vodka and lime. I now think I missed out. Coming round in a hospital recovery room (I was cared for by a combination of NHS and private – highly recommended) pain-free despite being pricked, gassed, punctured, bored, blown, syphoned, sliced and sewn, I appreciated the positives of downers and uppers, opiates and OMGs and, last but not least, PFAS – also known as ‘forever chemicals’. May they last forever.

A life-long monarchist, chain-stitched into my DNA, brain-washed from birth, ideologically incontrovertible, I’m actually starting to lose patience with some members of our Royal Family. While Randy Andy plays a part in my growing frustration-bordering-on-disillusionment, I might stomach his ‘indiscretions’ (plural) if these were the whole story – after all, every family has a black sheep (even if I’m not supposed to say that). But it’s others’ reactions and handling of the situation that displeases me as much as anything.

Despite being a bookworm with a penchant for 18th and 19th-century literature, I’ve only ever read two Jane Austen novels. Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility . At school. I didn’t enjoy them that much. I remember skimming the romantic passages – never being one for chick-lit – and being bored by the soul-searching and self-reflection of the middle classes. First-world problems, Darlings. Get a life. I much preferred  1984 , Animal Farm , Lord of the Flies , Brave New World , On the Road , and bodice rippers my BFF found in her big sister’s secret hiding place.

Don’t ya think the title of this blog is redolent of a post-apocalyptic horror film? Personally, I think an alien bursting from my tummy might have been less gruesome than what actually transpired.

I could have said, ‘Tommy Robinson has won this one’, but that might have been too much for those who a) accidentally stumble on my right-so-far pearls of wisdom and are gibbering wrecks for the rest of the day or b) are compelled by their inner demons to keep revisiting my blogspot, akin to a junkie taking another shot of heroin. Here, I could have said, ‘akin to Thunberg sailing back to Israel for another bout of starvation, torture and humiliation’.

R.I.P Charlie Kirk. Up until two days ago, I’d never heard of him. I can’t even remember when I registered he’d been shot, whether it was via Twitter, BBC online news, or a WhatsApp from a friend. Whenever and wherever the breaking news, the ensuing articles, photographs, videos and comments snowballed into an avalanche very quickly indeed.

“There'll always be an England While there's a country lane Wherever there's a cottage small Beside a field of grain”.

Tax. Immigration. EU. Sewage (or should that be the sewage that is the EU). Climate change. Kate or Meghan. Fish cutlery. Marmite. I’m prepared for disagreements with friends (and not-so-friends) on most things, but not what hit me between the eyes last Tuesday evening.