Free Speech, absolutely

I should really have gone out with Hubby the night before his birthday, but it clashed with a Free Speech Union event, so he had to just had to play second fiddle. He sulked, but it was worth it.

Cometh the hour, after examining several possible outfits, I settled for a straight, ankle-length denim skirt with a front slit to above the knee, a lightweight, off-white, mid-thigh cashmere sweater, and a long, floaty cardigan. The French-navy court shoes (the only thing I like about the French is their take on the colour navy) were cheap, but they fit better than the pricey ones, and the pale blue handbag was of mind-your-own-business expense. I finished off ‘the look’ with a statement amber necklace, complimentary bracelet, gold hooped earrings, Great-Granny’s antique Rolex, one of Mum’s dress rings, and my own engagement and wedding rings. Shame about the hair.

While I braved the Underground to Great Portland Steet, Hubby hot-tailed it alone on the Elizabeth Line to see Moulin Rouge. My adventure started before I got to the actual venue. I exited the station into, almost, the arms of several drunk revellers. One of them apologised. Well, actually, he slurred, “Sorry, Luv”, which, at my age, I took to be the equivalent of a wolf whistle. 

Once at my destination, I grabbed a glass of red and scoured the room. Nope, no one I knew. I approached a strange man and started talking. Nothing new there then. Engaging chap. Had a philosophy degree. Now taught maths. Was into Wittgenstein and Dream Theory, about which I know only a little. He also had a fetish for Frederick Forsyth novels. Good start to the evening.

As our conversation drew to a close, I spied a new arrival. Gosh he reminds me of someone. Actually, I do know him. But who is he? After several minutes of hopping from foot to foot (maybe the cheap shoes didn’t fit so well after all), I remembered from where I knew him, but not his name. I excused myself from my philosophical mathematician / mathematical philosopher / Forsyth fan and sidled over to my former acquaintance. He said he knew he knew me too but not from where, or my name. Soon we were on the same page and enjoyed a quick reminisce. 

He suddenly asked, “Have you gone over to Reform yet?” In any other gathering, that would have been akin to asking a lady if she were wearing tights or stockings but, in the Free Speech Union, we are kindred spirits and do what it says on the tin – we speak freely. It’s also assumed that members and supporters are either Tory or have jumped ship, over the starboard side that is, so asking the above question is no cheekier than inquiring if one first slathers cream or jam on their scones (that’s ‘skonns’ not ‘skoans’, although being consistent with ‘one’ the pronunciation should be ‘skwonns’). When you think about the public faces of the FSU (Young, Murray, Starkey, Biggar, Pearson, etc.), you’d be forgiven for assuming that their aim is defending the rights of the right to say offensive things about the left, like I do. In reality, the FSU helps more left-leaning lesbians against the woke fascists than anything. This particular evening, their focus was on supporting apostates – those who have rejected their religion and who live in genuine fear of likely reprisals – including some former Muslims, Orthodox Jews, Evangelical Christians and Jehovah’s Witnesses.

What I’m saying is, it’s the right who advocate for genuine and universal – not warped or selective – DEI: Diversity, Equity and Inclusion. The right believes that everyone should feel comfortable everywhere, and on all platforms, without treading on eggshells or being subjected to a pile on for expressing an opinion, even if it’s misguided. I’m not limiting this discussion to political or religious issues; I’m including the everyday, like … like … like how to prepare (and pronounce) cream scones! Digital finger-waggers are the worst for piling on. ‘Keyboard warriors’ I call them. Wagging fingers at the same time as bashing keyboards is an art form – think Johnny Rotten and Tracey Emin’s love child. Singing off-key while messing the bed.

I digress (as is my want). After the FSU panel discussion and Q&A, there were more drinks and socialising. I chatted to a lady I remembered for her choice of pretty scarves, and a Latvian called Albert who lived in Hemel Hempstead, or was it a Lithuanian called Arthur from Stevenage? Who cares. He was jolly.

Eventually my high-enough heels began to cramp my calves so I bid my farewells and limped back to Great Portland Street, relieved yet slightly disappointed that the drunken revellers had disappeared.

The next morning, vowing to spend the whole day with Hubby, I donned jeans and comfortable trainers but the rest of the outfit was the same. It saw me through breakfast at Smithfield Market, bus to Eltham Palace (front seat on the top deck – just like schooldays), Greenwich, boat trip to the Wobbly Bridge, and a walk back to Smithfield, where we shared a chicken and tomato sandwich (Sis interpreted this as half-a-chicken each and half a tomato sarny). Later, back in the denim skirt and heels, we schlepped over to the west end for a country music gig followed by a Japanese supper. I ate so much I felt like a Sumo wrestler. Isn’t that gluttony, racism and fat-shaming in one sentence? Blimey, I can feel the draft from all those fingers wagging and am deafened by the keyboards being bashed.

Consequently, I prefer to spend my time with dead French philosophers (OK, I admit it – I like their philosophers as well as their sense of colour), or one in particular, than finger waggers. It was Voltaire who said, “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.” Were he alive today, he’d be a director of the FSU. The same could be said of, for example, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Arthur Miller, John Milton and George Orwell. 

You must have seen the meme on social media of George Orwell saying, “Boy, did I call it or what.”

Yes, Sir, you did. But aren't you being sexist by limiting your address to 'Boy'?