Marmite

I blogged about climate change last summer (no longer available but I might post it again in due course) shortly after the really really hot spell. In a nutshell I said climate change was real, but we needed to keep on top of the science and continue asking difficult questions, otherwise we’d get our solutions wrong. That made me a climate change denier. Daft, eh? Not only daft, but dangerous. Here’s why.

I hate surprises. They come in many shapes and sizes and I hate the lot of them. Our marriage got off to a rocky start when Hubby refused to tell me where we were going on Honeymoon. He wanted it to be a surprise. I insisted I needed to know where we were going to plan what clothes to take. He told me to ask Mother-in-Law. Seriously? My soon-to-be Hubby suggested I take fashion advice from his mother? I think on some level he didn’t want to get married.

I ought to walk more than I do. It’s the best exercise for physical and mental health. Unlike cycling or weight-lifting it’s safe, as long as you don’t: twist your ankle in a pothole; get run over by a tipper truck (the way I feel about certain tipper trucks, they’d come off worse); pick up a tick in the spinney; get cornered by a cohort of curious cattle; or, as happened today, get pooped on by a pigeon. As for me fending off axe-wielding psychopaths, at least the village newsletter would have a gripping front-page story.

I’ve been struggling with my latest blog. Since Easter weekend! That’s usually a sign I should abandon it and start something new, but on this occasion I was so irritated, I had to get back on an even keel by flushing all the cr-p out of my system, a bit like a textual enema.  Most discussions I have with those who hold opposing views, either in the pub or by email, are constructive, productive and enlightening. Where I struggle is when, as happened on Good Friday, I'm confronted with statements akin to ‘the Earth is flat’ or ‘1 + 1 = 3’ and the more I - politely - present my iron-clad facts and logic, the more I'm dissed, impolitely. There's only one conclusion: They can’t handle the truth! That’s my First Favourite Frase, with apologies to Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men.

After Mum passed away last May, I found myself not having to drive to hospitals, GPs, sundry health clinics and out of-hours’ chemists. For therapy (mine), I once blogged about a particularly frantic weekend (always a weekend), mentioning that a chemist was ‘foreign’ and I couldn’t understand her accent; we were talking about Mum’s meds so it was crucially relevant to the situation. For that I was called 'offensive'. What? How? Why? Christ knows. Actually, He probably doesn’t, poor chap. He'll be slumped on a cloud with His head in His hands, wondering when ‘Thou Shalt Not Call A Shovel A Shovel’ became the eleventh Commandment. Yup. Jesus was a Northerner.

I first published this piece under the old regime in October last year. I was planning to republish it on Marmite at some stage as promised in a previous blog (here) , but not just yet as I have a lot of new material swimming around my noddle. However, one of the best-ever LinkedIn posts (here) appeared in my feed just now and I just had to HAD TO respond to it with the old blog (slightly upated). So here 'tis. My phone rang recently. It was one of my many gentlemen-friends (don’t tell Hubby) to whom I shall refer as ‘G’. I really enjoy our phone conversations. They follow a familiar pattern. G asks if I have anything to add to the agenda of a forthcoming meeting, or if I can help him with the minutes of the previous meeting because he can’t read his handwriting, that sort of thing. After these committee-niceties, he changes the dynamic with a searching question, along the lines of: • Can you see a way out of the cladding crisis? • Do you think we should have another lockdown?...

This blog title sounds incongruous, but we’re used to the mantra ‘death is part of life’; ‘change is part of stability’ is simply a non-morbid variation. John Lewis losses One thing that got me thinking about this was the current predicament of John Lewis and the possibility, floated by Chairman Dame Sharon White, that a necessary cash injection might be needed from outside investors, which is at odds with the long-standing model of employee-only ownership. The company lost £234m last year and has to do something, but those who ought to know better don’t even want to consider Dame Sharon's obvious and sensible idea.

I love the English language. It’s versatile, poetic, adaptable, complex, intriguing. And difficult. By comparison, the German language is easy. It’s rule-driven; there are lots of rules and they are applied and obeyed consistently. Well, it is German. Once you get used to the fact that in certain circumstances some verbs go at the very end of the sentence, and other verbs separate and only the first part goes at the end of a sentence, it’s a doddle. Mark Twain would disagree. He hated German and even made some money out of his loathing. As with many other languages, all German nouns are designated male, female or neuter. I would have made a joke about the wokerati looking to banish such non-inclusive language, but Cambridge University has stolen my thunder by already teaching non-gendered German. Hello! It’s not Cambridge’s language to bastardise. In any event, I thought the woke* were only too ready to shout ‘cultural appropriation’ at the drop of a hat. Well, Cambridge has dropped a ...

Maybe if I blogged about cooking rather than current affairs I wouldn’t upset people. Except I would. Someone once told me it was insensitive to blog / brag about foie gras and truffle oil when people are relying on food banks. In that case, maybe I shouldn’t write about hiking because some people can’t walk very far. Maybe I shouldn’t discuss art or literature or philosophy or string theory because not everyone is fortunate enough to have had an elitist education. Maybe I shouldn’t use the word elitist because the concept of elitism is probably offensive.

This is a slightly amended version of the third ever posting of my Warts and All blog, the blog I've hidden from public view for reasons I won't bore you with again. I've redone it because I have the urge to post something and reach out but can't settle to write anything new, and I'm currently nostalgic for The North. Nostalgic? That's code for, I miss being able to call a spade a spade. I miss the crap-cutting, eye-winking, luv-calling, bum-slapping, unpretentious, patriotic, woke-antithesis North. I'm not quite feeling nostalgic for Arthur Scargill but, heck, anyone and anything is preferable to Leviathan Lynch. When I was eight years old or thereabouts (so long ago I can’t remember exactly) I attended the local junior school in the heart of a West-Riding-of-Yorkshire mining-cum-farming village. The community was homogenously white, so when we were introduced to a new trainee teacher, who was Asian, our jaws dropped (that, I do remember). Up until then my ...

I didn’t used to like J. K. Rowling. Actually, that’s not fair. What I mean is, I didn’t and still don’t like her writing, but I was ambivalent? apathetic? indifferent? about her as a person because I wasn’t bothered to find out anything about her. The Harry Potter storylines are fine enough but her style is, well, not for me. Dad couldn’t get on with her either. He tried a couple of her novels and never finished them. Given that he studied English Lit at Oxford (under JRR Tolkien and C S Lewis) and was an ace speed-reader, his track record with JK reflects more on her writing than on him as a reader. (Nothing reflected badly on Dad.)

That cry went up all over London when my old Cambridge college arranged an alumni evening in an Islington pub last week, and I registered to attend. Without Hubby. Out came the curling tongs, on went the mascara and off I went to catch the train. I was really looking forward to it, despite the attendance list containing the names of only three people I knew: a rejoiner, a communist and a Greek scholar (plus fellows and administrators). Still, I was confident that others who hadn't registered would turn up. That always happens at these drinky things and, my college being my college, starting a conversation with complete strangers is de rigueur. The pub wasn't on a convenient bus or underground route and it wasn't far enough to justify a taxi, so I walked from the flat. Halfway there, the clouds burst. My umbrella that normally won't close, at that moment wouldn't open. Oh, my hair! I found the pub and dashed to the ladies to scrunch and spritz and reapply the lip glo...

Ha! Either I’m desperate to attract attention with an outlandish headline, or I’ve lost the plot. I mean, how on earth can anyone feel sorry for Hancock. His dual focus during the pandemic was to a) further his career and b) cover his ass. To rub salt into our wounds, he broke his own social-distancing rules by snogging his bit in an elevator – much more compromising than nibbling a bit of cake. And, having turned his back on his wife and kids, he turned his back on his constituents to take part in I’m a Celebrity . No you’re not, Hancock. You’re a failed politician. Please get out of here.

In the UK, a prison sentence is supposed to fulfil three purposes:  • Protection of the public from dangerous individuals, • Punishment, and a deterrent against reoffending, • Rehabilitation back into society as reformed characters. So if someone is jailed when: • They pose no risk to the public, • Punishment and deterrent concepts are 'lost' because of m ental and emotional issues, • The rehabilitation objective will be counterproductive … … then why?

I mentioned in my previous blog (here) that top industry bosses, especially water, are lambasted for their huge salaries, whereas footballers, actors and so-called singers aren’t. I called it “inconsistent moral grandstanding”.  Coincidentally, the CEO of Thames Water, Sarah Bentley, was interviewed on the Today programme earlier this week, and whichever left-leaning, doesn’t-understand-the-meaning-of-the-word-impartial presenter it was gave her a hard time about her £2m p.a. remuneration package. To be honest, it was a fair line of questioning. However, later in the programme he interviewed a 'mermaid', which I assume is the latest twist in this gender-ID nonsense. The two of them bitched about the CEO’s salary like two prepubescent schoolkids complaining about a prefect behind her back. A good professional journalist / radio presenter would have remained neutral or, preferably, got her to divulge what she thought the CEO should be paid and whether she believed that anyone wo...

Who knew that socks were a muse? It got so late this morning that Hubby decided to risk life and limb by suggesting I swap my PJs for actual clothes, and maybe comb my hair and find some earrings. That didn’t go down well because: a) I was warm and cosy, b) I wasn’t going out so why bother, c) I was busy writing a blog and d) he’s not the boss o’ me.  Having obviously got out of bed the wrong side himself, he persisted with, “Another bloody blog?”  Donations in lieu of flowers, please.

We went up to London but not to visit the Queen. Sob sob. (Third blog in five days? Something must be rotten in the state of R-land …) Four of us congregated in our flat at odd times during the afternoon because we were all coming from different directions. I was first to arrive at about 3:45pm. I had intended to be there earlier but I had a brain fart at Euston Station and, instead of walking to Euston Square to get the Tube to Farringdon, I dreamily drifted down the escalators to the Northern Line and nearly ended up at London Bridge.

I suppose I should have been more compassionate. Hubby and I were having lunch one recent afternoon and his mobile rang. He was expecting a call, having been at the opticians about an hour ago to have his eye checked out that “wasn’t quite right.” (He’s not a wordsmith). “Today at 5pm? Yes that’s fine. Thank you.” Gosh that was quick! A same-day appointment with the NHS after a same-day referral. Respect!

I recently shared a Daily Mail article on LinkedIn (here) that was written by a history Prof, something about 10 questions to ask rejoiners next time they kick-off at a dinner party. This led to me being asked to provide 10 reasons why we shouldn’t rejoin the EU. This blog title fits perfectly with its namesake film ( 10 ), a comedy (rejoining the EU) about a middle-aged man (a rejoiner) who becomes infatuated with someone (the EU) who’s only using him for her own gratification (yup).

That’s me. Literally as well as figuratively. I have Covid. And I feel sorry for myself. I fell ill while on holiday. I probably picked up the virus at Heathrow or on the plane. Filthy places. After a couple of days yomping in the Alps, I took the train to Munich to visit my Best Female Friend, who's British but lives in Germany and is still as mad as hell at me for voting Brexit. Hubby stayed in the resort, partly because he wanted to carry on langlaufing, and partly because he was still as mad as hell at me for creating a scene going through security at Heathrow ( see previous blog here ).