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[Entries are in reverse date order, latest at the top. Comments and contributions are welcome to the email address at the bottom.] |
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Monday 11th November |
First callers to congratulate Trump:
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Thursday 7th November |
A grim result, with implications rippling wide and deep into the future. For starters, how must Zelensky be feeling? Much gleeful rubbing of hands in the Kremlin. Unimaginable for many of us. We thought he was toast. All those cartoons of Trump the felon behind bars. Stormy Daniels. The mugshot. I can't help but think that we, the university-educated left-leaning chattering class, bear some responsibility. We've done nothing but pour scorn on the orange buffoon, which has fuelled his determination and that of his followers. Meat and drink to resentful Main Street USA. I've always laid some blame at the feet of Obama, who I felt helped the whole thing along by humiliating Trump, present in the room, at the White House Correspondents Dinner in 2011. You could see Trump seething in the audience. "You smug Ivy League bastards, I'll show you, I'll run for President and win!" Barack Obama - urbane as ever, polished, knowingly clever and charming - repeated the dismissive theme throughout this campaign, posting bulletins on Twitter/X that poked fun at Trump, near-insults, scoffing at his perceived dimness and incompetence. Michelle, who once said "when they go low, we go high", has in this election cycle done anything but. The "coastal elites" of the USA - and we Guardian readers over here - condescend to Ordinary Joe of the Mid-West, often speaking a language that doesn't resonate. We've simultaneously been both appalled and amused by Trump's childish delivery, but it's always gone down well with MAGA, heard as honest and straightforward. We have failed to understand why Trump's supporters will follow him no matter how bonkers or crass he may appear. Nobody likes to be called stupid, and Trump has never accused Middle America of that. The Democratic challenge has not seen beyond the buffoon. |
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Sunday 20th October |
What sort of solution is this to the problems of the Middle East?
A population of ~2,150,000 in an area 25 miles long by between 3.7 and 7.5 miles wide. Displaced from one pile of rubble to another via ... rubble. 
Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. |
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Sunday 13th October |
We held the anniversary ceasefire vigil on Friday evening at 6pm in front of the Subscription Rooms.
Yes, a year on. Not so many of us now, but at least it's become easier to get to know the others, particularly if you arrive early and sit together on the benches to the side of the square. We're mostly of a certain age. That's OK. I remember my mother-in-law Sheila, a staunch Quaker and Amnesty member, used to excuse us from going on marches, saying it was her contribution; she had the time in retirement whereas we were busy with small children and jobs. More so than at the beginning, the response of passing motorists is frequent and supportive. I can tell a well-meaning toot. Followed by a right-on clenched-fist salute in thanks from our guiding light Robin. A police patrol car came by and the two officers gave us a wave of acknowledgement, the modern-day equivalent of a Dixon-of-Dock-Green fingertip-to-the-helmet and "Evening all". What next? Is anyone listening? The conflict spreads, deepens and threatens far worse. Israel shows no let-up in Gaza and Lebanon. There is an eerie silence about retaliation against Iran. A military that can play the long game of murderously infiltrating the supply chain of pagers to Hezbollah will surely be hatching a detailed punitive plan. So, do our elderly protests count for anything? It would be gratifying to think that the abandonment of the Rwanda scheme, the Tory election defeat, and locally ... the rejection of senseless parking schemes, community purchase of beloved green spaces threatened by developers, the success of the Friday pay-as-you-can lunch sessions ... all these were our doing, right? The product of small individual commitments, multiplied, echoed and vibrating across the ether? Hmmm. All we really know is that we have to show up. 
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Friday 11th October |
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Back at the end of August, I made some disparaging remarks about the Gallagher brothers as they announced their let's-make-some-cash tour next year. I'm amused to see that they've now extended this money-grab to North America and Australia. That should pay for a few more divorces.
Coincidentally, I learned a week ago that Liam is now a near-neighbour. Since April - I've been slow on the uptake - he has been renting the £17,000-per-month baronial manor of Stanley Park, across town outside the village of Selsey. No affordability issues given what some of his tour tickets fetch. I've just checked the Viagogo site for the nearest gig to me. On June 5th 2025 at the Principality Stadium in Cardiff, for section L10 halfway down the side of the mosh pit you will pay £5,603 per ticket. Which would cover 10 days of Liam's Stanley Park tenure. 
I don't know for sure that he's still here, although I haven't heard to the contrary. I've not seen him out and about, not even at the popular Farmers Market on Saturday morning - "Fookin' mad 'ere, innit?" However, he posted a selfie with his dog Buttons on Selsey Common. 
My dear friend Anne Creed, who died earlier this year, an unrepentant Tory admirer of the elite, would have been appalled. The idea that such a yob should occupy the house of a great Stroud benefactor would have sent her apoplectic. Sir Samuel Stephens Marling, 1st Baronet, was a Stroudie cloth manufacturer and politician. He was co-founder of Marling (Grammar) School in 1882, donating £10,000. 
As a further gratuitous aside, a noted Marling alumnus is actor Tim McInnerny, who played Lord Percy and Captain Darling in Blackadder.  
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Thursday 10th October |
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I know, it's been a while. Impossible to write about the Middle East. Ukraine enters another grim winter with Putin knocking at the door. The far-right gains traction in Europe. And not much to cheer about in the UK.
Boy was I right when I said on 23rd June: "My view is that we need to enjoy to the full the next ten days, a period - which we will later describe as halcyon - in which the Tories are toast and Starmer hasn't yet screwed it all up." Because now he has, with some assistance from the right-wing press. Whatever happened to his use of the word "no"? Why on earth were the old-timer and his wife Vic going to a Taylor Swift concert anyway? Do you really need an £18 million penthouse to revise for GCSEs? After Partygate and number 11 wallpaper, how could they blunder into this shaming distraction? Naïvety? Delusional self-justification? Or are they just as rotten as the others? So now, cartoonists like Stephen Collins of The Guardian turn their attention to Labour sleaze, which was supposed to be the preserve of Johnson cronies. So disappointing. Maybe worse. I spent years, certainly the entire life of this blog, dreaming of the day when the venal Tories would be ousted, to be replaced by honest and decent leaders, and now Starmer lets this happen. How dare he dash my hopes? Click on the two frames below to see the full Collins strip: 
He talks of a reset. Really? Or will there just be more of the deceit so favoured by the blonde buffoon? Lies masquerading as or twisted into truth, surely an endangered concept in the hands of those like Johnson. This apologia is officially published today: 
Reviews will straddle the political spectrum, you can be certain. The Daily Mail is delighted to be serialising what it calls "his explosive memoir", and revels in the yards of florid Johnsonian prose and indelicate exposé, which will surely pull in the punters. Here are his assertions on the origins of Covid: "The awful thing about the whole Covid catastrophe is that it appears to have been entirely man-made, in all its aspects. Some scientists were clearly splicing bits of virus together like the witches in Macbeth - eye of bat and toe of frog - and oops, the frisky little critter jumped out of the test tube and started replicating all over the world." Meanwhile, in Sunday's Observer, Tim Adams wrote: "No phrase that Johnson writes in this book comes entirely unlaced with hyperbole or self-serving spin ... you won't find any convincing notes of solemnity or compassion in this book, because where is the Bunterish snigger in that?" What was that about a bad penny? |
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Sunday 8th September |
A splendid street party, spared the downpours we had both before and after. Delicious healthy food - spinach and ricotta bake, yum - and a chance to have a proper chat with neighbours you only greet in passing.
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Saturday 7th September |
Street closed, and let's hope the autumn rains hold off:
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Saturday 31st August |
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So, the summer recess comes to an end, here as in Westminster. Starmer is waking us up with a few warnings of rot-stopping gloom, Reeves follows suit, brandishing her multi-billion public finance hole. Some commentators say that Labour are piling the blame on the just-hammered Tories while they can, thinking as far ahead as the next election, building a depth of mood that precludes any Conservative return in five years' time, cashing in on the landslide. They were not only short on morals, but incompetent too, and deceitful with it.
OK, it's natural to want to make hay, but I hope Labour stop playing the Bad Tory Legacy card soon. It's a cheap look. We longed for statesmanship, not name-calling. I find the sight of the current opposition front bench quite odd. Sunak, Hunt, Cleverly, Dowden ... they used to be in government once, didn't they? Now an uncomfortable line-up of chastened ex-ministers, diminished, wondering how they should play out the next few years. All they've got to anticipate at the moment is an internal battle to see who will be the new top dog. Labour will enjoy that bun fight. The conclusion of the silly season is marked by the re-emergence of this miserable pair: 
I wish they'd go away, and for good. That's not going to happen, is it? The ticket frenzy has already started, including the dodgy resale market. Anyone fancy Wembley next July for £6,000? |
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Friday 2nd August |
Just a bit more on the Portugal trip, prompted by the idea I mentioned back in June, namely the power and charm of receipts, the stories they tell. I've just cleared the Portuguese collection from my wallet. Here's one from the first day of our visit:
So, from the top, you can see that we went to a cake and coffee shop, the Pasteleria São José in Ponte de Lima. Son Ben has a weakness for the sweet pastry stuff (in truth, he's not the only one) and is a serious coffee man. Here's an aerial view (click to enlarge, red pointer marks the spot) of the shop's location in Largo de São José, just back from the Lima riverside: 
This old centre really hasn't changed since we stayed in the town 37 years ago, when son Nikko was 6 and daughter Ellie eighteen months. Still a very easy place. Just like before, we parked on the river bank, strolled along the esplanade, had drinks in the main square - where grandson Marlie climbed both those (larger) trees in the bottom photo. 
Back to the receipt. The highlight is the final item on the list, "5 Nata". We all chose the famous pastel de nata, a ubiquitous custard (nata translates as "cream") tart optionally spiced with cinnamon and lemon zest. Granddaughter Lola insisted that we should have one every day. She ranked them in order of excellence as we went through the holiday. None bettered these that we found first, guiltily rich and heavy, and they cost just 93p each. 
Check out some other prices. Ben's espresso and my descafeinado version were each only 68p. Sitting outside a cafe in a popular square. |
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Thursday 1st August |
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At Alf's memorial, I read out the appreciation I posted here a couple of days ago. Afterwards one of those present said, "I read the blog too. What have you been doing since 12th July?"
It's true. There was a gap. We'd been on a family holiday in Portugal, nine of us, three generations. North of Oporto, inland near an old vila - chartered - town called Ponte de Lima, up a hillside at the base of Monte da Facha. Clear air, beautiful house and garden, pool, different terraced levels. I was released from cooking for the week, with the middle generation far more talented than I. Lots of grandkid involvement in the food: filleting fish, operating the barbecue, making focaccia and Persian flat bread, perfect thin-crust pizza. A real privilege. Here are a few snaps. Click any image to enlarge.  
 
 
  
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Wednesday 31st July |
A truly joyful celebration of Alf Florio yesterday:
Tributes from family and friends, all with a common theme - a man who spread happiness and love. Events like this - I've written before, with others we have lost recently, that the best of these can teach you something - are an exhortation to live your life better. Dom Ingram reminded us that when we lose somebody like Alf we who remain have to step up to fill the space left. A wonderful array of photographs on show to document all periods of Alf's life. I've picked two that made me smile, Alf as "The Don" and playing the "Christmas Fool":  
I looked down on the street from an upstairs window first thing this morning and wished that I could see Alf out on his constitutional. How much he meant to all of us. I'm so grateful that I stopped him five or so years ago. |
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Tuesday 30th July |
Today we celebrate the life of my dear friend Alf Florio, who died last winter. His wife Geraldine sent out this family invitation to the memorial event, the joining details of which I've truncated to deter gate-crashers (I know, who's going to see this?). If you've read about him in this blog, you'll get the references.
Geraldine and daughter Martha asked on Sunday if I'd like to say something. "Of course I would" was my first reaction, then I panicked. I was unsure that I could find the words to do Alf justice in a couple of days. But that's what I try to do in this blog, right? So here we go. I only knew Alf for a few years, perhaps five, so I have only a fraction of the personal memories that will be massed in the hall where we will meet later today. Thankfully, I learnt a substantial amount from Alf himself during our regular chats, and had hoped to dig out more. In January I suggested a trip to Soho to re-visit his priestly haunts and take in an Italian meal, but sadly only days before he died. He did receive my invitation in time, and was pleased to do so. I'm excited today by the prospect of meeting so many people from his past. I've struggled to put my finger precisely on why we had such a bond, which I in modesty hope I can claim; Geraldine says that he was fond of me. Yes, we shared some obvious interests and connections: Italy, dislike of the world's political monsters (there have been plenty over the last five years, haven't there?), our families' progress, the trials of coronavirus, and much more. Yet they don't really indicate why Alf was so special to me. He filled a hole, resolved an emptiness. I'd be out of sorts and needed to take myself out of a sombre mood - "I know, I'll pop round to see Alf for a cup of tea and a natter". Sometimes with people you are lost for words, don't know if you can let on about a particular feeling, perhaps even sense that you are not willingly heard. Never with Alf. Of course, he could listen. A master. Well, he'd had a lot of practice in that confessional. I'm not a believer, and he never forced any ideology upon me, but I suspect the bedrock of his strong faith came through, touched, even soothed me. His friendship was a balm. He was the most devoted reader of this blog. I might not have continued it through the days of the pandemic without his encouragement. He would generously comment and applaud, a powerful validation of what I was trying to do. These pages don't attract a huge following, but I don't care; Alf was enough, along with one or two others I value highly. In writing this brief post I may have stumbled on his rare gift. Every time I had a chat with Alf, I finished feeling a better person than when we had started. |
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Friday 12th July |
"Ladies and gentlemen, President Putin."
Sad. And also dangerous, as he's the self-styled "leader of the free world" facing up to China, India, North Korea and Iran. They'll all be quaking in their boots. This was meant to be the safe, scripted part of his evening as he wound up the NATO summit. When he moved into the unscripted section, answering press questions, he immediately called his own vice-president Harris "Vice-President Trump". The rest was just coherent enough, although I felt I was watching a man at the limit of his competence. At times a hoarse, almost whispering delivery, staring eyes, clutching at the lectern. Supporters say he's always slurred his words. Well, it's really not a good look. The Newsnight bench, non-committal at the start of the discussion before Biden came on screen, flipped at the "Putin" blunder. The consensus was now that he must stand down, could even do it gracefully. Baron Mandelson came up with an interesting idea, that Barack and Michelle Obama should step in. How would they do that? Michelle as Democratic candidate? Rumours surfaced that Barack's people had even drafted the George Clooney "You gotta go, Joe" piece in the New York Times. Trump has only had to remain relatively silent as Biden implodes, but he did use his Truth Social platform to post this: 
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Thursday 11th July |
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I've taken a few days to recognise fully the first huge win of this election victory.
We don't have to do this any more: 
And I got lucky with the footie last night. A few weeks ago I had my little flutter, at much better odds than you'd get today, on both England and Spain. I can't lose. 
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Sunday 7th July |
It was always going to be a struggle for Starmer to say something positive about the outgoing Sunak, but Keir - no "Sir", thank-you - manfully erred on the side of magnanimity, even if faint. Rishi had done well to be that first Asian PM. I think many of us are slightly in shock. It's difficult to believe that we are, on the flushed first face of it, leaving the mire of the last decade. The cartoon characters above and their cronies made many British lives a misery, a long pandemic of the heart and soul. I have at times felt depressed, angry, disgusted, repelled, ashamed, disbelieving, helpless, hope-free. The new PM did well with the selection of vocabulary in his first speech  . We all want to hear and later experience the effect of these words: renewal, service, spirit, belief, trust, healed, respect, responsibility, rebuild, hope, rediscovery, dignity, opportunity, unite, humility.
Not everybody is a fan of Starmer. I have local friends who consider him a monstrous liar and turncoat. I have a personal bone to pick with him on the non-selection, often mentioned in these pages, of our inspirational former council leader Doina Cornell as the Stroud candidate for this election. But hey, we got the Tories out. As with the triumph of 1997, the difficult thing will be to witness the erosion of the victory sheen, which must surely come. And the job isn't going to be easy. 
One worrying additional thought. I've spent five years of this blog railing against the Tory party. What now? |
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Saturday 6th July |
A startling element, nothing new and now widely acknowledged, of the election result was the vote and seat share picture. My friend Aidan sent me a chart early on in the overnight results show, even before Labour was declared the winner, so not up-to-date accurate. However, I've not been able to find a better one since. I've also edited it down to my chosen highlights:
Remarkable comparisons. The stand-out disconnect is that Reform had half-a-million more votes than the Libdems but 67 fewer seats (now 66). The Tories achieved 70% of the voter numbers acquired by Labour but 30% of the constituencies won. Farage has a point when he considers that he can be the voice of opposition to Labour, if not in the Commons, but out in the country. Will we - or the incumbents under the current model - allow first-past-the-post to survive? After all the Eton and Bullingdon Club years, it's interesting to look at the schooling backgrounds of Starmer's top team. The PM went to Reigate Grammar School. His deputy attended the comprehensive Avondale School in Stockport, left at 16. The Chancellor was a pupil at comprehensive Cator Park School for Girls in Beckenham. The Foreign Secretary started out at Downhills Primary School in Tottenham, and at the age of 10 was awarded an Inner London Education Authority choral scholarship to sing at Peterborough Cathedral and attend The King's School, Peterborough. The Home Secretary went to Eggar's School comprehensive in Holybourne and Alton College, both in Alton, Hampshire. So, some selective and aspirational stuff there, but nothing like the privileged shite of Cameron and Johnson. Perhaps not completely my-dad-was-a-toolmaker, but closer to the experiences of ordinary folk. I asked some - possibly rhetorical - questions on the eve of polling. Now you can see how they've been answered: "Who will lose their seats? What effect will Reform have on the Conservative total? Will Farage get elected? How will Labour do in Scotland? Will Ed Davey's antics pay off?" |
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Friday 5th July |
07:45am
I didn't pull an all-nighter, but have woken up to even better news than when I took to my bed earlier. I'm reluctant to gloat - not the Starmer hope-and-optimism, politics-of-decency way - but the departure of Truss (26,195 majority overturned) and Rees-Mogg feels like payback for years of pain and despair. Fewer seats for the party than expected, but Farage and the lovely Lee Anderson are in Parliament. The Reform second-place effect has buried the Tories. Stroud turns back to Labour, handsomely: 
In half-an-hour we're all off to bury our wonderful - but Tory - friend Anne. She has been spared this morning's news. 23:30 last night: Reform again ... 
23:15 last night: First declaration. Check out the Reform effect ... 
23:00 last night: National dailies going with a result already ... 
Those numbers at the bottom of the Sun front page can only be a placeholder declaration, right? All they're saying is that they intend to dedicate the first 10 pages to coverage of the election. 22:10 last night: BBC exit poll within minutes of the close of voting ... 
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Thursday 4th July |
Today's the day. Google says it's time to vote:
In case you're about to go soft on Sunak, or have been seduced by his "Don't Surrender" claims of what Labour will do, here is Jonathan Pie's reminder of why we have to vote the bastards out. This is typical-Pie shout-y, swear-y stuff, so please ignore if it offends. However, it's one hell of a summary (not fact-checked, but you get the idea) of how they have blighted our country. That's why I look forward to this better kind of landfill ... 
... and to some fun results tomorrow morning. Who will lose their seats? What effect will Reform have on the Conservative total? Will Farage get elected? How will Labour do in Scotland? Will Ed Davey's antics pay off? 
That's right, there's still an elephant lurking in the room. |
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Wednesday 3rd July |
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As we used to say to the kids, one sleep to go. And only two to the results.
I've been looking forward to these moments for the entire lifetime of this blog, indeed every day since 7th May 2010. Everything I've written in recent years has been set against a backdrop of despair at the effect on this country of the mean and corrupt Tory omnishambles. As I've said before, today and tomorrow give us a blessed, almost dream-state antithesis to the last fourteen years - the miscreants are toast and their replacements haven't yet screwed it up. A particular irony after such a soul-numbing period is that we are expecting a fairer, more compassionate, left(er)-leaning government just as the far right takes hold in other parts of the world. I had given up hope of emerging from under the cloud. Fingers crossed. I enjoyed this front page as I skimmed the dailies on the newspaper racks at Waitrose yesterday: 
You had to be an Express reader to think that this was a BAD thing, didn't you? "Hurrah!", I involuntarily cried as I read it out loud, and two other customers laughed with me. |
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Tuesday 25th June |
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Clearing out receipts from recent trips to Vienna and Bilbao, I've realised that I love the stories they tell. Unusual memory jogs, quite detailed recollections triggered by simple slips of paper that were never intended as a holiday record.
Here's one from Bilbao: 
Where do I start? This purchase was a gift from son Ben. We share an inclination to offal. He said, "You've got to have one of these, Dad." 
I'm sorry. It's not pretty, is it? Maybe worse. Ben called it a "Basque haggis". I once made him the Scottish original for his birthday, which almost coincides with Burns Night. From scratch. I got the proper bits from Broomhall's abattoir over in Eastington, the full "sheep's pluck", all the internal organs. Bought a traditional hand mincer to get the job done. I'll spare you the photos. Anyway, the bad boy above is called, as you can see in the receipt, Botillo de Bierzo. It's not actually Basque but from comes from the Leonese regions of El Bierzo and Laciana to the west, made with chopped pig pieces seasoned and stuffed into the cecum, smoked and semi-cured. The term cecum comes from Latin caecum, "the blind man", as it's the closed end that forms the first part of the large intestine. You so wanted to know all that, didn't you? Now, many would say that the renowned Guggenheim Museum represents the city's determination to reinvent itself after the decline of the coal, iron and steel industries which had turned rural Bilbao and the banks of its river Nervión into the belching, smoking, raucous economic powerhouse of northern Spain. As you come in from the airport on the A3247 bus, under the red arch of the La Salve bridge, you certainly get a recognisable welcome from the Gugg: 
I would argue that there's another and equally important building, named at the bottom of the receipt above, the Mercado de la Ribera - or Erriberako Merkatua in Basque: 
It's a symbol of civic pride too, apart from being a brilliant place to shop for veg, fish and meat, or treat yourself to some pintxos in the large bar section. As you can see in the photo above, it's right at the southern edge of the Casco Viejo, just 5 minutes walk from our B&B on the opposite side. You can sit on a terrace overlooking the Nervión to enjoy a snifter after your shop. There's been a market on the site since the fourteenth century. In the picture below, you can see the covered porticoes of the still present Ribera - or riverbank - buildings. Last visit I bought a traditional Basque beret or txapela in a hat shop there. There's also the bridge and Church of San Antón, which is today still facing the market hall. 
I say that the market is important and symbolic because of its persistence, at times against the odds. It feels like the city was determined that it should survive and be useful. The first incarnation of the hall in its present shape was unveiled in 1929. Forty years later it lost much of its purpose, as the new Mercabilbao wholesale distribution centre was opened in Basauri in 1971, leaving the Ribera with only local customers on a much smaller scale. In 1983 it suffered serious damage in the dramatic Bizkaia floods, when in Bilbao more than 500 litres of rain per square metre fell in 24 hours on August 26th. Major structural defects were discovered in 2008 which prompted a modernisation rebuild, with the re-opening in 2012. It's a significant resource, huge, bang in the middle of town. Proper folk, the real gear, no tourist fluff. Ben uses it a lot, knows the traders. 
Back to the receipt and Mikel Rojo, our man with the botillo. Tocineria and chacineria both loosely translate as "pork butcher's shop"; more accurately, tocina is bacon and chacina is sausage. Here he is at puesto 121 ("position" or "stall") on the primera planta ("first floor"), with some of his offal-y bits: 
Yes, I'll own up, I've eaten the trotters roasted and the ears a la plancha, grilled. There we are, that's the bill scrutinised and dissected. Yesterday I followed the advice of Mr. Rojo and simmered the botillo for four hours, then served it up with some lightly-steamed courgettes to offset the pork meatiness and sting of pimentón: 
Interesting, tasty. I'm a committed offal man but even I found this a little challenging. Unlike haggis, there are big lumps. And it's not clear what they are. |
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Sunday 23rd June |
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Back from Bilbao (some blogging on that trip in the pipeline, maybe) for a week now, straight into underwhelming performances from both English footballers and election hopefuls. The first have forgotten all their natural talent and the latter manage only to bitch at one another. Little evidence of leadership in either group.
My view is that we need to enjoy to the full the next ten days, a period - which we will later describe as halcyon - in which the Tories are toast and Starmer hasn't yet screwed it all up. There's a single party in evidence around our neck of the woods (despite the presence of Green HQ nearby), promoted by this large poster on the corner at the end of the road. We can only hope that the promise of a Labour victory doesn't turn out to echo the street name. And, returning to the footie, the colours augur well for my chosen tournament favourite. 
The return from visiting son Ben also coincided with the sad loss of a dear friend, Anne Creed. Two weeks ago we were lunching with her at our local Trinity Rooms community café, now she's suddenly gone. We're all startled by the emptiness of her absence. She was a talking history of Stroud, knew everybody present and past. Many will have enjoyed her guerrilla garden next to the Golden Fleece pub in Nelson Street. Slate engravings there were provided by former Middle Street neighbour Jim, who has now moved to Painswick but returns on occasion with his work. He was chipping away at an RIP yesterday. 
Somebody has left a note on the garden sign in appreciation: 
The text reads: ANNE CREED Kind, funny, feisty, big-hearted, she was my only Tory friend (you'd be forgiven for thinking that she was wearing a large Labour rosette in the photo above, but no, it is of course a poppy, a more appropriate red emblem for Anne to display). We would squabble over almost every aspect of party political doctrine, indeed I would anticipate with relish every opportunity I might have to wind her up. But it never interfered with our friendship. After, for a brief moment, a dark cloud of disagreement fell over her face, she would cotton on to my intent, laugh and wink. Special in this age of bitter and often personal political engagement, we could debate without rancour. The only consolation in her passing at this time is that she will not witness the demise of her Conservative party. If you knew Anne and would like to celebrate her life and pay your respects, the funeral will be held at Cheltenham Crematorium on Friday 5th July at 10:30am, followed by food and drinks at the Golden Fleece from 12:30pm. I don't know how people will fit. We need a cathedral and a brewery. |
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Sunday 9th June |
I may have to give the manifestos a miss - only temporarily - if they come out this week. With luck I should be here in time for lunch:
Bang on time for the 2024 European Parliament elections, all 61 Spanish seats up for grabs today. Across much of Europe a sharp turn to the right is expected. I'm sure we'll be greeted around Bilbao by campaign van tannoys proclaiming among others the most disagreeable Vox. There's a curious irony here as we in the UK anticipate a more left-leaning government. We're not part of the predicted shift in the European parliament because our right-wingers engineered the Brexit departure. Hasta luego! Or should I say ... from the Basque Country ... Gero arte? |
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Saturday 8th June |
Killer mistake, eh?
In contrast, here's a man who knows how to make an appearance: I love that Justin Trudeau has to explain who he is. And that the vet, 99-year-old Baltimore-born Melvin Hurwitz, asks Zelensky about the good-looking woman he's with. Yes, Sunak's dead in the water - appropriately enough given that's where so many of the veterans' mates perished. |
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Friday 7th June |
If the D-Day commemoration events did anything, they put the general election in perspective. Sunak - how could he foul this up? - managed another blunder by sneaking off for more TV preening. Diss the veterans at your peril.
The campaign hasn't grabbed me as much as I imagined it would. For years I've been looking forward to this chance to rid ourselves of the Tories, and beyond that to see some return of decency to public life. Instead Starmer lowers himself to personal squabbles with Sunak, Farage seizes his moment again to be a nuisance, Davey embarrasses himself with silly stunts. While we may not have reached the levels seen in New York of a front-runner convicted, the preliminary skirmishes have been disappointing. 
As I've said before, we need the manifestos. Probably next week? Clearly argued and substantiated plans to put the nation right. Any chance? Fewer personal attacks, less of the Starmer "My-dad-was-a-toolmaker" blarney, stop the here's-an-eyecatching-scheme-a-day nonsense. Some sound policy to serve the people. Sadly, it's unlikely that they will statesman up their act, and a dead cert that perma-tanned Farage will be unable to keep his enormous gob shut. Oddly, only today, at 4pm, comes the deadline for candidates to register to stand. Seems a bit last minute, doesn't it? |
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Thursday 6th June |
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After a few days of silence, I've felt compelled to comment, or at least take note. Although there's not much to say that hasn't already been covered in television reports, documentary and newsprint.
80 years ago today. The youngest of the veterans in attendance is 96; he was 16 at the time. None of them is likely to be around at the next memorial point in 5 years' time, so this is really the final call. Our lifetimes have been free of most direct involvement in warfare, certainly an existential threat to these shores. BBC journalist Sophie Raworth asked one old boy yesterday what was uppermost in his thoughts; apart from the obvious sadness at the loss of his mates, he said he wished that, particularly in the middle east, people would today talk the language of peace, not war. 
Unusual for me to follow war stuff, but I've been impressed by the BBC series "D-Day: The Unheard Tapes". Archive material of combatants telling their stories afterwards, lip-synced by young actors in 1940s civvies. Cut with both original film and newly-imagined re-enactment. Not just the beach landings, but also the vast and complex preparation, the earlier glider drops and subsequent first advances across Normandy countryside. The programmes work brilliantly; The Guardian's review says: "TV so good it's worth the BBC licence fee on its own." Cannon fodder. The Germans had been building these "Atlantic Wall" defences for years. The machine gunners in their wiederstandsnest "resistance nests" sat on top of the cliffs or "bluffs" and could pick off at will the disembarking soldiers on the sand below, with enough ammunition for 48 hours' engagement. The deaths all factored into the planning; allied commanders estimated 30% of the invasion force might die. Success came with sheer weight of numbers. The archive interviews are not just with the British "Tommies"; there are American veterans, French resistance fighters and civilians whose towns were shelled and bombed relentlessly as part of the assault, and perhaps most tellingly, a German gunner. All ordinary people believing that they had right on their side, following orders to kill ordinary opponents. |
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Saturday 1st June |
Of course he did:
The beyond-belief nature of politics across the pond should remind us of where we don't want to go. We desperately need to see the official general election manifestos because the phoney war this side of the water has been having its moments. Sunak continues his rain-soaked blundering journey as he asks Welsh pub-goers whether they're looking forward to the Euros when sadly their team didn't qualify. Starmer, after threatening to lose the Muslim vote with his prevarication on Gaza, has risked alienating black support by his treatment of Diane Abbott. I suspect they're all a bit twitchy, surprised - even Sunak himself - by the early call to campaign. We need the plain manifesto text to calm us - or rather, them - down. |
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Friday 31st May |
Wow.
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Sunday 26th May |
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I never saw it coming. Did anybody? The suit is barely dry and he tosses this into the mix:
"Bring back National Service, that's what we need." We've heard those voices for 64 years. Get those kids off their screens, make them show a bit of respect, stop litter in the streets, do something useful. I've long viewed the imminent general election as the light at the end of the tunnel, the re-awakening of hope after a dismal decade. Not according to Sunak, apparently. Our children must fear the world more than ever. We of the "post-war" generation are now handing over to the "pre-war". I'd love to know who dreamt up this idea? And how did they keep it so quiet? |
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Saturday 25th May |
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This moment will live long in the memory. For six weeks at least, I hope.
It briefly removed her from the front pages, but time and scrutiny is catching up with this miscreant. |
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Friday 24th May |
We've waited so long for this, an election to rid us of the mob who have brought shame and misery to this country. Now it's upon us in a rush. Parliament is prorogued today, dissolved next Thursday. Even Nigel Farage, as he yesterday once again decided not to stand, admitted he'd been surprised. So many MPs out of a job way before they expected. How brilliant that Sunak should have started the process with a miserable fail:
Now we wait for manifestos, to see how dreams will turn into promised policy. If the election result follows the polls and we combine these headlines, here's a pleasing outcome: 
There is one large elephant in the room for any Remoaner. Here is an interview with Tory grandee and European Movement president Michael Heseltine (slightly menacing in the shadows of his darkened office): |
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Thursday 23rd May |
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Yes, two months since I last blogged. Kind and loyal readers have noted this and asked why, and whether I would break my silence. The first part of the answer is that I have not had a great start to the year, but won't bore you with the details. The second response is, yes, I will, and here I am. I originally started blogging at the launch of the 2019 General Election campaign, so the Sunak announcement yesterday has appropriately sparked me into coverage of the run-up to July 4th. My dear friend Alf Florio, whom I've missed every day, would I hope have approved.
I've been trawling through all my usual sources, which I haven't done since March. So what you get today is snippets from those sources. The print press, podcasters and cartoonists didn't miss Sunak's PR disaster in front of Number 10: 
Politics Joe have been ready with a summary of the last 14 years. For "General Strike" substitute "General Election" - and spot the incorrect apostrophe: Most of us are delighted that the farce is nearly at an end. It must be, surely? However, the timing has puzzled many in the Tory party. Rory Stewart passed his inside knowledge on to Rest-is-Politics mate Alastair Campbell: It's Labour's to lose, isn't it? Sunak has already made a cheap and squalid start with his version of Project Fear, his exploitative spin on a dangerous world, the emphasis on security. It's hope that we want, surely? And decency. A wide-open goal that football-loving Starmer will be hard-pressed to miss. Unless he gets tangled up in classic Labour shoot-yourself-in-the-foot distraction. 
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Friday 22nd March |
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Some personal milestones noted today. I ask your forbearance.
I started this blog on 22nd March 2020, so four years ago. Roughly 900 A4 pages of 14-point text. 37,000 words, my own and quoted. 10.2 gigabytes on disk. 4,900 files: documents, images, audio and video. The last year's readership was 95% from the UK. The best of the rest: United States, France, Ireland, Spain, Italy, Luxembourg, Austria, Russia, Germany, Netherlands, Australia, India, Singapore, Canada, Lithuania, Israel, Maldives, Pakistan, Poland, Portugal, Qatar, China, Tunisia, United Arab Emirates, Belgium, North Macedonia. I'm sorry to have lost this year my one reader from Togo. What's happened in his (or her) life? My thanks to dear Alf Florio, who died at nearly 94 earlier this year. He encouraged me to start, read it every day and commented often. We all miss him. While I'm at it, I'll run through the other anniversaries that are coming up. My mother Bette would be 103 on Sunday. In five days I will have been off the sauce for three years. On Monday, 80 days without a fag. The corner shop's sales graph must have fallen off a cliff. |
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Thursday 21st March |
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On Sunday evening I had a rant during dinner with friends ...
... Dentistry in England 😡 We know there's a crisis. One of my fellow diners, or rather host, Clare, said that her son Luke had received a letter from his daughter Nell's school in Bristol asking permission (a broadcast request, I'm sure, rather than the result of individual inspection) to brush children's teeth at school. A response to cost-of-living neglect, natch. This reflects the February news from St Pauls that followed the opening of a new NHS dental practice: 
The Mirror is in campaign mode, partnering with the British Dental Association (BDA):  
I've tangled more often than I would like with the dental profession since developing an infected tooth abscess six weeks ago. This was resolved with antibiotics, but the visit sadly revealed all manner of treatment I ought to consider. My complaint is not primarily about what my dentist plans to charge, although it seems a lot. It's more about how money and health care don't sit comfortably together. I am of course a child of the "free at the point of use" NHS, implemented by Labour four years before my birth. I thought it was worth remembering its constitution, so I looked at GOV.UK's relevant page, particularly the statements below the heading: "Seven key principles guide the NHS in all it does." I've chosen three:
My experiences with our GP practice of 35 years and with Gloucestershire hospitals echo the above. Excellent care (with an exception level of around 1%), delivered with humanity. I can't say the same of my current dental practice. Nothing wrong with the treatment, it's very professional. However, that human touch is missing. I have no sense that he ... err ... sees the person behind the teeth. Beyond that, the whole process feels transactional rather than strategic. Now, that may seem a bit grand for mere toothy matters, but I would like to discuss a plan, assess its impact on my life. No, he points at the chair, fixes a tooth, goes to his computer, records his actions and sends the detail to the reception desk. Where the staff seem intent only on invoicing, eyes fixed on their screens, processing and printing my bill. An impressive joined-up IT system, but where do people fit? The heart of the business, which is what it has become, is the generation and management of revenue. Ker-ching. And that is not the case with my NHS doctors. I know that vast amounts of taxpayer money underpin that service, but it's not in your face when you ask the GP for help. OK, maybe it's my dentist. I've tried to explain to him and others at the practice what bothers me. It's difficult to get a message of criticism across to somebody who's about to put a drill in your mouth. I should change provider, I hear you say, but I've had the same issues elsewhere. The problem is all about care versus cash. "The patient will be at the heart of everything", claims the NHS. Not in dentistry. It's the patient's wallet. One hopes that the promising noises made by the Labour "government-in-waiting" turn into action. I particularly like the idea that we should have a "health" service, rather than an "illness" one. And wind back 76 years to access "based on clinical need, not an individual's ability to pay". Mind you, the dentist has often had a bad press across the years, in both reality and fiction. Remember Laurence Olivier as Dr Christian Szell in "Marathon Man"? 
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Sunday 17th March |
Local Crown & Sceptre landlord Rodda, passionate Remoaner, is celebrating his newly-acquired Irish passport and St. Patrick this evening:
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Saturday 16th March |
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I've stumbled upon recent surveys conducted by J.L. Partners, an organisation founded by researchers who were 10 Downing Street analysts during Theresa May's tenure and also ran polling at Conservative Campaign Headquarters prior to the 2019 election.
Oh yes, he's going down ... 
... and dull but with more of a chance ... 
Reasons-to-be-cheerful, I suppose. The concern post-Sunak is, like the Hydra, how many and what kind of new heads sprout after decapitation. Particularly if the standout criticism is "weak". PopCon waits plotting in the wings. The desire for its own "Duce" lurks in the Tory voter's soul. With Labour, do we have confidence that Old Flip-Flopper will DO THE RIGHT THING? |
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Friday 15th 'the Ides of' March |
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As the death-rattle of the Tories spews yet more divisive and distracting ordure, the AI elves of my interconnected digital world must have deduced that I needed cheering up, and where such relief might be found.
MSN, in harness with Edge and Copilot, reminded me that the sequel "This is Spinal Tap 2" is now in production. Originally scheduled for release a few days from now, we might realistically see it in early 2025. The detail that follows is my indulgence. I've never posted it before, and although most of you will already be familiar, I thought it deserved to be on the record in these pages. If you have been in a nunnery for the last four decades, here's the trailer to the 1984 film: . I won't over-explain the next two clips; you fans will know them from the stills. First, and concluding with a concept that has entered the vernacular, an equipment overview: . A personal favourite, the pre-gig rider meltdown: . Now, is this follow-up really a good idea? These chaps are old, knocking 80. Two other seniors, Paul McCartney and Elton John, will appear as guests. Can it work? Here they are celebrating their 35th anniversary at the Tribeca Film Festival in 2019: 
They are good at keeping the joke alive. There was a 1992 album release, "Break Like the Wind". In 2001, they played a "One Night Only World Tour" in Anaheim, California. Tap reunited again in 2007, this time to help combat the climate crisis. "They're not that environmentally conscious, but they've heard of global warming," said director Marty DiBergi (portrayed by Rob Reiner), "Nigel thought it was because he was wearing too much clothing - that if he took his jacket off it would be cooler." A short film was streamed on the Live Earth website: "Nigel Tufnel is now working as a farmhand looking after miniature horses. He plans to race them." Tufnel has a detailed Wikipedia entry: "Born in Squatney, East London on 5 February 1948 ... a self-proclaimed 'fish nut', liking cod and canned tuna because they have 'no bones' ... sits on the editorial board of his preferred in-flight periodical Car and Driver ... his favorite cookies are Oreos, but without the filling ... has stated that if he was not in the music industry he would like to either enter the field of haberdashery or become a surgeon." I found a clip of a Letterman show interview some years after the film: . Not quite as accent- and intonation-accurate as the film (remarkable in that the three principal band members were born and mostly raised in the USA), but I imagine that was super-scrutinised to perfection. How will they carry it off 40 years on? Of course, Tap 2 may not ever see the light of day. They could be pulling my leg. Or I've been duped by fake news. |
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Tuesday 12th March |
Cricket and personal today, two reasons to skip if you wish.
Every summer match day of 1964 and 1965 found me at the Worcestershire County Ground, a 12-year-old cricket nut and junior member. What a happy coincidence (or was it? See later comments), the first two seasons in its 100-years-old history that WCCC won the championship. Duncan Fearnley was there, although allowed only a bit part in the shadow of household greats Tom Graveney and Basil D'Oliveira and shire yeomen Jack Flavell and Len Coldwell. Each year that we old lags make our pilgrimage to New Road I ask my companions to list the conquering 1964 team. Fearnley is a name with which they often struggle, and indeed could be swapped out for others who played a minor role. In playing retirement Fearnley grew his bat-manufacturing company into the dominant brand in the world by the 1980s. Subsequent decades saw the marketplace change and bat production moved overseas to India and Pakistan, but Fearnley stuck to his traditional guns, albeit on a smaller scale. Around 5,000 of his hand-crafted bats are still produced each year in the Worcester factory. 
For you conoscenti, here are some client names: Sunil Gavaskar, Clive Lloyd, Kepler Wessels, Ian Botham, Graham Gooch, Allan Lamb, Viv Richards, Graeme Pollock, Wasim Akram, Ravi Shastri, Allan Border, Martin Crowe. 
I met Fearnley only once, which moment prompts memories of the second period of Lewis association with the club. I should point out that both first and second phases were marked by Worcestershire success, quite precisely. Worth, I reckon, a plaque in the pavilion (or preferably in the old and surviving Ladies Pavilion, where I as a young fan was permitted to sit, and eat cake), or at least an honorary mention in the archives. After my father died in 1982, I had a moment of inspiration. As a birthday present, I gave my mother membership of the club. She took to cricket, as in so many aspects of her life, with an astonishing ability to connect to people. Sundays - and other match days - in summer were less lonely than they might have been. On her arrival at the ground, the gatemen would greet her warmly, then manoeuvre her and car into an earmarked parking space conveniently close to the pavilion. She lunched in the club dining room, where the staff would always reserve for her the best table by the window. She sat with new-found friends in the pavilion, fell in with Naomi D'Oliveira, Basil's wife. Fearnley became chairman of Worcestershire in 1986 and was instrumental in signing Ian Botham to the county ahead of the 1987 season. "Beefy" was past his best, yet his presence in the dressing room had a galvanising effect on the team, and on the crowds. During Fearnley's tenure the club enjoyed the most successful period in its history, winning six trophies. There you are, as I said earlier ... with a Lewis among the membership. Without, only barren years. 
In 1990 a group of members, my mother among them, went on tour with the team to Hong Kong and Australia. Bette was of course treated royally, a knack she never lost. In thanks, she later invited players and co-travellers to a drinks do at her house, my childhood home. I was there to support. Interesting conversations. I sat in the drawing room with Tim Curtis, prolific opening bat. He had played five times for England but never really kicked on. A product of the Royal Grammar School, successful at both Durham and Cambridge universities, with honesty and self-awareness he told me how he had simply felt uncomfortable at Test level, not quite up to it, and had been happy to return to his county career. In the dining room, canny captain - and Lincoln City footballer - Phil Neale mercilessly took the mickey out of the young scoring machine (ultimately more than 40,000 first-class runs) Graeme Hick, along the lines of "nice but dim". I ran into chairman Duncan Fearnley in my grandmother's sitting room. He lamented the exclusion of South Africa from world cricket (the country would be re-admitted to the fold the following year). Holding forth on the subject of apartheid, in his residual Yorkshire brogue he said to me, aware of who I was and in whose house he drank, "Bette's anti, in't she?" I don't know conclusively where he stood on the issue, although I suspect he had little time for left-leaning wokery. Mind you, as chairman of the county that had welcomed the man at the heart of the "D'Oliveira Affair" he had only three years before employed the national hero who had rejected the South African tour shilling. He made bats for said hero's Antiguan best mate. My mother told another story from a later occasion. Fearnley threw a party for the same group of people at his gaff, a riverfront property. Taking a breather outside, Bette spotted Botham at the bottom of the garden on a landing stage. He seemed rather unsteady on his feet. Concerned, she went down to join him and said quietly, "Ian, shall we go in?" He agreed, and they returned to the house arm-in-arm. |
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Sunday 10th March |
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I'm richer today. A modest gain - but I'll take anything.
My Irish friend Brian Walsh, knowing that I have a policy of placing a small wager on the opposition to alleviate the pain of another grim England sporting performance, rang me on Friday. His theory was that England, whatever the run of form, have one good game in them during the Six Nations championship and that they might well produce it against the recently all-conquering Irish. He suggested that a visit to the bookmaker should reveal some favourable odds. Indeed, England 4/1 against Ireland 1/7; I put my pocket money on the red rose. An inversion of my usual bet, but I collected. Sadly Brian, with whom I watched the ebb and flow - my stake safe, then lost, then safe again - of the game yesterday, had not followed his own advice and so suffered his habitual lifelong disappointment of witnessing Ireland snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, without any financial mitigation. 
My familiar post-Brexit narrative, that England has descended into moral bankruptcy while Ireland has prospered in the EU, overturned on the rugby field. Also disrupted more seriously in other headline news: 
A day for surprises. Back to the rugby, and my second team. Are they finally coming of age? Nearly 50 years ago I was aware of the growing interest in the game in Italy, spearheaded by my local Benetton Treviso club, who indeed yesterday provided among others the influential centre partnership of Brex and Menoncello. 
I've made a promise to myself that I will one day get to the Stadio Olimpico for an England-Italy match, make a weekend of it in Rome - years, tournament schedule and tickets permitting. I have been there once before, to the old stadium in the 1970s, outside, a night spent in my sleeping-bag under the adjacent pines. |
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Friday 8th March |
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Are you watching Channel 4's "The Rise and Fall of Boris Johnson"? I thought I wouldn't, that I already knew far too much, but moth to a flame ...
It's a profoundly dispiriting watch for this passionate Remoaner. To revisit the journey to the crime of Brexit, the descent into Blighted Blighty, a country of lies, corruption and inequality, devoid of moral compass. Do you know what hurts the most? That Johnson wasn't even sure about Leave, that he and Gove were shocked to have won. How did the nation succumb to such a self-seeking, anachronistic mob? How could voters put their trust in a group whose lives bore no resemblance to their own?  
 
So far, we only see the acquisitive lust for power, a testosteronic imperative to be top dog, Boris's dream of "World King". Politics as a route to personal glory and validation. There's no glimpse of governance to improve the lot of ordinary people. It's not over yet, as we still have two more episodes to come (although you can on-demand-binge all four right now  - C4 signup required). What's more, who can say that Johnson's career at the pinnacle of English politics is finished? Post-Sunak? Think on.
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Tuesday 5th March |
Our neighbour has been staying with us for the last few days, as she's in extremis. The stuff I've learnt, after 15 years. I never knew that she paints. Madness. "Only connect". The things you miss out on when you don't.
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Saturday 2nd March |
Mob rule. Extremists. The politicians are the problem. Do the right thing? Fat chance. We've had enough.
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Friday 1st March |
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A family connection has emerged in the last two weeks to Alexei Navalny. Grandson Marlie's uncle Marvin Rees, Mayor of Bristol - brother of Marlie's dad Martin - knew Navalny at Yale when they were both members of the World Fellows programme class of 2010.
The Western Daily Press reported on 16th February (spotted by, and cutting courtesy of, Middle Street neighbour Roger): 
Here's the Sky News clip referenced in the above: . Emma Sky, director of the Yale International Leadership Center, posted this statement, also on 16th February: 
"The entire Yale World Fellows family is heartbroken by reports that Alexey Navalny, courageous Russian opposition leader and anti-corruption dissident, has died. Alexey was a Yale World Fellow from the class of 2010, who embodied the ideals of the open society and dedicated his life to the pursuit of a better Russia. After being poisoned by the state, he bravely returned to Russia, only to face immediate arrest. He defied a dictatorship, and paid for it with his life. Much talk of legacy. Let's hope so. 
Funeral today. A tweet from his wife, Yulia Navalnaya: 
And from Kira Yarmysh, former press secretary and assistant to Navalny, his spokesperson: 
4pm. This morning there was a link here to the live stream mentioned above, which I've now removed. At 9:30am, I was one of around 125,000 people logged in, the number growing all the time. 
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Sunday 25th February |
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A break from the Westminster débâcle. A bit self-indulgent, but, hey, after the last few weeks ...
Son Ben the bilbaíno food scribbler - Instagram pen name Benetazkua - becomes ever more prolific, not just on what he cooks and eats, but also about the associated Basque history, politics and geography. You could learn something here. 
"The Basque Country, said in English, sounds like a simple reference to a region of Spain. Paìs Vasco, the literal translation in Spanish and the name of one of seventeen administrative Spanish regions, sounds equally free of confusion. However, the slightest of critical looks at this convenient simplicity embarks us on a long, complicated journey of land and language, people and power. So there you have it. A little florid at times, needs slimming down ... but I quibble. I'm just pleased that he's writing. I'm also delighted that he has booked the venue for the summer family holiday in July. Nine of us, an age range of 75 years. I can barely believe that they still want to be with the old git. It's this house near Ponte de Lima in northern Portugal (the oldest vila or chartered town in the country), called Casa no Monte da Facha: 
We stayed in Ponte de Lima 37 years ago, when Nikko was six and Ellie eighteen months, Ben as yet unborn. We rented the mayor's summer house on this side of the water, crossed the medieval bridge into town to shop at the market held on the river bank you can see on the far side. I also got into trouble, along with my Persian friend Bijan, for keeping our two young boys out at a fiesta well into the small hours in the large square at the end of the bridge. I look forward to our return. 
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Saturday 24rd February |
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We went to the Gaza ceasefire vigil yesterday evening. Maybe 50 silent participants, including the usual Stroudie suspects, among whom featured a contingent from the Middle Street Friday Lunch Club (our name), now a booming pay-as-you-can (we do) donated-food cooked-by-volunteers event held in the Trinity Rooms round the corner from our house.
Mostly those of more advanced years. It's something we can do. I remember, years ago when the children were little and work was full-on, apologising to my mother-in-law Sheila, a committed Quaker and Amnesty member, for not joining her on a significant central London march. She said, "Don't worry. It's what we're for now." One disappointment. Parked near where we stood were two motorcycles. Shortly before our silence was due to end, their teen owners appeared, started and warmed the bikes up for several minutes while putting on their helmets, gunned the engines and took off. "Aha!", I said to my friend Andrew from Chalford, "they'll be part of the local sensitive and politically-engaged youth." A shame. In contrast were the horn toots of passing motorists. Between five and ten possibly, all in support. Yes, I can tell a positive toot. And my fellow protesters concurred. Different from other experiences of attending such events in town, when you may more often be encouraged to eff off back to your posh vegan home. During the afternoon, I had toyed with the idea of making a poster to stick on our MP Siobhan Baillie's office window. In the end I didn't, deciding that it might be at odds with the sensitivities of my co-vigilants. I imagined it something like this (after John Milton and the suffering of Samson): 
I told Andrew of this plan. He said that he had written immediately to Siobhan, and had received an answer. Promptly too, the day after the debacle according to the email date and time stamp: 22 February 2024 at 14:41:37 GMT. A broadcast reply of course, as she explained: "As I have received over 300 emails about this vote, I have prepared this response to be sent to all of you to avoid people waiting. There is no disrespect intended." The email is too long to post here in-line, and I'm not yet fully sure what I think about it. It pains me to say so, but she deserves some credit for getting out a response. She doesn't own up to any specific Tory contribution to the shambles, "the procedural shenanigans and arguments I witnessed between the SNP, Labour and the Speaker." But I do detect some guilt and embarrassment, and awareness of how we constituents feel. You can make your own mind up; here's the letter:
An odd silence on the digital front pages this morning, nothing about the fate of the speaker, nor indeed about a ceasefire vote. Marina Hyde wrote a piece yesterday in The Guardian, but not really about Gaza or the vote, more on the dangers now threatening those involved in the democratic process. If you're interested, here it is: 
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Friday 23rd February |
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I was very tempted to stay silent on this matter. You all saw the delinquent behaviour in the Westminster "Mother of Parliaments". However, having said before the Wednesday Commons disgrace that my renewed scrutiny of the news revealed above all shameful political failure to DO THE RIGHT THING, I can't let it go without noting just how criminally and negligently wide of the mark were our elected representatives.
Have I Got News For You tweeted, rather mildly IMHO: "To re-cap last night. The SNP ambushed Labour, who blackmailed the speaker, who broke the rules, which saved Keir's blushes, which gave the Tories the excuse to pretend to be angry so they could withdraw and not lose the vote, and the SNP were angry their plot failed, so neither put party politics aside to vote for a ceasefire they claim to want, meaning parliament's a mess but not as much of a mess as Gaza, which last night's events did nothing to help." Something like that. Only worse. Toys out of the SNP pram at Labour's hijacking of the Scottish opposition day, the ruling party leaves the chamber. Meanwhile ... Gaza? Rather reluctantly, I post two video comments. First, a visualisation from Turkish public broadcaster TRT World - a bit dodgy maybe as some commentators consider the organ to be an Erdoğan administration mouthpiece - of the Israeli military operation. . And another from Led by Donkeys. "Israel has killed over 11,500 Palestinian children in Gaza and the West Bank since October 7th, when 36 Israeli children were killed. It's impossible to imagine that number. This is what it looks like. A line 5km long." . Sorry. Needs to be said, to be recorded. The Stroud Gaza ceasefire vigil will convene once again, as it has done for months, at 6pm this evening outside our MP's office. |
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Wednesday 21st February |
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Dog days at the moment, although I may be starting to bark again. I said I wouldn't go on about giving up smoking, and I won't, but ... into the 47th day without a gasper and my brain is still predominantly withdrawal-useless. I seem to spend a shameful amount of time buried under a duvet quelling the urge. What should I expect after 50 years of self-harm? All coughing is gone, airwaves clear, pulse rate dropped (now, of course, I'm beginning to worry that it's too low, aaaargh), my "Savings Not Poison" spreadsheet demonstrates a healthy but regretful uptick, yet somehow I can't properly connect to the benefit. The trigger points still abound and throw me off-course, inches from a first puff of lapse. Poor me.
I have however been reading more than ever, hitting the Stroud library big-time. It's now in a temporary and valiant (bless the staff for their ingenious tenacity) pop-up in the Five Valleys shopping centre, the old site summarily closed to RAAC and the new one delayed by flooding. Wedged between national building idiocy and climate denial. After a period of self-protecting reduced news diet, I've watched and read a little more in recent days. What strikes me - 'twas ever thus, at least in the years (approximately) since that nation-splitting referendum - is the capacity of politicians to NOT DO THE RIGHT THING. In Gaza it has been writ large. Trump makes sure that the narrative is all about him as he incurs mounting financial penalties, disses NATO and bleats witch-hunt. Badenoch (is she bad enough for you?) dares to say that the Post Office scandal started under Labour (true) while glossing over 14 years of Tory (lack of) involvement. The PopCon wing of the party meets to debate yet meaner approaches to government, jockeying for power not seeking solution. A coronavirus flashback. Have you been watching "Breathtaking"? Two down, one to go tonight. Praise is due to ITV - what a follow-up to Mr. Bates. There's no surprise that Jed "Line of Duty" Mercurio is involved. The drama has traces of the same DNA, hit-the-spot impact and accuracy. It has so far covered the days in March 2020 when I was first compelled to start these pages, then "Coronavirus Blog", encouraged by my dear friend Alf, whose recent loss deepens the effect for me (we would have discussed today's post). How terrified we were. Death lurked in the air, actually. The vaccines lay nine months to a year ahead. The series has as its focus the NHS staff that had to face the threat. Ill-equipped. As if you needed to be any more appalled by Baroness Mone, or scornful of the blithering Johnson and Hancock. Yes, we were aware of NHS service and sacrifice, the risks and loss they experienced, we banged our pans in the street, but the programme hurls the fear and commitment screaming out of your screen right from the heart of ITU. Coincidentally - a gift last week with an unintended connection - my current read is "Hotel Milano" by Tim Parks. It starts with the narrator Frank Marriott attending a colleague's literary funeral in Milan just as Italy and the city are locking down. Thousands are trying to leave before Lombardy restricts travel. Flights are all sold out. He holes up in the five-star Hotel Milano. It's emptying rapidly. The reception desk has a red tape placed in front of it to keep guests a metre away, then the staff start to erect Perspex screens. They allow him to go for a walk, but only after completion of an autodichiarazione form which states that he needs to go to a pharmacy for special medicine. It's a lie; he buys Ibuprofen. That's all I know by page 82. Quite spooky and weird. My very first post in this blog on 22nd March 2020 contained a piece from friend Chris Taylor in Udine: "Yes, the situation is dire. We'll follow the rules and hope for the best. May the UK avoid the worst! But don't count on Bojo." There is now change in the air, isn't there? Wellingborough and Kingswood have spoken. Starmer has finally shifted on a Gaza ceasefire. Even the heir to the throne has dared to break - lightly - royal protocol. We're all heartily sick of the self-seeking bullshit. And I hope Sunak is working on his post-election job in California. Back briefly to the smoking thing. The standard advice to be busy and find distractions, or even purpose, is becoming incontestable. It's the first moment that I've felt that the time afforded by retirement is not altogether good for me. |
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Wednesday 14th February |
More family Instagram. It's that day again, so Nikko has a "flash" session in Vienna - mini off-the-shelf tattoos (designed by him, natch) at around €125 a pop, selling out!
 
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Friday 9th February |
I know I haven't written much recently about national and international issues, not felt up to it. However, as these pages still go under the title of Climate Blog, I can't avoid this:
Great timing when we also read: 
The disappointing thing for most of us is the sense that Starmer is still running scared of the "unelectable" tag. Do I want a government to be elected that doesn't stick to principles, do the right thing, just craves power for its own sake? No. 
Stroud's Dale Vince expressed his views on Channel 4 News last night (5 minutes). Less damning than most, still promoting Labour as the best choice at the next general election. . He really has become quite the media darling, the go-to eco-commentator, also interviewed yesterday on LBC, Times Radio, BBC 5 Live and Radio 4. Deservedly so, I reckon. He's clear, cogent and informed. You may care to watch him present (2.5 minutes) a year ago at the House of Commons Environmental Audit Committee inquiry, giving evidence on how to accelerate Britain's transition from fossil fuels and secure its energy supplies. He's very good at exposing the madness of current UK policies, how we are not just shying away from necessary change but also missing huge opportunities. . The music wasn't really playing in the inquiry chamber, right? YouTube overdub. Not unexpectedly, I received this morning a call-to-arms email from ... 
"Today it was confirmed that for the first time, the world has breached 1.5 degrees of global warming across a whole year. This is bleak news - going above this threshold spells catastrophe for communities on the frontlines of the climate crisis. |
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Thursday 8th February |
Yesterday we celebrated another remarkable and much-loved Middle Street and Stroud friend:
It was a relief not to be in a gloomy church, as Wendy was not a believer, at least not in any god; she certainly believed in the political left and the NHS, which she had served for many years as a nurse. Instead a hundred or so of us were packed into the Trinity Rooms, decorated with lights and bunting, and afterwards many squeezed into her old cottage at number 26. Masses of photos chronicling her life on the walls of the kitchen: 
Tributes at Trinity from family, poems, music. She loved the arts - in all their forms - and was an accomplished painter. Here's the back page of the order of celebration, with one of her recent poems. 
And Happy Birthday to Alf Florio. He would have been 94 today. |
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Monday 5th February |
Having come late to Instagram, I've been digging into the family output, specifically (today) that of Ben's partner Soph. It's really a very lively marketing tool. Impressive that she uses so much Spanish.
Different strands to what she does, like retreats in lovely places, the cooking done by Ben:  
She's fascinated by anatomy, draws a lot: 
Paints on people's bodies too. Some nice video: |
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Sunday 4th February |
Looking on the bright side is something we all need to do. Often we don't manage so well, struggle with a positive mental attitude. My friend Ian just sent me this photo of a sign outside a patisserie in Bloomsbury, London:
Should try harder, right? Why would you put this outside your café? An odd way to attract punters. Unless you're tapping into the tortured intellectual heritage of the area. Or maybe that's what too many croissants do to you. |
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Saturday 3rd February |
I discovered yesterday that son Ben has also become something of an online scribbler down there in Bilbao, with a focus on Basque foodiness.
I've been rather slow off the mark in noticing this, mainly because I don't really get Instagram. I suppose there's a clue in "insta" and "gram". Not an issue with others close to him as you can see from his followers: sister Ellie and her dog-walking business, partner Soph and her yoga, brother Nikko and his Viennese tattoo studio. Benetazkua Google-translates from the Basque as "blessed". Nice if you feel like that, eh? Ben WhatsApped me this explanation: "In my understanding it's Bizkaiera, or the dialect from Viscay, for de verdad, meaning 'for real' or 'genuine' or some such like. My house[mates] suggested it and it's obscure enough that plenty of Basques don't know what it means either!" Here's a recent post: 
I really must get down to Bilbao soon for a good lunch. |
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Friday 2nd February |
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A light has just gone out, at least in the temporal world. My dear friend - and the man who convinced me to continue with this blog - Alf Florio died the evening before last. He would have been 94 next Thursday. I'll write a few words here. They may be less than accurate, but his wife Geraldine, also a loyal reader, will correct me. There will be more words in future days - about one of the loveliest people I've ever met.
Alf and I only bumped into each other in recent years, but we've been in almost daily contact since the beginning of our friendship, possibly because he has always read, commented on and contributed to these pages. I pass his and Geraldine's house most days on my way back home on my bike from errands in town. If the time is appropriate, I knock on the window and pop in for a cup of tea and a chat. Not yesterday, as Geraldine and family would have been too busy. I swear I could feel Alf's absence on my left as I cycled up the hill. I've learnt a lot about Alf's life and family during our frequent conversations. There was more I wanted to discover. Maybe to this end, but not only, I sent the email below to him last Tuesday. The context is that Alf was a catholic priest in Soho in the 1960s. Tales to tell, right? "Alf, your birthday is coming up, innit? I'm sure you have family plans, but I have another offer for you at around the same time. It's mainly a question of whether we think it's all too much of an effort. I had no reply, but that was because Alf had been taken into Gloucester Royal Hospital at 3am (that morning?) in considerable pain with what was deemed to be pancreatitis. Geraldine has since told me that he received the email - and was pleased to do so. Too much indeed. Geraldine and I exchanged messages about visiting, and I said I'd send Alf a WhatsApp. Which I did: 
He had already died. Geraldine let me know yesterday morning. I sent another WhatsApp: 
Never done that before. |
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Thursday 1st February |
A short contemplation today of my childhood hometown of Worcester.
Eh? "I beg your pardon", I hear you say. Yes, that's Imran Khan, 22nd Prime Minister of Pakistan, former superstar captain of the national cricket team and winner of the 1992 World Cup. Now banged up in Rawalpindi jail for offences of corruption and leaking state secrets. In 1971 he was enrolled at Worcester Royal Grammar School, as part of a deal with the County Cricket Club (WCCC), whom he would represent until 1976 when he wasn't at Keble College, Oxford. He was already a capped Test player on arrival - and school mates would ask for his autograph. 
He's the looker in that team, isn't he? Mind you, in cricketing terms there are some other fine players in the second photo, notably Glenn Turner and Basil D'Oliveira, WCCC royalty. Imran has never generated equivalent fondness at New Road. I didn't catch on to his presence at the school (a stone's throw from my parents' house) nor at the cricket club. I'd moved away to Cambridge University in 1970 and shelved my teenage passion for WCCC until 1980 when I returned from Italy. Imran turned 19 in the autumn he entered the school, quite a ripe age. He crammed his A-level studies into nine months. I imagine Keble College was rather more attracted by his sporting prowess. I doubt Worcestershire was a great fit for the eligible and (allegedly) hedonistic Imran. The traditional fanbase was rural: fruit-growers as round and rosy-cheeked as the Pearmain apple, most unlike the sleek and urbane Pashtun dropped in their midst. In the 1980s he played for Sussex, presumably more comfortable around the fleshpots of the south coast and within striking distance of his favourite London night clubs. Not as easy in the current rail climate. Nonetheless, they'd still only be a replacement bus service away. 
The grammar school has always been keen to draw attention to its role in the advance of its most famous alumnus. Perhaps a little less so recently. Meanwhile ... Happy St. Brigid's Day! 
Her saint's day has grown in importance, matching that of St. Patrick, to the extent that a public holiday was inaugurated last year. Here's the entry on GOV.IE from January 2023: In Ireland, the first of February marks the beginning of Spring and the celebration of Lá Fhéile Bríde, St Brigid's Day. Like many of other feast days of the Irish calendar, Brigid predates Christianity - her roots lie in the Celtic festival of Imbolc, the feast of the goddess Brigid, celebrated at least five millennia ago. In old Irish, Imbolc means "in the belly", a reference to lambing and the renewal Spring promises." The festival of Imbolc is, of course, being celebrated here in Stroud too. An event titled "The Swelling Seed" was held last Sunday at Hawkwood eco-college just outside the town. I've also discovered that there is a venue behind number 50 London Road called the Goddess Temple. Here's an announcement on its Facebook page: "Imbolc Dark Moon Dreaming on Thursday 8th February at 7-9pm. Explore the divinatory powers of mugwort tea, join us in circle for energy cleansing and restorative meditation. Guided journey into your dreaming cave ... emerge feeling deeply rested in yin energies with a sense of what you're seeding at this time of Imbolc." Hmmm ... yes, this is Stroud. Welcoming spring, which is a happy thought. |
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Thursday 25th January |
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One more piece on smoking and then I'll stop. I promise. Not only to avoid boring you further, but also because the very act of applying focus to the problem may be making it worse.
At the heart of it is a very specific urge, at any time of day or night, which hits me perhaps not like a runaway express but at least like a slow stopping-train. With an unwelcome thump. I want to draw cigarette smoke down into my lungs. What kind of madness is that? Against nature. The only thing you could possibly want in your lungs is air. In fact, just writing about such absurdity has helped me get through a difficult moment ... yes, at 4am when I should be asleep. It's not really just one releasing action, although that first drag is central. The panic would also be eased - past tense, is that a good sign? - by the walk down to the corner shop, because I knew the nicotine hit was only minutes away. The removal of the packet's cellophane and silver foil ... also delicious, seconds to go, lighter at the ready. Different from the experience of my friend Charles, who popped by yesterday to offer support and have a natter. He has all but stopped. Mind you, what has he given up? In 50 years he has never inhaled a cigarette. So for him it must be the other bits, the ritual, the enactment of habit. More friends have delivered kind messages. Friend and neighbour Geraldine Florio wrote of her guilty smoking while pregnant in the early seventies, and reminded me of the need to shun triggering events and places, of which thankfully there are far fewer in 2024: "I recall that old Catholic admonition to 'avoid the occasion of sin'". My Irish correspondent amused me with an ancestral memory: "My maternal grandmother was a secret smoker as it was unseemly back in her day for a lady to be seen smoking in public. She had got into the habit because she had four younger brothers who used to smoke. It is said that the smoking was one of the reasons she couldn't join the nuns with her older sister. I remember that when she ran out of cigarettes she would roll a quiet one of her own using her Basildon Bond blue writing paper and my grandfather's loose pipe tobacco, Old Bendigo." Flippin' 'eck, that would be a tough smoke, wouldn't it? You could flush rats out of a cellar with less. I've thought some more about the absence of physical pain. I have a number of friends who have suffered persistent and extreme pain in recent years. How do they project that condition into the future? Will it ever go away? How do they withstand it, today, tonight, tomorrow? The prayed-for horizon of relief must look unreachable. I, on the other hand, while I wonder when the craving will subside, only have to project and anticipate a state of ... "no pain". Hmmm. Get a life, Charlie. |
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Tuesday 23rd January |
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I ask forgiveness for banging on some more about this. I'm into Day 18 as a non-smoker and still not out of the woods. OK, there's no real physical pain, I'm not in Gaza ... but I am up and writing at 4:15am, which cannot be sensible.
People have sent me messages of "well done" in recent days - my friend and loyal reader Alf Florio in an email, sister Vicky 'phoned - and I shall try to hang on to their encouragement. I have a theory, based on years of experience and yesterday's scouring of the Internet, namely ... There is no truly telling and insightful discussion of addiction out there, one that goes right to the heart of an individual struggle. Yes, the NHS website has a definition and a list of recommended support services. You have the 12 Steps. There are many specialist organisations, such as ex-England-footballer (and recover-ing/-ed alcoholic) Tony Adams's Sporting Chance. Nicotine replacement therapies abound. Diets galore. TV programmes tell personal stories, often movingly, as in the case of that other footballer, Paul Merson (devastated by gambling). But, despite the size and commonplace-ness of the problem, I have yet to see anything to which I would have the response of "Yes, that's exactly how it feels" or "That would definitely work, I can try that". I have never met a GP - and I have known some brilliant ones - who is genuinely expert in the subject, who, if you were to ask how you might address your condition, would say: "I can fix this with you, and here's how." On every occasion that I've spoken to my doctor, who has invariably agreed that it's the high-priority issue, I've had a referral. Maybe to the nurse at the end of his or her surgery corridor. Once I was pointed at the main Gloucestershire offering, which turned out to be staffed by women considerably younger than my daughter without, bless 'em, a clue how to deal with a then 60-year-old man. Really, there's nothing convincing. No proper consideration of the "mind", how it subverts and undermines. It may be that the experience is beyond the scope of science to explain, too intangible. I talked a couple of days ago about loss. After giving up on previous occasions I've felt enveloped by a fog, adrift without any reliable sense of control. A vagueness that defied easy resolution. 20 years ago I stopped for about six months. Then I went to a conference in San Diego, California. At 3:30am, jet-lagged and unable to sleep, I went down to the hotel foyer intending to take a stroll outside, fell into conversation with the man on the desk, heard him say "Fancy a smoke?" and ... Bang! Just like that, half a year of effort wasted. How was that possible? I'd beaten the weed. I knew every reason there was not to return to the habit. All blown away - excuse me - in a puff of smoke. That's the scary thing. It's all on a knife-edge. Bizarrely, so was the moment of giving up 18 days ago. Until the second that I thought "Right, that's it" in the small hours of Saturday 6th January, I had no idea I was going to quit. I certainly wanted to do so, but I couldn't imagine how and when it might be possible. It's as if the logic doesn't count. The rational person isn't in charge. The moorings are loose. So I suspect that's the task, the key. I need to anchor myself to the common-sense truths, make them real: I'm not spending money on poison; I have a better chance against the major health risks; I'm not in pain. One piece of advice pops up everywhere: "Keep busy". With less thinking. I've felt unable to do that, but now is probably the time. Even if I have to trick myself into activity, engage the mind in its own subterfuge. There's something else as well, sort of at the other end of the scale. At times in the last few days, I've had the thought: "It's OK. This isn't a problem. It's not too bad to feel like this." And made it to the next minute, hour, day. No big deal. Compared with Gaza. |
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Sunday 21st January |
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I don't normally post anything seriously personal on this blog. Maybe an emotional rant against Brexit, or European family news, but not genuinely "me" stuff. Today I make an exception. I've not written a great deal this year, certainly not daily, and although that has been caused significantly by dismay at world news, it's mostly because of something more private. It's a big deal for me. More than 50 years in the making.
It was triggered by this New Year thought: "Nothing good will happen in 2024 if I continue to smoke." So I stopped, the morning of Saturday 6th January. I haven't smoked for two whole weeks, and it's been grim. I've felt unable to do much else. Sleep has been the best release, but there's a limit to how much you can avoid being awake. This question has encouraged me: "How badly can this really hurt?" The answer is, in truth, "not much". It's not real pain. Yet the mind plays barely believable tricks. Every moment when I would normally have lit up a fag - and shamefully there are many - I've been gripped by panic, an absurd sense of not knowing how I'd survive the next few minutes. The word "loss" comes into my head, of missing an old friend. What loss would that be, then? Of spending money to suck a toxic stick of paper and leaf? Of increasing the risk of ill health? And what kind of friend? "Giving up" is the wrong phrase. Some years ago I built a spreadsheet titled "Savings not poison" and entered daily amounts that I had NOT spent on alcohol and tobacco, the totals of which were then projected through 1, 5, 10 and 20 years. I don't need to do that anymore. The maths is simple now. I can readily estimate the savings of not consuming either drug at all in a matter of seconds. The annualised number is so large that I can't bear to say it out loud. Dreadful if I look back, but promising if I consider the future. I'm still at risk. It's fortunate that I renounced alcohol nearly three years ago. Had I not, I'm sure I would be overindulging big-time. There are so many moments associated with the blessed relief of lighting a cigarette. The good news - and for 10 days I thought that I'd never have any - is that the urge may be slowly fading. During a car journey close on half a century ago, I said silently to myself with absolute certainty: "If only I were to marry this woman next to me, I would never smoke nor drink again." It didn't happen. No knot was tied. But I've got there in the end. And now I have, who knows what else is possible? |
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Tuesday 16th January |
As I slowly blogged into 2024, I tried to look on the bright side. But honestly ... how?
And then Iowa declared: 
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Saturday 13th January |
Yesterday, for the second time in a week, Stroud celebrated the life of a dear friend.
A proper send-off at Woodchester Priory. Car park and church filled to overflowing. The ritual of a Catholic mass interwoven with Irish movement and music. His wife Bev conducted singers, led a Celtic dance round Mike's coffin and delivered a beautiful tribute. I particularly enjoyed her account of their wet Wokingham wedding in summer 1975 (Mike had relatively recently received dispensation to leave the priesthood in a letter from the Vatican). They left the festivities on their Honda CB500 Four, Bev's feet encased in plastic bags to ward off the driving rain, and rode all the way to Sicily. I wrote on Tuesday after neighbour Linda's St. Lawrence goodbye: "At such a funeral you can learn how you might better live your own life." Again such messages were strong, none more so than (from E.M. Forster's Howard's End): "Only connect!" Mike touched many people and places: family roots in Donegal, the churches where he played the organ, those musicians he taught or accompanied, the Italian language groups in Stroud and Cheltenham, U3A walkers and cyclists. The generosity and affection he showed in his life flowed back to him in abundance on this day of farewell. |
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Friday 12th January |
Stroud in the national press. A serious matter.
Wed 10 Jan 2024 16.14 GMT
Name: The Stroud monkey. Hmmm. Is Stroud's reputation spreading? I suppose the journalist may live here, close to his/her neighbouring wokey readership. The Guardian is more heavily stocked than any other newspaper in our local Waitrose, and sold out soonest on a Saturday morning, by a Cotswold country mile. And is the author reinforcing the Gloucester stereotype? Where (allegedly) you're much more likely to bump into a tattooed skinhead than an organic baker. |
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Thursday 11th January |
Another January pick-me-up is that 2024 should offer us a chance to rid ourselves of the crony cheats and liars that have been in government for so long. Unless Sunak really wants to cling to power until next year.
We're holding our breath: 
Where would you put your money? Here are the three(/four) options identified by the Institute for Government (IfG) think tank. Click to enlarge: 
You can read more detail at the IfG website, including a discussion of what might influence Sunak's choice, in the explainer "When will the next UK general election be?": 
Sunak would presumably like to go long into 2024 to see his strategies (too grand a word?) take hold, like a further drop in inflation. Or will vanity lure him into 2025 so that he can claim a premiership of over two years, distancing him from the shame of the Trussian brief tenure? Fewer small boats in January too. Whom will the hot-topic accelerating Post Office scandal exposure treat most kindly? Can Ed Davey even make it to the ballot box? Will scrutiny of Starmer's time at the DPP induce a wobble? Sunak's clearly going for the "I sorted it" action-man glory approach. By the way, Change.org notified me yesterday that a petition has been launched to confer a knighthood on Alan Bates. So many of us are desperate for a real change in our politics, in both the manner and substance of government. Will we see it? 
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Wednesday 10th January |
We're all hoping, aren't we?
The best early result is from Mr Bates et al. 
Absolutely what we've been missing for years. As actor Julie Hesmondhalgh (who plays Suzanne Sercombe, the partner of Alan Bates) has said of the drama, "This has come out at exactly the right moment. We are at peak lies, corruption and cronyism. We have had enough." The beginnings of comeuppance for the bad guys. The innocent get closer to exoneration. There's a way to go, but what a start. Congratulations not only to ITV, but also to Computer Weekly and Private Eye. 
Did you ever see a bunch of ordinary people less likely to be criminals? Click to enlarge the photo and study the expressions on faces: joy, relief, triumph, vindication, togetherness, pride. Laughter and hope that they must have thought they'd never experience again. Some useful bits:
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Tuesday 9th January |
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So, I've finally stumbled into 2024. HNY and all that. You'll have noticed that I haven't written much for a while, and yes, it's world news that has rather beaten the desire out of me.
The turn of the year has also been marked by the passing of three friends and neighbours. But yesterday was better than sad, indeed full of joy. Stroud turned out in numbers to celebrate the life of Linda from number 69. 
St Lawrence was packed at 12 noon. Tales were told of love, kindness, generosity and welcome. At 4pm, there was a wake at Star Anise. Full again. Her friend Pom had made paper cups and baskets each holding a photo of Linda. We were invited to take them away. 
At such a funeral you can learn how you might better live your own life. |
