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Sunday 28 April 2013

BENN'S WORLD



The Good, The Smug & The Failures.


Oh dear, it seems that the Labour Party has decided to send out its lightweight hitters to warn the Tory elite about the dangers of UKIP. Today we had Hilary Benn telling Sky that even though UKIP stand no chance of ever governing the country they will devastate the Tories in the May local elections.

It would appear that, in the "World of Benn", the Labour Party is a smooth machine, much loved by the people and set to rule yet again come 2015. The "Grey Vote", his term for Pensioners, he informs us is voting UKIP or, certainly abstaining from voting Tory, because of the disastrous policies that the Coalition are putting forward. Apparently most of their ire is directed at Iain Duncan Smith who had the temerity to suggest that they "the more well off Greys",  give up their pensions.
Is it me, or is there a slight whiff of collective amnesia in the air? Was it not Labour who plundered pension pots like demented Maxwell's? Was it not Labour who strong-armed local authorities to move the old and infirm into smaller social accommodation? Obviously, these stories didn't get to the editorial desk of the "Benn's World Gazette"!

Oh, and another thing, on the subject of having no chance of ever governing Britain. What were the odds of Labour coming to power in January 1924? They, under Ramsay MacDonald, had failed to win the General Election of the previous year. They managed to get 191 seats, more than the Liberals but less than the Tories. The then Tory Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, realised that it was impossible for the Tories to carry on in power when the combined Opposition totalled more seats in the House of Commons than the Tory seats. He stood down and advised the King to invite MacDonald to form a Government as they had more seats than the Liberals.
Did you forget, Mr Benn, that the Labour Party of the day only had three members who had previously been ministers. One of whom was an ex Liberal. Hardly an auspicious recommendation for governing the country.

Given enough votes and the faith of the Electorate, could UKIP form the next Government?
Yes, because they would have to. I do not doubt for one minute that should that happen then the rats would be flocking from three prominent sinking ships and asking Mr Farage for forgiveness and a place in his Cabinet. Given that scenario he would be foolish not to consider them.

The point all of the current political elite seem to be missing is that the Electorate are fed up of being screwed. They are sick and tired of the EU dictating their daily lives, sick and tired of a Government which is unwilling to listen to them, sick and tired of a Government which is only looking after itself and its members, sick and tired of secret courts, sick and tired of bullying tactics against the people by the very people who are supposed to protect them!
Don't put your coat on yet Mr Benn. The Electorate are also sick and tired of Labour, weak when in power, weak in Opposition and, not only forgetful of the facts but, forgetful of the Electorate. You and your cronies are nothing more than LibConDem in red sweaters. But, those sweaters do not seem to be red enough for your paymasters, especially Red Len McCluskey.

The people of Britain want change and with change comes uncertainty. We at UKIP are prepared for that, as we are prepared for the inevitable changes that will come within our own Party. It is becoming increasingly apparent that the scaremongering of Clegg, Cameron and Miliband, designed to make people wary of UKIP is falling upon deaf ears. The Great British Public like the un-sensational approach UKIP take to the rotten apples that sometimes slip into the mainstream. We treat problems within our Party very seriously but what we don't do is react in a knee-jerk way designed to appease the media and our critics.  Unlike LibConDemLab we are very aware of our weaknesses, equally aware of our strengths whilst at all times being totally loyal to Britain. We trust the British people, which is something the others do not do.

I would invite Hilary to take time out to read up on UKIP policy before going on TV to declare that UKIP are only about immigration and withdrawal from the EU. Destroying your country from within is treason, Mr Benn. I'm shocked that the Labour Party has not been arrested for doing just that. The LibConDem's should also be arrested for aiding and abetting.

Deliberately diluting the ethnicity of the indigenous population is wrong!
Deliberately doing so for political gain is wrong!
Deliberately forcing people to pay extra for spare rooms in their homes is wrong!
Deliberately poaching the pensions of hard working people is wrong!
I could go on but there is so much that is wrong with Britain because of the mis-management of Labour and the Coalition that it would just get to be boring. The point is, the people of Britain want change. They want a Government which looks after them and puts them first. They want a Government which realises that we need a strong defence force and one that will look after the men and women who volunteer to belong to that force. They want a Government that is not afraid to expel undesirable. They want a Government that believes in fairness for all.

They want UKIP, Mr Benn!













Friday 26 April 2013

THE LEGACY OF EMPIRE.



Multiculturalism 


"the doctrine that several different cultures (rather than one national culture) can coexist peacefully and equitably in a single country."

That is the definition of multiculturalism but, how well does it work in the UK? Despite the conjectural pronouncements of the smug leftard middle-class, sitting on Mathew Burt bespoke furniture, in front of their 3D TVs and dressed in designer casual wear made in a sweat shop in the Far East by child slave labour, it doesn't.
The question should be, 'how well is it tolerated?'

This post is not about 'racism' but, the subject has to be addressed. Whether you, dear reader, want to admit it or not racism, - the belief that certain races, especially ones own, are inherently superior to others, -  is rife in this country. The concept in itself is bad enough especially when, during the conflicts involving this country of the past one hundred and fifty years and more, people from British overseas colonies have flocked to our shores to offer their assistance. Be it in nursing, the docks, shipping, on the land, public transport or the Armed Forces. 
It is even more insidious when racism is used for political gain. 

The 1948 British Nationality Act allowed 800 million subjects of the British Empire to work and live in this country without a visa. They were used to fill the gaps in the unskilled job sector, alerted by advertisements in the press in their homelands they saw an opportunity to better themselves and give their families a better way of life. These Commonwealth economic migrants numbered 3000 per year in 1953 and by 1961 had risen to 136,400 per year. 
The Labour Government were frightened by the influx from the Caribbean and the Indian sub-continent and a 1950 Cabinet Committee stated that ways which might be adopted to check the immigration into this country of coloured people from British Colonial Territories, must be found. They did not want a repeat of the race riots of 1919 which took place in several towns and cities throughout Britain. The  link gives details of these riots. 
http://www.heretical.com/British/riot1919.html

It is obvious that from as early as the 1920's multiculturalism, diversity, racial integration, whatever label you wish to put on it, was not working in this country.
So, to the question, 'how well is it tolerated?'
The answer has to be, 'not very well.'

Whilst I am very proud of this country's history and heritage I do believe that we struggle to accept multiculturalism because of Empire. We have become victims of our own success and arrogance and, by that I mean,  because we created the biggest Empire the World had seen the subjects of that Empire became inferior to us. We exploited the mineral and agricultural potential of the land and used the people of those countries to do so. People, like the minerals etc which we were exploiting, became a commodity. Even after the abolition of slavery we exploited the peoples in a number of ways which modern day Human Rights administrators would frown upon.
The same, 'syndrome', if that is what we can call it, exists in the deep south of the USA. The Whites believe that they are superior to Blacks because the Whites were, for centuries, the masters.
What can we do to address this situation in this country? Better education helps but tolerance needs to be taught at home, in the community and in the media.  The forced, unrestricted immigration that we have had to endure in this country over the past fifteen years from Europe has not helped the situation.
Tolerance though is a two-way street. Where racist attacks / insults occur, be they upon coloureds or whites they should be treated with the same seriousness. Unfortunately they are not and this causes bad feeling in both communities.

I would like to think that the majority of people in this country are not racist and are open to multiculturalism. We always have been a diverse nation comprising, Angels, Saxons, Norse, Celts, Romans and many more. It depends on how far back you want to go.
Since 1997 we have had an influx of 3 - 5 million people from Eastern Europe with the potential for another 5 million coming once border controls are scrapped at the end of this year.
I am not suggesting for one minute that the whole 5 million will queue to get into Britain on the 1st Jan 2014 but, if only 1% decide to come to live here that is 50,000 people.
Multiculturalism or, diversity as New Labour insist on calling it, is fine as long as integration takes place at a sensible pace. Expecting the people of this country to accept mass immigration at a time of austerity when job prospects are low and so to is the chance of getting Social Housing is a step too far. We live on a small island on the edge of the European continent and whilst our leaders think big the sad truth is, we no longer are. They have given Britain away to a Federal Europe which is rife with corruption and ill thought schemes.
The prospects for the indigenous population are poor, especially in these austere times, so when they are told by their Government that they have to accept people from foreign countries because they are 'good for Britain', hackles quite understandably rise. This is when all of the old post Empire prejudices and jealousies come to the fore. To be told that you are racist or homophobic should you complain against the influx is a red rag to a bull and another valid reason why multiculturalism is not working in this country as well as our peers would like it to be.

A sensible immigration policy whereby we have control over our own borders, a limit on the amount of people whom we accept in a year and selective as to which of these foreign nationals are allowed in based on skills and skill level. This would go a long way to making multiculturalism acceptable along with the ability to send back those Foreign nationals whom are deemed to be detrimental to the country.
People want to be valued, they want a Government that puts the indigenous population first, a Government which recognises the worth of the people who voted then into power and a Government which is prepared to invest in its own people before those of another country.

In summary, I believe that we are victims of our own arrogance and, whilst we would be nowhere had we not had the Empire, we need to realise that it is gone. Perhaps then, multiculturalism would be a success.























Sunday 21 April 2013

IT STARTED WITH NOBLE INTENT!




Where To Start? 



Where to start indeed! Trade Unions, you either love them or loathe them but, no matter your feelings towards them, they have become part of everyday life. Some might say, ‘a necessary evil’.
They were decriminalised in 1867 and legalised in 1871 and since then the ‘lot’ of the working man (and woman) has changed considerably. 

Britain’s rapid emergence as a World power did not come without considerable cost. Frequent conflicts on foreign soil took men away from home and, initially,  industry suffered through lack of manpower. These event however coincided with the dawn of the Industrial revolution in this country. On the land, in the cotton mills, the coal mines and in the steel mills, machines were taking over the roles traditionally occupied by men. Not only that but they were quicker, more efficient and more cost effective. 
When the conflicts abroad came to and end an influx of ex-service men flooded the country until another conflict drew them back into the army. This see-sawing of manpower put undue pressure on the labour market and there were, as you would expect, repercussions. 
Where work was available the owners were able, because of the abundance of labour, to dictate much lower wages. On the land this attitude to the workforce spawned the Tolpuddle Martyrs. Some might say the precursor to the formation of the Trade Union movement.
Not surprisingly, throughout the first half of the nineteenth century there was mass discontent within the labour force and frequent acts of violence and civil unrest. Once the Trade Union Congress was formed in 1871 it soon became apparent to the leaders that in order to get real change they would need a voice in Parliament. There own voice and not that of the Whig or Tory who represented their individual constituency. Hence, the Labour party, created through many collaborations and affiliates until emerging in the early twentieth century as a fully fledged political party which prospered in proportion to the demise of the Whigs (Liberal Party).

Regular readers of my blog will know that I am no lover of the Left. Neither do I hold any love for Plutocrats, two ends of the spectrum both chomping away at the man / woman in the middle. The unions were set up with noble intent. The welfare and well being of the working man being paramount. Good intent, no matter how noble, always seems to leave the door open for evil intent to slip in. So too with the Trade Union movement. From its inception it was soon infiltrated by militants and left wing radicals. Politics and not welfare became de rigueur.
The first real test for the TUC came in 1926, the coal mine owners wanted more hours from their workforce for less pay. Germany, Poland and America were producing cheaper coal and, therefore exporting more coal than Britain and since the end of World War 1 coal production in this country had steadily declined. On May 1st of that year over 1.1 millions miners were locked out and the TUC called for a strike and asked other unions to join as a show of solidarity with the miners. So it was that on the 3rd of May the country almost ground to a halt and stayed that way for the next nine days.
After talks with the Government and the mine owners, the TUC won a pyrrhic victory and work was resumed on the 12th of May. Lessons were learned, especially by the Labour Party and owners of business. 
‘If you stop a dog from barking it will eventually bite you to get attention!’
The mine workers union felt let down by the TUC and the Labour Party, an anger which carried through to the twenty first century.

Socialism grew rapidly through the Trade Union movement and was embraced by the Labour Party. Never far off the heel of the Socialists were the Communists and although they infiltrated the TUC they were banned from joining the Labour Party. As we all know, a paper Socialist can still be a card-carrying Communist.
Nationialisation of major industry was always on the agenda of the TUC and the Labour Party. It is the Left Wing mantra, control industry and utilities, control the people. Once they had achieved their objectives after the Second World War it soon became apparent that the Labour Party could not control its attack dog, the TUC.
The original noble intent of looking after the welfare of the workers became increasingly about the political aims of the TUC which they disguised through ridiculous wage claims.
Nationalised industry soon became unprofitable and a burden on the State, strikes became common place and the ugly face of violent militancy was seen on our streets.

I came up against the ugly side of Trade Unions when I left the Navy in the mid seventies. Being an engineer  I naturally applied for jobs of that genre only to come up against “The Closed Shop”. ‘We can only employ you if you join the union’, was the mantra of the day. Having volunteered to serve my country and be prepared to fight for Democracy in all corners of the Globe I felt betrayed at this blatant un-Democratic trait, prevalent throughout British industry. If I had wanted Communism, I would have joined the Russian Navy!  
I eventually found work but, spent the first three months “in Coventry”,  because I would not be forced into joining an organisation I knew nothing about.
Increasingly, through the fifties, sixties and seventies the Unions sought to rule through fear and intimidation. Weak Governments and ever strengthening Unions meant that the country was going down hill rapidly. I could never understand why, so called sagacious, politicians of the day allowed themselves to be bullied in this way when the economic fate of the country was in jeopardy. 
Thank God for Margaret Thatcher.

As if to prove that the British Electorate never learn from history, the Union backed Labour Party spent thirteen disastrous years in office, 1997 - 2010, tripling the Public Sector and bringing the economy to its knees.  Today the TUC has around 6.5 million members spread over fifty eight or so unions. Half of the membership, thanks to Labour, belong to UNISON, the Public Sector Union. The Socialist now have an even tighter stranglehold over the British people.

Most of the hypocritical Union leaders are on salaries that their members can only dream of as lottery wins. Communism is unashamedly rife amongst the leadership and the insidious BBC is wont to flaunt these characters at us through our TV screens; all in the name of Democracy of course. It is time for another radical rethink and for this a radically thinking new ideas party is needed. The old guard of LibDemLabCon will not alter the status quo, it is in their best interests, as good Socialists, to lie and scheme their way forward as they have always done. The same is true of the Union bosses. God forbid they get found out and lose their fat-cat salaries and company cars. The very things that they accuse the hard working, self-made millionaires of having at the cost of the workforce. Amazingly hypocritical!

I can see a place for Unions (no, not the bin.) in the modern workplace. Let’s face it, we have reached a position, through modern technology, where our forefathers found themselves at the start of the Industrial Revolution. Technology is replacing manpower and it is doing so at an ever accelerating pace. The Old Guard like Britain, are no longer world leaders and have to look up to the New Order, countries like China, USA, India and Russia. We cannot compete if we have the Unions pinioning our arms. They need to grow up and embrace the New Age instead of slowing the country down with pointless strikes and workplace unrest.
The likes of Cameron, Clegg and Miliband do not help this county’s cause one iota. They pontificate about Britain being the best in the World, blah, blah, blah. The reality being, as I have said, we are not. Nigel Farage realises this but he tells the truth, in his vision of the future Britain regains the “Great” by being sensible, frugal, and honest in its dealings with our trade partners. The Unions can play an active part in the county’s revival but they must revert to their founding noble principles. Those being the welfare and wellbeing of the working man and woman. Leave politics to the politicians and work with Government and not against it.

We would all like fat, Bob Crowe, salaries but we have to work for them and Unions should not expect the British people to go along with their militancy and unrealistic wage demands for those who wish to do less for more money. Yes, we do need a revolution in this country but not a Socialist revolution, what we need is a common sense revolution. Perhaps then we can regain our values, our place in the World and our self respect as a free nation.










Thursday 18 April 2013

REMEMBER WHEN?... PARDON?





Watching the various news channels on Wednesday it occurred to me that the beer bellied, blacked up men shown swaggering down the street in Goldthorpe had probably never seen a mine. True, it only closed eighteen years ago so perhaps I could be doing said sad drunks a disservice. 

When all else fails, people and businesses look to the authorities for support. The 1984 miners strike was no different. We live now, as we did then, in a Democracy so, should any part of the UK workforce vote to withdraw their labour through strike action then, that is their prerogative. It is not however, their prerogative to prevent the mines working in their absence. The owners have every right to find alternative labour until the dispute is resolved. In 1984 the miners not only went out on strike but tried to prevent those not on strike and those miners who were shipped in by the Coal Board to fill their places, from working. A sort of one-sided Democracy.
For years the British Government had given in to the demands of the miners even though the collieries in which they worked were unprofitable. Mrs Thatcher said enough was enough. She and her Government had pumped £millions into the coal industry but it was a leaky vessel and like all such vessels they can only be baled out for so long before they sink.
Unlike her male counterparts and male predecessors, Mrs Thatcher had the foresight to see the futility of endless bale-outs and the nerve to force through the measures necessary to try to make the coal industry profitable. She knew that it would make her unpopular and also that whatever measures she and her Government took it would only prolong the inevitable.

I and many other bloggers have waxed lyrical about the Lefts propensity for collective amnesia and this malaise was evident in abundance on Wednesday. No more so than in the South Yorkshire town of Goldthorpe. 
Mrs Thatcher didn’t start the programme of colliery closures, that was up and running soon after the Second World War. What she did do however, was not to shirk from the responsibility of fiscal prudence when it came to financing the behemoth that was the National Coal Board. Her government offered to pour in £millions of taxpayers money on the understanding that coal mines with a record of unprofitability would be earmarked for closure. Scargill turned the proposal down flat, the South Yorkshire miners came out on unofficial strike thus giving Scargill the excuse he needed to call for an all out strike of miners. 
He didn’t ask for a ballot when making this decision he reasoned that his predecessor, Joe Gormley, had set a precedent during his tenure as President of the NUM over wage reforms and took it upon himself to call the miners out. Not all of the miners agreed with this and it set miner against miner.
Most notably when Scargill organised bus loads of flying pickets from Yorkshire to go to the Nottingham coalfields in order to intimidate and stop the miners there from working.

Forgotten that, Goldthorpe?

Mrs Thatcher didn’t close Goldthorpe.

Forgotten that, Goldthorpe?

Sadly, it is not just the ex miners of Goldthorpe who are suffering chronic memory loss. Liverpool is another classic example of mass amnesia. Mrs Thatcher is blamed for the loss of shipbuilding, commerce from the sea, manufacturing, you name it and the ever downtrodden scousers will blame Mrs Thatcher.
Liverpudlians would go on strike at the drop of a hat. Tea break not long enough, infrequent fag breaks, rain too wet, you name it they would find a reason to call a strike. Then they wonder why no one wants to trade with any business in Liverpool. Don’t dare blame the scousers though as its always someone else's fault. Obviously its the Tories who are to blame and, especially, that woman Thatcher. She dared to tell us to find jobs and go to work.
No, Liverpool, its your own fault. 

Birmingham and Coventry are another example of barmy Socialists getting it spectacularly wrong and then blaming anyone but themselves for the problem. The car industry was a Nationalised disaster waiting to happen. Knowing that Japan, Germany, France, could produce a car, not only quicker but at a fraction of the cost than the equivalent British manufacturer, what do the looney Unions do? You’ve got it, go out on strike until they get more money for doing less and therefore, producing fewer cars.
The Unions were crippling the country, Mrs Thatcher knew it, her Ministers knew it but, only she had the nerve to do anything about it.

So Birmingham and Coventry, who killed your industry, Mrs Thatcher or the Unions? I know your answer so let us just say; another case of mass amnesia.

I could go on but as we in UKIP know through our dealings with the loopy Left, amnesia strikes in many ways!



ⓒLOCKED, MOCKED, SHOCKED.






My head was throbbing, not quite a migraine but more than a hangover, my arms were tied behind my back and I had been blindfolded, not only that but some sort of bag was over my head. When I eventually got to my feet I found that I could only take two steps in any direction because my left leg had been shackled. My mouth and throat were dry and, to my horror, as I became more aware, I discovered that I was naked. 

Raw fear gripped my very soul, I started to scream and shout and kept it up for as long as my throat would allow before collapsing into a weeping, wretched heap onto the ground. I’m not sure how long I lay there, when you are robbed of your sense of sight, time becomes an obsession. My senses of smell and hearing quickly heightened, as much as the bag would allow but unfortunately, when you cannot see, each of those brings a new fear.
There was a hole in the bag which left my mouth and nostrils free, I could smell wood, leather, horses, straw, the kind of smells a farmer’s kid like me is familiar with. Could I be in a barn or stable? One thing I knew for sure, my daddy’s barn was an ocean and half a continent away!

I must have fallen into an uneasy sleep because the next thing I remember is being jolted awake by the sound of a door slamming. The hairs on the back of my neck were rigid in fear. 
Voices! I waited, too scared to make a sound. Then footsteps, soft footfalls which were difficult for me to discern until they got nearer, That was when I shouted out for help.
The reply was violent; someone grasped my hair through the bag and hauled me to my feet. I then I received a  stinging slap across my face. The person who had hauled me to my feet dragged me backwards and I fetch up against rough wooden timbers, I cried out in pain.
A heavily accented female voice  told me to be quiet, I continued to sob. Another stinging slap quickly followed by another rebuke. Whoever was behind me, a man judging by the body odour and the roughness of the hands, started to paw my body. I squirmed and whimpered in fear and embarrassment but this only earned me another slap. They both laughed before throwing me to the ground, luckily I managed to fall to my knees thereby saving myself from serious injury. As I lay there I heard them walk away, still laughing. Then, the sound of a door slamming, quickly followed by what sounded like bolts being thrown, then silence.

I curled up on the straw and sobbed myself to sleep once again. How long I slept, I do not know. I do know that I was rudely awakened. As before, I was hauled to my feet by my hair and dragged back to fetch up against the rough timber. This time my head was held back and upturned. I felt something cold being poured over my face, I screamed. A slap! My head was forced back by whoever was behind me and the liquid was poured over my face again. I tried to keep my mouth closed but this earned me another slap. The liquid entered my mouth and I started to choke. Whoever was pouring it stopped until my choking fit had passed. It tasted like water, I opened my mouth wider and allowed the liquid to lubricate my mouth and throat. It tasted so good. 

All too soon my captors stopped pouring and walked away both of them laughing as they did so. I reverted to my position on the straw and resumed my sobbing. It was so cold, the straw that you played in as a child is no comfort to the naked body. Yes it is warm to lie on but try burrowing into it and it is like burrowing into a thorn bush. I sat up and tried to think how and why I was in this position. The last thing I remembered was going to bed in my hotel room with a glass of wine and my laptop. I had scheduled an interview for nine o’ clock the following morning and needed to type up some notes and finalise my research before morning. I would be the first reporter to get this particular story and I was determined to be as prepared as I possibly could be.

The cold jolted me back to reality and to the hopeless position that I was in. The inevitable question raced around my head, why me? What were they going to do to me? Why would anyone want to kidnap a lowly reporter for a local rag? I started to wrack my brains, whom did I look like, had I pissed someone off recently, had the paper pissed someone off, had the paper reported on any militant organisations? The answer to all of those was, no! So, back to the original question, why me? I pulled, twisted and wriggled at my bonds but there was no give. Whoever had tied me knew exactly what they were doing. I tried to sleep but to no avail, my mind filled with the stories that I had heard about people in captivity, people like me who had done nothing wrong.

I was woken again by someone yanking me to my feet by my hair and pulled backwards into the timbers, I screamed. 
Slap!
I cried out again.
Slap! This time I managed to muffle the cry that was forming in my throat. My head was forced back and the same procedure was carried out again with the water, this time I gulped down as much as I could. I told them that I was hungry, it resulted in another stinging slap, then laughter coupled with footsteps which gradually faded  away, then the sound of the door closing and then silence.

My arms were causing me pain, fluctuating between excruciating to almost bearable; the ropes used to tie my wrists was chafing my skin and the ankle shackle, I was sure, had drawn blood. All in all, I was in a very bad way. To add to my misery my toilet was also my bed.

The next time they came I was awake and I instinctively backed up against the wooden timbers. I was still roughly grabbed by the hair and pulled tight against the timbers. Someone passed a rope around my waist and pulled it tight, the procedure was then repeated, this time around my thighs and finally around my neck. The timbers were hard against my back and the rope cut into my skin. 

The footsteps retreated and all was quiet until, I heard a squeal. I jumped out of my skin and let out an involuntary scream. Then I realised that the noise was the sort of squeal a wheel sometimes makes when it needs lubricating. This was followed by another noise which I cannot fully describe, perhaps like rope being pulled along the ground.                                                                                         
Within thirty seconds I knew exactly what it was. The pain hit me first and then the cold and then the humiliation. The bastards were hosing me down! It was impossible for me to avoid the icy jet of water, for one, I couldn’t see and for another I was tethered to the timbers. When I screamed or shouted they directed the jet at my face so it was an easy lesson for me to learn. Put up and shut up!

Through it all, I could hear the man laughing at my plight, he also shouted out instruction to the wielder of the hose, I guessed that it was the woman, telling her upon which parts of my body to direct the icy discharge. The torture stopped as abruptly as it had started. I strained to hear what was happening, it sounded like the hose was being rewound and then there was silence. Footsteps, I heard them slopping through the water and then I felt the presence of someone close to me. It was the woman, she told me to keep quiet and to keep still, an order she emphasised with one of her customary stinging slaps. Next I heard a lot of noise in front of me and I realised that they must be cleaning away the dirty, wet straw upon which I had been lying. 

The ropes securing me  to the timbers were released and I was pushed forward, beneath my feet I could feel what my sense of smell had already told me, the straw had been changed. I heard the door close and realised that once again I was alone. Sleep was impossible, my arms, wrists and ankle were on fire. I backed myself against the timbers and sat down, I thought that if I could remain motionless the pain might subside. A forlorn hope, I was now so cold I was shivering uncontrollably! 

For some reason I didn’t hear them come back in, the first I knew of them was when I was grabbed by the hair and hauled to my feet. My head was forced back and I hoped that it was so that I could drink. This time however, a bottle was forced between my lips and I was ordered to drink from it. Resistance was impossible and, to my relief, I discovered that the liquid they were forcing me to drink was water. They made me drink the whole bottle before they left me alone. The last thing that I remember was their laughter as they walked away.

I must have slept despite the pain in my arms and ankle. When I woke, my head was throbbing and my mouth and throat were as dry as a desert. The real pain came when I opened my eyes because instead of blackness my eyes were assailed with blinding light. I screamed in pain and turned way from the offending brightness. It was then I realised that I was not lying naked on straw but was in a bed. I shot up and tried to take in my surroundings, I was back in my hotel room and I was dressed in my neglige.
Had I been dreaming?
I held up my arms and instantly regretted it as pain shot across my shoulders and down my biceps to my wrists which, I discovered were lightly bandaged. I threw back the quilt and saw that my left ankle was similarly lightly bandaged.
I looked for the telephone, I had to let the police know about my abduction. It should have been on the bedside cabinet but it wasn’t. Neither was it on the cabinet on the other side of the bed. I remembered that I had been booked into a suite, surely there would be a phone in the lounge. I got out of bed and fell to the floor, my legs just wouldn’t work properly. It was then I heard the laughter! That same familiar mocking cackle which usually followed a stinging slap or rebuke.

I thought that I must be dreaming, the shock of hearing that dreadful noise made me curl up into a ball on the floor and sob. I didn’t hear them approach but I did feel the kick to my backside. Then I was told to get up and to stop acting like a victim. I didn’t recognise the voice, it was female but nothing about it was familiar. Another kick, this time harder. Then she told me that if I wanted her story I had better stop my snivelling and get up off the floor.
My eyes were shut tight, I remember thinking that as long as I didn’t look at them I would be alright. That’s when I felt the hand at the back of my neck, the rough calloused hand which had cruelly explored my body. My hair was grasped and I was pulled to my feet and thrown onto the bed, my mouth was open and I was about to scream when pain exploded across my cheek. My eyes shot open, whether through fear or pain I don’t know. The woman grabbed my hair and pulled my face to hers, never have I seen such a haunted look in the face of another human being. She told me to be quiet and to listen to what she had to say.
I told her I needed to call the police to tell them of my ordeal. She coolly asked me what ordeal was I talking about. I gave her details of my incarceration and of the treatment I had received. She laughed. My hair was still in her cruel hand and she pulled me closer, it was then that she dropped the bombshell. 

She told me I had been with her and her partner for the last forty eight hours discussing the terrible ordeal that she had endured. 
I vehemently refuted her story and told her and her companion that I knew what had happened. Her partner asked me, in a very cool but deliberate way, to explain what I thought had happened. I repeated my tale, trying hard not to leave out any detail. However, it was always at the back of my mind that the two of them had been the ones who had imprisoned me. I wasn’t sure, I was so confused, probably still in a state of shock. Her voice cut short my reasoning. She said that she had told me not to have anymore to drink and had even forbade Paul to give me another drink. She gestured to her companion, whom I assumed to be Paul, as she said that. 

I couldn’t hold back any longer, I looked her straight in the eye and accused her of kidnapping me. She let go of my hair and started to laugh. It was the ‘give away’, as far as I was concerned. I told them not to deny it and to let me go or I would scream the place down. They both laughed at that, she told me to go ahead and scream. Then she asked me, in a mocking tone, who I thought people would believe, her, her partner and the hotel staff or me, a lowly cub reporter who liked her, ‘expense account’, gin and tonics too much? 
I told her to explain herself and she produced my hotel bill to date, on it was a surcharge for room service which showed orders for several large gin and tonics plus  bottles of wine, going back over two days. I accused her of forging it but she just laughed at me. When she stopped laughing she told me to call the police, I remember just sitting there, looking at her. She started to goad me, her partner produced a mobile phone and handed it to her. She proffered it to me and told me, again, to call the police. 

I sat back on the bed and stared at them both, the sunlight coming through the window was bouncing off the screen of the mobile phone, which she still had in her outstretched hand, and dancing on the wall opposite. I turned to her and angrily asked why she was playing games with my mind.
She took me completely by surprise by smiling. She said that no one was interested in my story but that every reporter in the country wanted her story. I looked hard at her and then the penny dropped, she was my interviewee! She had been held captive by Hezbollah for four long years, most of that time had been spent on her own. She was right, she and her story were the news item. Sky had covered her return, ITV and the BBC had tried to get exclusive interviews once she was home but she had turned them all down. Same with the major tabloids, all had been refused. I had left a message at her hotel the day after her homecoming, asking for an interview. I didn’t expect a reply and I was completely taken aback when she replied. 

She leaned over and gently put her hand to my cheek, turning me to face her; it was then that she told me I had a choice, I could either go to the police and stand to be publicly  ridiculed or I could listen to her and then write her story and, probably, make my fortune through doing so. I just could not believe the nerve of the woman! I pulled away and huddled at the far corner of the bed. I realised that her ordeal had left her emotionally scarred, if not slightly mad! My anger was such that I was speechless.

Getting up, she walked around to my side of the bed and then told me that the reason that she had not allowed the major media outlets to tell her story was because she didn't want any sympathy shown to her captors. Other than to say how they mistreated her she wanted them to be seen for what they were, cruel terrorists with no thought for human life. She added that only someone with first hand knowledge of being kidnapped and suffering at the hands of heartless thugs could tell her story with the emotion it deserved. 
She gave me twenty four hours to make up my mind, adding that I could stay in the hotel at her expense or, go home. She then got to her feet and she and Paul left the room.
The following twenty four hours were the worst, in terms of mental dilemma, that I have ever faced. 

However, I came to a decision and decided to tell her story. 

That was two years ago, I didn’t write her story for the tabloids, I wrote a best selling book instead, detailing all of her years of imprisonment. What happened to me was, more or less, daily routine for her. The darker episodes of her incarceration were difficult for her to recall and they made me realise that no innocent person should be put through that sort of misery and shame in order to further someone else's cause. 

Telling her story in detail was therapeutic for her, over the ensuing months I was not only her scribe but her unwitting counsellor. The haunted look gradually faded from her eyes and, while she would never venture forth anywhere on her own, she was happiest in her own company. 
If the tears I shed when I wrote of her misery and despair came through in the final draft then I have achieved my goal.

Although we are now the best of friends I always decline when she asks me to visit her at her stables.









Tuesday 16 April 2013

ⓒMOTHER"S MISSING




Mrs Roberts, from number twenty three, likes her John Collins made with Sapphire Gin and I was just opening a new bottle when the phone rang.

‘Can you get that dear?’ I called out to my wife Isabel.

‘I’m up to my elbows in canapes and guests, you’ll have to get it,’ she replied.

So, there I am at eight thirty in the evening on New Years Eve, standing in my hallway with a long John Collins in one hand and the telephone in the other. A yellow, paper party hat sits at a jaunty angle atop my head and I’ve developed an annoying tic in my left eye. Mrs Roberts shouts from the lounge.

‘Have you got my drink Charlie?’ 

I ignore her and speak into the receiver. ‘Hello, Charlie Speke.’

‘It isn’t Charlie, it’s Sister Mayborne from the nursing home.’

‘No, My name is Charlie Speke, how can I help you Sister?’

‘Is your mother with you?’

‘No, she should be with you, isn’t that what we pay you for?’  I couldn’t help it, the sarcasm just came naturally.

‘We have a problem Mr Speke, we can’t seem to find her.’

I experienced a slight dilemma at that point, should I say something flippant such as; you can hardly miss her, she’s eighty five and confined to a wheelchair or should I err on the side of brevity and just say, Oh dear! 
Truth to tell, I wasn’t worried because as I had stated to the Sister my dear old mother is eighty five and is confined to a wheelchair. She suffers with arthritic hands, second stage COPD and has to rely on a member of staff to push her from A to B. How far could she go in a small nursing home?

‘Are you still there Mr Speke?’

‘Yes Sister, I’m still here. Sorry for the silence but I was just puzzled as to how you can lose an old lady. She is hardly likely to have climbed out of a window as she is permanently hooked up to an oxygen bottle which she carries on her wheelchair and if she had made a dash for the door your security would have seen her. I take it that you have searched thoroughly?’

‘Mr Speke, I didn’t call you on the telephone for a lesson in sarcasm! We are extremely concerned for the safety of your mother and I thought, no, expected that you would share in our anxiety!’ She said tersely.

‘Believe me Sister I do share your anxiety, what I do not share is your responsibility. My mother, whom we have trusted to your care, is missing and you ask me if she is here. We live exactly thirty six point eight two miles from the nursing home according to my sat nav and unless you are suggesting that my mother snuck out of the Home and propelled herself the said thirty six point eight two miles to my house in her wheelchair then I’m afraid you will need to look closer to home. Have you called the police yet?’

‘No, she couldn’t have got out of the building, all the doors are locked at eight pm and the two gates to the grounds are locked at the same time. I thought perhaps either you or your wife had visited earlier and taken her for the New Year.’

‘No, we planned to visit tomorrow and my mother knew that ...

‘Where’s my John Collins?’

‘I’m on the phone, Mrs Roberts, be with you in a moment.’

‘You have obviously got more important things to do than worry about your mother..

‘Hang on Sister, leave the guilt trip at the Home for the Bewildered! My mother hosted this New Years Eve soirée for forty years and this is the first year she has been absent. She asked me to take over for her and that is precisely why we arranged to see her tomorrow and not today. . .’

‘Charlie!..!

‘In a minute Mrs Roberts!’

My wife comes up to me and I gesture for her to take the damned John Collins out of my hand and give to Mrs Roberts. Its a wonder I haven’t got frostbite of the fingers by now. My wife takes the drink and is mouthing at me,
w h o  i s  i t ?

‘Its the Home, dear. They’ve lost your mother-in-law!’

‘I’d hardly put it like that Mr Speke.’ Wails the Sister.

The frequency of the tic in my left eye has now doubled and I’m squeezing the telephone receiver so hard that if it were animal it would find breathing very difficult! Trying to control my voice if not my sarcasm, I say. 

‘Unless she has been abducted by aliens or a psychopathic porter I can see no other way of putting it, can you Sister?  As a matter of interest, when was the last time you did see her?’

‘She was in the dining room at lunch time and  in the afternoon she was in the day room playing cards with Mr Aphrodite. They seemed to getting on like a house on fire, then at around four one of my staff had to wheel him away in order to change his colostomy bag and give him a shower. We assumed that your mother had retired to her room.’

‘From where did that assumption spring? We have already established that she cannot propel herself anywhere.’

‘Actually Mr Speke, she can! We try to discourage it but she is a very willful woman. The arthritis in her hands has reacted well to the new drugs she has been prescribed although her main problem is the chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. It distresses her when she does too much and it doesn’t help that she still sneaks off for a crafty cigarette every now and then.’

‘Let me get this right, you allow her to smoke whilst coupled up to an oxygen bottle?' 
'You allow her to propel herself around in the wheelchair? '
'Which part of “Care and Home” and I missing here Sister?’  

‘Good bye, Mr Speke, I am going to do as you suggest and phone for the police. Goodnight!’

I put the phone down and stand, staring at it. Giving the appearance of being deep in thought but not actually thinking anything. I’m just angry, angry with the Home and angry with my mother. My wife walks up to and asks.

‘What on earth is going on?’

‘You know as much as me dear, apparently “The Home” can’t find mother. I mean, for God’s sake, how can they be so careless? She hasn’t been seen since four this afternoon and they decide to phone me at, what? What time is it now?’

‘Eight forty five or thereabouts dear,’ replies my wife. ‘By the way, you’ve got a tic in your left eye.’

‘They haven’t seen her for nearly five hours and they decide to ring me at eight bloody forty five! What? What did you say about my eye?’ I ask

‘Calm down Charlie, here have a drink,’ she says and hands me a glass of whisky.  ‘I wasn’t sure how long you were going to be so I  thought you might like this.’

‘Like it,’ I said, ‘ I’ve never needed a good strong drink so much in my life!’

‘What are we going to do?’ She asked.

By ‘we’ she meant ‘you’, have you noticed how women have this subtle way of putting things. She really meant, ‘I’ll tell you what to do but you must do it; and, do it now!’ Don’t get me wrong, most of the time I’m grateful for the intervention, its just that on occasion I would like to just sit and mull things over before I’m forced to spring into action. Mother typifies the species, take this party for instance; she gave me a guest list two months ago and a shopping list last week. The invitations had to read: “eight for eight thirty and we were to eject everyone by one a.m.”  Drinks instructions were written on a separate piece of paper, for example: “Mrs Roberts only drinks John Collins and these have to be made with freshly squeezed lemon, caster sugar, Bombay Sapphire gin and soda water.” 
She had written the quantities below the instruction. The instructions went on to say; “limit Fred Perkins to two port and lemon otherwise he gets silly. His wife Hilda only drinks tea but she will have a pale sherry to see the New Year in with.” 
Six pages of instructions, I ask you! The only person not having a good time is me. The ringing of the door bell is a welcome distraction.

‘Hello Alf, hello Gertie; nice to see you’, I say to the two festively attired pensioners at the door.

‘Go on through’. 

My wife, who is now stationed at the living room door, ushers them through. No sooner are they ensconced, the door bell rings again; Mr & Mrs Atkins from number thirty five. He’s got a gammy leg, apparently he fell off the number twenty two bus and fractured it in three places. That was four years ago on his forty fifth birthday, hasn’t worked since and has to rely on his wife Lil for support.

“Hello Andy, hello Lil, how you both doing?’

‘It’s been hard this year Charlie what with me leg and our Lil’s gout, be glad to see the back of it I will, won’t we Lil?’

‘Excuse me Andy, Geoff and Molly Crosier are just coming up the path and I’d better help him with her wheelchair, Isabel will see to you.’ 
I did a silly thing there in trying to engage Andy in conversation and I know that I am lucky to have got out of it. He’s got a world record in boredom has that bloke. I rush outside to greet the next two guests.

‘Can I help you there Geoff, hello Molly; let’s get you inside.’

According to my watch it’s now nine fifteen and the Home hasn’t called back yet. All the guest have arrived and are tucking into prawn vol-au -vents, sausage rolls and any other free snack they can get their false teeth into. I’m standing in the hallway hovering over the telephone although I’m not sure what I will do if it should ring as I have a glass of whisky in one hand and an onion bhajee in the other.
It isn’t even my hallway, my mother insisted that Isabel and I move into her house when she went to the Home. It was a sort of short term compromise. We agreed to stay for six months and put it on the market if she agreed to go into the Nutkin Paradise Home for the Elderly. She went into the Home in October  and we are still in the throes of getting the house into a saleable state. The Estate Agents reckon we should aim for the first week in February to put it on the market.
Anyway, I’m pacing the well trodden parquet flooring when the door bell rings. I automatically reach for the knob on the Yale lock and realise, just in time that I still have an onion bhajee in my hand. I put it in my mouth, holding it between my teeth. Imagine my surprise when I open the door to find a fully uniformed police officer standing on my doorstep. 

‘Good evening sir, does a Mister Charles Speke live at this address?’ he asks me.

‘Yoo wha wha,’ I answer.

He looks puzzled and no wonder, in front of him stands a dribbling idiot with something brown and nasty sticking out of his mouth, a glass of amber liquid sloshing about in a glass loosely held his hand and a left eye that is pulsating like a diesel generator. To top it all, he can’t speak! I wonder he didn’t go straight for the pepper spray.
I take the soggy bhajee from my mouth and try again. 

‘Sorry Officer, I’m Charlie Speke.’

He seems to relax a little although I notice that he seems fixated with my eye, non the less, he says, 

‘My colleague and I have a lady in our vehicle who claims to be your mother, would you mind stepping outside, sir?’

My gob has never been so smacked, I drop the onion bargee onto Mother’s parquet floor and follow him down the path, spilling whisky at every step. I reach the gate and see her, sitting in the back of the patrol car with her clear plastic tubing in situ and feeding oxygen through her nose. She is wearing a pink bed jacket over a floral flannelette nightdress. My wife had bought it for her from Marks and Spencer’s; where the bed jacket came from is anybody’s guess!
The officer opens the door and mother fixes me with one of her famous, "I'm not pleased"  stares. She then asks, through very thin lips. 

‘What have I told you about drinking in the street, Charlie? You’ll go the same way as your father. Now, help PC Wainwright get my chair out of the boot. Charlie! are you listening? Help the officer.’

I put the whisky on the wall and do as I’m told, once we have re assembled the chair PC wainwright and I help her out of the car and into it.

‘Run along inside Charles and get these gentlemen a cup of tea each, PC Gooding will push me to the door.’ 

It is at this point that I come out of my temporary shock. 

‘Hold on a minute Mum, why are you here? You realise that you have got the staff at the Home running around like headless chickens looking for you?’

‘Well you can phone them and tell them not to worry, that is, once you have made some tea for theses two gentlemen.’

I turn to PC Wainwright and ask.

‘Where did you find her?’

‘We didn’t, she arrived at the police station in town and asked if we could take her home. I don’t know how she managed it but our sergeant agreed and called us in to the station to pick her up.’

‘How did she get to the station? How did you get to the station mother?’ I asked, getting angrier by the minute.

‘Taxi’, she replies, matter of factly. ‘Now are you going to get the tea or do I have to wheel myself inside and do it myself?’

‘Taxi!’ I exclaim. ‘Do you realise the trouble you have caused tonight?’

‘Charles, dear. Did you really think that I would let you host my New Years Eve party in my absence? Of course not, now run along and sort that tea out these gentlemen lead busy lives.’

 I shrug my shoulders, turn and head for the house. Outwardly I’m seething but, inside, I’m quite proud of the old stick. I wouldn’t have had the nerve to do what she has just done.







Monday 15 April 2013

IS DEMOCRACY DEAD?





“Form of government in which sovereign power resides in the people as a whole, and is exercised either directly by them or by their elected representatives; State having this form of government”
“Class of people with no hereditary privileges; common people (in reference to their political power).”


For the uninitiated, the above is the Oxford English Dictionary definition for ‘Democracy’. Collins defines it thus:-
noun
(plural) -cies
  1. government by the people or their elected representatives
  2. a political or social unit governed ultimately by all its members
  3. the practice or spirit of social equality
  4. a social condition of classlessness and equality
  5. the common people, esp as a political force
Word Origin
 from French démocratie, from Late Latin dÄ“mocratia, from Greek dÄ“mokratia government by the people; dÄ“mo = ‘the people + kratia = power/rule.

Why do I mention Democracy? Well, it is a very delicate and challenging subject. It is a principle which has been stretched and pulled beyond recognition.The Human Rights Act, enshrined in Law by the last Labour government, whilst good in principle, is nothing more than a complicated tool designed by Socialists to destroy democracy as we know it. However, it does raise another contentious debate. Socialism is the transitional stage between Capitalism and Communism but, then again, Communism is, by definition, a social system characterised by the absence of class and by common ownership of the means of production and subsistence. The parallels between the principles of Democracy and Communism are so close as to be almost one.                                                                                       The saving grace for Democracy is freedom, unfortunately, I believe, it is freedom that is being usurped. It would appear that everyone seems to think that they have the right (freedom) to have what their neighbour has. I would argue that everyone has the right to aspire to what their neighbour has, be it in possessions or status.

The question has to asked; why is David Cameron along with his coalition partners allowing Democracy to be destroyed? Why are they and the Official Opposition supporting a European Union which is blatantly undemocratic? Come to that, when was the last time that this country was truly Democratic?                                                                                                                                         
The name on everyones lips this week is, Margaret Thatcher. Was she truly Democratic? Although I admired her greatly, the answer has to be no. Like all post war leaders in this country she believed that there was only so much that the people needed to know. Which, in the interests of Law and Order and National Security, is an admirable principle. However, when it comes to closing down industry in the name of National Interest I believe that full cross-party debate is needed complete with revues of likely local and national effects of such measures. Perhaps she would not be so demonised had such prolonged and detailed debates taken place.                                                                                             
I don’t excuse Scargill, here was a man whose sole aim was to bring down the elected Government of the day. The two of them, Margaret Thatcher and Arthur Scargill, could see no common ground on which to agree. Perhaps it would be more truthful to say that neither wanted to see any common ground and therein lay the problem. To be fair to Scargill, when he challenged the MacGregor Plan, arguing that more pits were ear-marked for closure than stated in the Plan, he was to be proved to be right. However, Democracy is about consensus and in Margaret Thatcher and Arthur Scargill was only conviction.

Given the civil unrest witnessed as result of the death of Margaret Thatcher, one has to raise another question. Is the undemocratic, antisocial behaviour manifesting itself within society at the moment, the fault of the Government?                                                                                                                     
The easy answer is, yes! Surely though, it goes much deeper than that. Democracy without rules or ill defined rules is not Democracy and that is the very situation that we find ourselves in today. Isn’t that our fault though? Have we not craved for and then demanded more freedoms, is it not a fact that whilst society demands rules it expects those rules to be infinitely flexible?                                           
This, though, is symptomatic of weak Government. It is a fact that society with few rules and weak leadership disintegrates. We elect politicians to represent us in the country and in the World. We entrust in them the good of the community for which they represent. A great responsibility and one which is, sadly, frequently neglected once these people arrive at the Houses of Parliament. It is easier for them to rule through weak and few rules than to adhere to a policy of strict regulation. Yes, of course it is and this is why we have a situation whereby the police commander in charge of Margaret Thatcher’s funeral has condoned disrespectful demonstrations outside the ceremony. It is easier to turn a blind eye than to enforce the strict Rule of Law.

So, who benefits from this lack of discipline in society? I suppose a more apt question would be, who orchestrated this lack of discipline in society? The Left have a lot to answer for on this subject and, so to, does the present Administration. Most leaders crave a totalitarian society whereby people just do as they are told. Much easier to control and much easier to manipulate.  The Left and the EU would love the people of this country to be subservient to them.                                                                              
We already have a situation in which our borders are not our own to control, criminals have more rights than victims, undesirables are allowed to stay in this country no matter the rulings of our courts or Parliament. Ironically, all this is perpetuated in the name of Democracy even when the majority of the people in the country are against it.

What is the answer?                                                                                                             
A very difficult question, especially given that the present crop of politicians are all happy with the situation as it stands. The EU was created on a lie and like all cleverly crafted lies it has duped many a fine political mind.  It has to be mentioned that there has been a sorry paucity of said minds of late. We have moved on from ‘conviction’ politics, through ‘consensus’ politics to professional, ‘self serving’ politics. It is these men and women in the latter group who need a weak democracy, who need diversity within the country and, not necessarily, the ethnic diversity that they all say we must have for a fairer society. They issue concessions in order to mask the really dastardly policies which they are pushing through. They increase their own salaries whilst capping the salaries and pensions of ordinary people. Who are the fools?                                                                                                                                
The answer is for the people of this country to wake up. Forget the dogma handed down by generations of Lords, Gentry, Working Class. Dismiss the North/South Divide and decide what is best for you and your children’s future. I’m not talking revolution or taking to the streets, I’m talking about sitting down and viewing things in a true Democratic way. I’m not even asking that people change allegiance in the way that they vote. I’m asking that they look to their politicians and ask themselves, has that man/woman done his/her best for my community? Then ask, has the Party to which they belong done its best for my community as promised prior to polling?                                                                          
In a Democracy we, the people, have the power to change things for the better. It doesn’t hurt to remind our elected representatives of this from time to time. Don’t forget, without you they will be out of a job!

Tension is in the air at the moment. The Left are on the march and given the opportunity they will march us all into the smothering arms of the European Union. The present Government needs a slap. We need to send a message to messieurs  Cameron and Clegg that we  have had enough of tinkering and want positive action. Failing that get out of the way and allow someone else to do the job.                                                                                                                                                      
As a country we have always done better on our own so let us do just that. Leave the EU, forge our own trade links, be masters of our own destiny. It is not difficult, just bold and sensible.                              

Saturday 13 April 2013

THE LAST POST





I wrote this four years ago as a tribute to soldiers of the First World War.
Picture the scene, A young mother sits in her kitchen with a letter from her husband, an officer in the trenches of the Somme, open on the table. They have a young son and this is the first letter she has received from her husband since he was deployed.



The Last Post



“Mummy, where are Daddy’s benches?”
“Darling child, come to me,
Your Daddy is in the trenches,
Far across the great North Sea.

The trenches are quite comfortable,
Daddy is dry and warm,
His men are all quite affable,
He’s sheltered from the storm.”

“Will Daddy get hurt by the Huns?”
“That, I cannot say,
Knowing he’s facing deadly guns
All we can do, is pray.”

“Your Daddy is brave, fit and strong
He knows not fear nor dread,
This war, it will not last too long.
Darling. Prayers and then to bed.”

‘Wife, I miss your touch, your smile
I miss our little boy,
We have no time to sit and while,
Out here there is no joy...’

Alone, she reads by candlelight
The letter from her man.
Tears flow for his sorry plight
As only wives tears can.

‘The cold, the screams of injured men,
The mud that’s ankle deep,
I try to lift moral for them
But words are oh, so cheap.

I am frightened, my darling wife,
I try to be brave for my men.
I really fear for my life
My constant thought is; when!...’

The tears flow freely, down both cheeks
The lady is in despair.
First letter in nearly seven weeks,
How she wishes he wasn’t there!


‘When will this madness come to an end?
When will the dove of peace,
Feather its wings and descend
To give us sweet release?

I send my love to my darling son,
And to you, my cherished wife.
I go back now to face the Hun
And the mayhem that’s my life.’

Wednesday 10 April 2013

THE LAST LAUGH.






Looking and listening to the news reports today one has to wonder at the mentality of some of, “the few” in our society and their reaction at the death of a lady politician. Not just that but, at the Left wing elite who fuel the outrage felt, justifiably or not, by these people.

I and my sister grew up with parents who were staunch Labour voters. My dad worked at one of the local collieries and my Mum worked as a farm labourer. That's right, in the industrial West Midlands, my Mum worked as a farm labourer. 
Politics was never discussed with us children but it was always assumed that we would automatically vote Labour. Just before I joined the Royal Navy I asked my dad why I should vote Labour to which he replied,
“Bloody stupid question, Labour look after the likes of you and me, always has done. You’re a worker, you vote Labour”.
That was my political education. Eighteen months later when I was asked by the Navy where I wanted my proxy vote to go, I replied Labour. Four years after that I changed my proxy to Conservative and voted that way until the year 2000. Why did I change? To me it was a no-brainer, having worked alongside dockyard workers in several Naval dockyards. I saw skilled men and, don't get me wrong, there were some really skilled artisans (both old school and new) working in the dockyards during the sixties and seventies. To see these men being forced by their Unions to either strike, work-to-rule or be  put on a go-slow was saddening. The last straw for me was when they - the Unions - tried to close down the Naval Dockyards with strike action and the associate picket lines.

I gave up a good apprenticeship when I volunteered to join the Royal Navy. Completely my choice and totally against the wishes of my parents. Once they realised that I would not change my mind they signed to authorise me joining. Even at the tender age of sixteen I was proud of Great Britain, proud of its achievements and full of optimism for the future. Most of all I wanted to be in the Navy and I wanted to serve my country.
This leads me back to working alongside dockyard workers and my decision to defect to the Conservatives. Given my pride and eagerness to serve for Queen and country I found it hard to believe and even harder to stomach, that men (civvies; as we called them) some of whom had been in the Service themselves, could be lead, like sheep, and kick the country in the teeth. Especially when we were in the middle of a 'Cold War' and under constant threat - real or imagined - from the USSR. I saw it as being dis-loyal to the Queen and country and equally dis-loyal to the Government who had given them gainful employment.
As far as the Unions go I have to ask. Has anything changed?

Margaret Thatcher came along at a time when the Unions were virtually running the country. Britain was not only the laughing stock of the World but found that the World had lost faith in this country's ability to deliver. If things were not going the Unions way they would hold the Government to ransom. Being owned by the Unions, the Labour Party toed the line. The Conservatives, on the other hand, spent just over three and a half years in office between 1964 and 1979. 
That most of the Union leaders of the day were communists, some were hard line, should not be disputed. They had an agenda and the will of the British people did not appear on that agenda. Mrs Thatcher was right when she talked about the 'enemy within' and she was not only referring to the miners.

So, why is Margaret, Hilda Thatcher so hated by the Left? Why is she held accountable by them for all of the ills which have beset this country since her departure from Office. I think Brendan O'Neill, through his "Opinion" column in The Australian, explains this perfectly. 
I quote:

"All the traits in Thatcher that Thatcher-bashers claim to hate can be found in politicians of all persuasion. But it's only Thatcher's name that is said with a sneer; who is described as "evil"; who is said to have "poisoned Britain" and permanently changed the British people's moral make-up through, in the words of The Independent, "implanting the gene of greed in the British soul". Why?
Because Thatcher-bashing isn't really linked to anything Thatcher did. Rather, it springs from the failures of the Thatcher-bashers, who have transformed Thatcher into an awesomely powerful, mind-controlling villainess as a way of explaining away their own isolation and disarray.
The ferocious loathing leftists have for Thatcher is directly proportional to the paucity of their influence over people." 

The truth about the coal industry is that since the end of the Second World War it was being heavily subsidised by successive Governments. Harold Wilson closed a total of 290 coal mines during his terms in Office. In fact, during the period 1961 - 1971 a total of 400 uneconomical mines were closed. One politician at the time commented that no more coal could be produced because the Stockpiles were full. 
Coal mines were being kept open because the politicians of the day did not have the will to go against the Unions or to admit to the Public the true state of this Nationalised industry. The truth would have been political suicide but, on the other hand, would have saved the country millions of pounds in subsidies.

Like all naughty children and despots who have been put down and shown for what they really are, the Left are licking their wounds and looking around for retribution. It matters not to them who is in the firing line only that they get, what they perceive to be, their revenge.  Mrs Thatcher has given them that golden opportunity. 
Would she be worried were she alive? No, not one bit. She is safe in the knowledge that no one before her or after her had the strength of character or the courage to take on the Unions, the economy or Europe. Not only that, she won three consecutive General Elections despite the vitriol thrown at her by the Left and despite the dissent of some of her more cowardly Ministers.

She has, if these idiots take to the streets on the day of funeral, once again shown them for the contemptible anarchists that they are and will most definitely have the last laugh.