2 (19) WHAT, CYNICAL? ME?

 POLITICS.

Patronizing or what? Three months before the election and already the 'you have a duty to vote' lectures from journalists determined to remind us how lucky we are not to be living in (1) a dictatorship (2) an overbearing kingdom (3) a country run by an immoveable political clique or (4) an inquisitorial hellhole under the thumb of a religious elite. Is that patronizing or what? Well, it is; but, sadly, they are right. 
I just wish they were not quite so holier-than-thou about it. 

Truth is, many people cannot see the point in rushing to the polls when they know the majority of those around them are (according to how politically 'safe' the area in which they live) programmed to vote unquestioningly for any ass with a blue ribbon around its neck or any donkey with a red ribbon, ditto: and that those dedicated party disciples will continue to pursue the same unquestioning ritual because they always have, their parents always did and, blissfully, their children always will. 
Token malcontents may vote for the token political crackpot, no matter how crackpot that crackpot's policies are. 
It is called democracy. 

As I have written before within these walls, there have been times when I have not bothered to vote. It has been said that those of us who fail to go to the polls deserve whatever we get. Bunkum. Whether we vote or not we will finish up being represented by party lackeys who will do exactly what the whips tell them to do. I'm sure the brightest sparks start out with the best of intentions; it's just that by the time their train pulls into London all that lofty idealism has wafted away like so many farts in the wind. 
Parliament is no place for those unwilling to walk the party line. 

This year, though, I shall vote. For whom I am not yet sure. To date only one prospective candidate has put a leaflet through my letterbox. If none of the others bother, I shall probably vote for him. Well, you've got to admire a trier. I think he is a Socialist, though, so he stands no chance over here, my vote or not. (Over her it's less Fifty Shades of Grey than Fifty Hues of Blue.) Anyway, whoever gets in I shall expect nothing. I'm too old to be taken in by promises. Always have been. But don't you find it implausible that each successive government's balls-ups are instantly attributed to errors made when their departed counterpart was in power, no matter how long ago that may have been? And don't you, too, find it exasperating that any promise made by a political party in the run up to an election instantly becomes too impractical (i.e. costly) to implement once that party gains power?

What, cynical? Me? Too right.  

Party leaders' debate on TV? Looks as though this daft import from America may not now come about. Don't ask me why. Ask somebody who gives a shit. 

HOME. 

The unstately edifice. A viewer came on Thursday: said she liked how quiet the place is, but it's not for her. Another on Saturday: her husband in tow. He liked it more than she did. They were only looking for a place to rent out to holidaymakers, anyway. Oh well. Keep 'em coming. 

TELEVISION. 

My view. 

Not only did the Beeb repeat series two of Father Brown, it also treated us to a rerun of the first series in which Hugo Speer played the thick police presence common to all old-fashioned whodunits. Inspector Valentine was an uncouth lout who seldom took his hat off, even in church, and whose senior officers would certainly, in those days, have ordered him to do up his shirt collar and tighten his tie; he didn't, from start to finish: maybe that's why he was later transferred. 

We saw (and have just about forgotten) the last episode of Last Tango in Halifax. Won't come back again, will it? Oh, all right, I expect it will.

Watching Fortitude on Sky Atlantic. Joint stars are: Imported snow, Sophie Grabol, Stanley Tucci, Michael Gambon, Richard Dormer and, for a few moments, Christopher Eccleston. The left hand doesn't seem to know that the right hand has frostbite, but I shall stick with it, if only because it's cold outside.

 Guess I'll also stick with the television adaptation (rewrite) of J.K. Rowling's first story for adults, The Casual Vacancy (BBC1), where Michael Gambon is again one of the stars. (Not bad for a man who allegedly says he has given up the stage because he can't remember his lines.) Sadly, as recorded at time of publication, I did not particularly enjoy the book. I blame public service. During the course of a fairly pedestrian NHS career I encountered just about every one of J.K.'s insular Pagford parishioners and, to a person, loathed the bloody lot of them. 

Broadchurch (ITV). Even the best actors can't rescue a total turkey and, to my mind, this one has been just that. David Tennant and Olivia Colman will surely be back in better yarns. 

The Wright Stuff (Channel 5). I still look in when anybody interesting adorns the guest list. This week Yasmin Alibhai-Brown and Lee Hurst are on. Thought they would be amiability personified, but there was an immediate falling out over the three young British girls who have apparently taken off for Syria. Yasmin was sympathetic. Lee was not. Could be an interesting couple of hours every morning. Look for fireworks.

BOOKS. 

My reading seems to have fallen behind of late. Morning tele and an afternoon nap don't help. I am, however, halfway through Small Gods by Terry Pratchett. Bowled over, as usual, at Sir Tel's astuteness. More next time. 

Cheers. Mind how you go.