Post 388. DISMISS RELIGIOUS MANIACS.

WHATEVER THEIR RELIGION.

DON'T PANDER TO THEM.
This scene outside Batley Grammar School was an affront to democracy and reflected very badly on its religiously maniacal complainants. Parents, of whatever race, colour, or creed, should not gather en masse outside a school to demand the dismissal of a teacher; nor should they, individually, shove junk food through school railings to their school going children when a school has banned junk food.
Where education is concerned, I see religion and junk food in much the same light: neither is particularly desirable. That being said, for a short time I was a pupil at a church school where, despite the cant, I was quite happy. As a WW2 kid I knew nothing of junk food.

A teacher in religious instruction once conjectured to my classmates and I that the 'loaves and fishes miracle' performed by Jesus could perhaps be translated as: 'He persuaded all those who had brought food with them to share it with those who hadn't.' When I took that home to my parents their reaction was a mild: 'Really?' So throughout my life I have held the cheerful belief that (a few head cases apart) we in this country do not get too worked up over religion.
The behaviour pictured above was outrageous and in some of the countries that those involved came from would have been dealt with severely. Here it should at least have earned them a stern rebuke, a flat refusal to take any disciplinary action whatsoever against the teacher, firm advice that they could, if they were dissatisfied with the tuition at the school, take their child elsewhere and, finally, a gentle reminder that, while cautiously welcomed, if they don't like the way things are here...
To be fair, I feel much the same about all those Brits who move abroad for the sunshine, set up Little England enclaves because they are too thick or lazy to learn the language of their new country, and firmly believe that the 'natives'  will understand them perfectly well if they speak loudly in English.
Nationalism is a blight: and religion and politics cause the bulk of the world's troubles.
I am well aware that demanding sensible eating habits of overweight junk food lovers is, like any attempt to reason with religious maniacs, a pointless exercise.
But for chrissake don't pander to them.
READING

Currently reading M.W. Craven's Born in a Burial Gown and David Mitchell's Back Story.
Mr. Craven introduces us to another detective with a somewhat surprising name, Avison Fluke, and I am already well with it.
Mr. Mitchell is turning out to be much the same in print as he is on television. I like him 
More later.
TELEVISION.
We watched Eddie Izzard and Judi Dench in the film Six Minutes To Midnight. Took me right back to the days of Went The Day Well? and Green For Danger. Didn't even mind that, in the lead up to the climax, the girls and their Nazi teacher apparently walked from Bexhill to Beachy Head. Poetic licence.Well done, Eddie and Co. Thoroughly enjoyed it.
We also saw the final episode of Unforgotten. Nicola Walker, Sanjeev Bhaskar, Peter Egan and a fine  company of players. We do get some great TV drama in Britain. Congratulations to all concerned.
I cannot remember the last time I felt quite so sad at the end of a series.

AND A LAST WORD ON EDUCATION.

Stay safe. Stay open-minded
    

  

 

     

Post 387. IT'S NOT SIMPLE PATRIOTISM.

IT'S INSIDIOUS XENOPHOBIA

PEDDLED BY POSTURING POLITICIANS.  
Modern television coverage shows that Westminster is never packed with our chosen representatives, in or out of lockdown, unless they are discussing their own (let's forget inflation) remuneration.
When Samuel Johnson said "Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel" he was right, whatever the context of his remark. What we are experiencing in this country right now, though, is not simple patriotism, it is insidious xenophobia peddled by posturing politicians in Union Jack bedecked surroundings. It is populist bullshit and we should be concerned lest our country become too much a clone of Germany in the nineteen thirties.
I might have started this post with a picture of the PM, backed by the compulsory complement of limp UK flags, but then I would have had to mention his name, and I am disinclined to afford him name-dropping recognition in my blog: he has yet to mention me in any of his newspaper articles. 
Which brings me to another thing. Politicians writing in newspapers.
Don't they get paid enough as parliamentarians?
Are they so bloody desperate they have to appear on reality television?
Must they flout their views on social media?
I know it's the twenty first century, but they are still elected to be politicians.
They are not chosen for their prowess as journalists, or their talent as show biz personalities, or their reliability as Facebook friends or, God help us, as Twitter tittle-tattlers.

So they should stop playing to the gallery and get a touch of decorum.
Even the most hidebound, mealy-mouthed, back stabbers in past governments had a vestige of dignity.
Though, to be fair, that could be down to the fact that there was no TV or social media, and newspaper proprietors openly pulled all the top parliamentary strings anyway. 
As for the Union Jack.
I think we had enough respect for that not to use it as a petty political backdrop. 
But there y'go.

READING.

M.W. CRAVEN
Credit where credit's due, Mo put me on to The Puppet Show and, just as she had been, I was totally intrigued. Now I have read the follow up Washington Poe and Tilly Bradshaw yarn, Black Summer, and am completely hooked.
Mr. Craven was born in Cumbria, brought up in Newcastle, completed a degree in social work with specialisms in criminology and substance misuse, became a probation officer in Whitehaven and eventually took redundancy to become a full time writer. His stories have everything. The detective with the daft name, The hilarious female assistant/computer genius. The lot. And the author spent ten years in the army from the age of sixteen, which has to be a bonus.
He's great value. If you like detective stuff and have not read him, do buy him.

ROZ

Roz has been suffering painful side effects, which include broken bones, in connection with her secondary breast cancer. She bravely fights on. Please spare some of your very best wishes for her.
Thank you. 

 Until next time.

 

Post 386. I HAVE TO WRITE THIS.

HOWEVER LITTLE I WANT TO.

 
LAST WEEK WAS A SHIT WEEK, 
As you will perhaps have heard if you are family or friend, that bastard cancer has hit our brave Roz again and this time it is in her liver, backbone, and lymph nodes. It is, she has been formally advised, treatable but not curable. Her immediate response was to circulate the above picture.
This in a week that started with news from friend of many years Ian Dillow of the negative result relayed to him by those monitoring his brain tumour treatment.
As he succinctly put it: “Just heard from hospital. Basically brain is buggered. No more treatment of any kind. Just a matter of time now. I’ll still fight all the way."
He would like, he tells us, to see Spring.
We'll second that: and more.
Here he is with with Jean.

Our kindest thoughts my dears.
AND THANKS BE FOR FAMILY AND FRIENDS.
Ironically, for want of a better word, on Friday of last week Roz (pictured below with her loyal Buddy) reached her fifty first birthday.
She had been warned of the unfavourable cancer news on the Wednesday, kept it from us until our return from my second covid vaccination on the Thursday (because she 'didn't want to worry us') and then, it being confirmed, broke the distressing news.
So her birthday wasn't quite the joyous occasion we had all hoped for.
There has been a vast outpouring of love and kindness from her many friends, though, and the quiet reassurance of support from all the family (including Pauline who is currently, with Neil's staunch help, recovering from cancer surgery undertaken recently at Southampton Hospital).
Yes, friends, that is the way of it here right now.
Can you forgive me if I am without interest in the wrongdoings or otherwise of the Windsors?

Stay safe: avoid punch-ups with policemen.  

Post 385. TO THOSE STILL LOOKING IN.

THANKS AGAIN.

YEP. THANKS for staying with me.
You are, as the actor Andy Serkis might say, precious.
I do worry that my meanderings may have become tediously personal of late, but I'm too ancient and dyed-in-the-wool to change now. No matter how anticipated, the death of family members and friends in recent months, together with the latest pandemic lockdown, has been a soberingly introspective experience. I need a new CD cleaner, too. 
What? 

Oh, thought I'd throw that in apropos introspection.
My Leader will immediately point me in the direction of the almost unused old one which my ever active mind has somehow forgotten. Or she may have ordered a new one before anyone can blink. 
John who delivers the Amazon stuff lives in our driveway.
ENTERTAINMENT.

WELL IT'S ONLY THE TV now, isn't it.
Sorry to harp on, but little of it is to my taste. I dislike being fobbed off with increasingly banal versions of the same old mishmash. Television producers (to whom originality is clearly a dirty word) lazily modify everything they see as popular and plug it to way past its going home time. I cheerfully avoid much of it.
Have looked in on the opening episodes of The Walking Dead and NCIS. Not sure, but give 'em Covid time.
Have recently seen three quite interesting films (two old, one new) on the box. They were interesting insofar as they featured a recognised leading man with a comparatively unknown young co-star.
Back in 1973 Charles Bronson and sixteen year old Vincent Van Patten were in Chino, in 2012 Jason Statham and thirteen year old Catherine Chan were in Safe and, as recently as 2020, Tom Hanks and twelve year old Helena Zengel made News of the World.

Each of the leading actors shone in scenes with their likeable co-star. I think actors are generally advised to avoid acting with animals or children, but those partnerships were pretty nigh perfect.

THIS PARTNERSHIP ISN'T BAD, EITHER.

TAKE IT EASY.
Cheers.