‘Dreams don’t work unless you do.’
Rehashed by Caleb of Clarkson’s Farm fame.
Good quote. Don’t worry, there will be another at the end, aware, as I am, that often my quotes – well, not literally mine – are the best part. To be fair, those who know me, will also know that finding/choosing said quotes is a task in itself, routinely taking me longer than it does to commit my thoughts to desktop. Doesn’t quite have the same ring as paper, does it?! Anyway, I think my problem is that I’ve always had a thing about endings. Endings are of paramount importance; the most important part. Even when writing my English essays at school, as long as the conclusion was suitably impactful and memorable, that would make up for any shortcomings in the actual body of said masterpiece! Masterpiece? Tongue firmly in cheek, of course. For, arrogance, I abhor. To blow one’s own trumpet is not attractive. Besides, the necessity suggests nothing more than a lack of self-belief … and not entirely sure where this is going? A miserable, grey afternoon, the wind severely testing the last remaining plums on the old tree in the garden as the stoic hydrangea blooms rapidly shrivel and fade, I finally climbed the stairs to my desk at 4pm – positively exhausted just reading that! The struggle to motivate is well-nigh impossible in this gloom. I could just as easily don my eye mask – obligatory nightwear for all prima donnas – and retreat under the covers. Nope. This is on my ‘To Do’ list for today and what’s ‘To Do’ must be done. Onwards!
I am aware that, once upon a time – last week – I suggested that I write about anything other than the rapid demise of this country but that smacks of a blank page, surely? Perhaps not. Only yesterday, Becca told me I could talk about anything – the likes of astrohysics may prove something of a problem, admittedly – but in my advancing years, I seem to have morphed into Pop! For the life of me, as a child, I could never understand his fixation with the news. Always one to listen to the radio – BBC World Service, a particular favourite – he was rarely without a broadsheet newspaper in his hand (The Daily Telegraph delivered to the door) and forever in his seat in the Morning Room, silencing us as he endeavoured to watch the nightly news on television. Why? What was so important? Thing is, now I get it. Now, I do the same. A very different world today, however, I do recognise the need to stand back; to take a break. To search for humour amidst the misery? Imperative.
On that note, here’s a question: what does one get if one combines an inflated ego with stupidity? Answer: Keir Starmer. That’s, actually, too benign, for that heinous man is proving himself callous in the extreme. I shall get to the pensioners’ winter fuel allowance in a minute – 60-second warning – but, first, to the release from prison, this week, of 1700 offenders. Assured that said number would not include those jailed for violent or sexual offences, turns out the truth in the detail proved otherwise. Amongst the hoody-wearing, champagne swilling mob who were filmed, in celebration, outside Wandsworth Prison, was a man who had been sentenced to three years for his brutal treatment of a 21-day old baby who now suffers up to forty seizures a day and needs round-the-clock care; another who supplied a machete used in the murder of a 14-year-old child; and yet another who was sentenced to thirty-two months after breaking his partner’s jaw, attempting to strangle her and threatening to throw acid in her face. Delightful. No threat to society at all, unlike that posed by the understandably incensed on social media, driven to vent their anger online in the name of free speech. Make no mistake, anyone with an opinion must be silenced. Those with a brain pose the greatest threat to Keir Starmer and his regime; those who refuse to conform. Thus, a machete-wielding thug? Suitably devoid of the cognitive powers necessary to join the dots. Best we just gloss over the news that one of the newly released offenders sexually assaulted a woman within hours of freedom. Clearly, he must just have slipped through the net. All good.
Except it’s not. Far from it. Meet Rachel Reeves, our smug Chancellor of the Exchequer who, like her leader, is devoid of emotion. The prediction that as many as 4,000 pensioners could die of cold this winter – courtesy of Labour’s own report – holds no sway as she stands by the cruel decision to cut the winter fuel allowance. Never mind the knowledge that she, herself, has claimed £3,700 over the last five years in heating allowance for her second home – at public expense! Far from alone, however, in total, 162 Labour MPs have inveigled £425,000 in expenses – for energy in their second homes – since 2019 … As long as caring Rachel can sleep at night! She reminds me a bit of Jacqui Smith, a former Home Secretary under Gordon Brown, who, in 2009, was found to have claimed £116,000 in second home allowance – that second home again – for her family home in Redditch whilst listing a London house she shared with her sister as her main residence. Fraudulent? Suffice to say, the civil servant who leaked the relevant documents was sacked while Ms Smith duly resigned. Fast forward and, today, her return to politics is complete: Prime Minister Starmer appointed her Minister of State for Skills (no need to define those!), having first engineered that she be introduced to the House of Lords on 18th July, thus enabling said position. All hail Baroness Smith! Did she ever pay the £116,000 back? Do good guys win?
Next on the list is the 25% Single Occupancy Allowance. Excellent. The reason for targeting pensioners? They don’t tend to vote Labour. Not like the thousands of refugees pouring into this country. Take a decko at some of the benefits received by Afghan and Syrian refugees courtesy of Richmond and Wandsworth Borough Council … Landords are paid six weeks rent in advance, on their behalf; their Council Tax is paid; they are given financial help to furnish their rented properties, plus given help to apply for all welfare benefits including Universal Credit. The list goes on. Meanwhile, our own elderly – some still alive who fought for this country while others have worked hard all their lives – are wholly dispensable.
What is wrong with people? What is wrong with this country?! As one in four children start school not even potty-trained, and police are called to an under-10s football match in the West Midlands thanks to brawling parents on the sideline, is it any wonder that many – myself included – are seeking to escape? Take a look at any Instagram feed in response to a nostalagic post. Who would like to turn the clock back? Everybody! Who despairs of a country flooded by immigrants, forced to abandon its heritage and all it stood for? Count the hands. Who mourns the Great Britain for which our forebears sacrificed their lives and the accompanying freedoms we held so dear? Who is ashamed of – nay, abhors – the treatment of our older, wonderfully sage generation today? I do! The quest for colour in this grey world is so hard now, that ‘little spark of madness’ ever more elusive. It scares me, for humour is strength; humour is my strength. ‘If you lose that, you are nothing’. Never more acutely aware, believe me. I ordered a book yesterday, Restored in Tuscany by Angela Correll …
‘To dream by night is to escape your life. To dream by day is to make it happen.’
Stephen Richards
This is Trish, signing off.
