As the rain pours down on the most miserable of February days, I must give thanks that I am not a cat! Well, a Scottish cat, any road … What does that even mean, ‘any road’? No matter, back to the cat situation: SNP threatening the incarceration of domestic cats – in certain areas – to protect our birds and wildlife. No amount of exclamation marks would cut it/this!!
Let’s break this down … A member of the Scottish Government is, apparently, paid an annual salary of £72,000; the First Minister, £176,000! Excellent. Deserved, I am sure. Meanwhile, Scotland lays claim to the highest drug-induced death rate in Europe. Higher than the United States, for goodness sake, the figures are 3.5 times higher than those of England and Wales. The Health Service? On its knees, due to mis-management, as with the rest of the UK. Police Scotland? Do they still exist? No interest in burglaries or shop-lifting, I would suggest they are desk-bound monitoring grannies on Instagram and Facebook! Scottish education? Well, courtesy of Sturgeon and the SNP, the entire school syllabus is now devoted to gender ideology. As children are dissuaded from basic biology and the fact that there are only two sexes – male and female – for the obvious reason of procreation, reading, writing, learning is a thing of the past. To be honest, is there any need, going forward, given the frightening, pervasive infiltration of AI – otherwise known as man’s own goal?!
The point? As if the SNP hasn’t already brought Scotland to its knees, why not make it a laughing stock as well? Focusing on the natural instincts of the otherwise domestic cat is so left-beam, it’s not true. Or, perhaps not? After all, the government dictating what one can and can’t do with one’s pets is just another step too far; another means of control. Back to the salaries, though … £72,000 and £176,000, respectively – and conservatively – for what? Are we supposed to be grateful that they’ve all donated their brains to science?!
February. Desperately in need of humour! Highly recommend watching Hugh Grant reels on Instagram. Only hope. Well, perhaps, with the exception of the Gallagher brothers – if one can negotiate the swear words. Sarcasm. Wherefore art thou? Silly me. That requires grey matter. Just realised, reading back, how stilted the aforementioned paragraph is. Almost in the rhythm of an SOS signal. Telling …
Changing the subject – as is my wont – my regular reader will be aware of my penchant for the radio. Radio 2, I’m almost embarrassed to admit, but that is merely me clinging to the familiar, largely because I have no idea how to switch to another channel – and save it. Whatever! Ken Bruce has gone – my favourite. Johnnie Walker is no longer with us and Michael Ball? Well, pre-recorded defeats the purpose of radio, in my book, and the format has become positively sickly – reading a ‘love letter’ to someone live on air whether it be partner – yuck – or parent? Cringe. Come on, Michael, get out of your bed on a Sunday morning and remember that, once upon a time, you were funny! Which brings me to the trend of comedians impersonating DJs … Done with it. Enough. Dermot on a Saturday morning? Actually, I do like him. Not only is he there but he is funny – and plays good music, too. However, the best of the lot is Tony Blackburn whose Sounds of the 60s show precedes Dermot at 8am. A true professional but, of course, one is faced with the reality that the music, too, was so much better back then. I say, too, because everything was better back then, not least the way people spoke in the media. Controversial, or what, but listen to the radio clips of old, the Sixties, Seventies – Eighties, even; back when the Queen’s English was the norm in broadcasting. The TV closed down at Midnight, for goodness sake, and the National Anthem was played! There was an air of respect in everything; standards. What happened?
Rhetorical, sadly. I suppose I have never liked pronounced accents. I didn’t grow up with them. On the other hand, I love Billy Connolly’s soft Glaswegian lilt. Gentle and refined, it reminds me of Pop. There is an inherent humour in the Glaswegian accent. My case rests. Like so much in this life, it’s what one is used to. Which brings me back to the voices/accents on modern-day radio … Scott Mills in the morning? I’ve warmed to him but Ellie, his travel side-kick? Her thick Midlands accent?! Then, there’s Vernon’s Bolton accent, clearly measured now but he loves nothing more than to mock the clipped tones of yesteryear, typical of Vernon’s Vault. Why is that? Why is it that, today, anything deemed ‘posh’ (hideous word, used only in insult) must be ridiculed? In the great race to the bottom, one forgets that there was, once, considerable pride in this country; in aspiration; striving to be better. No longer. Now, it’s a case of like it or lump it! This is how I speak, eat, dress, behave – and criticise at your peril. Manners? Etiquette? Consideration for others? Don’t be ridiculous, it’s all about me and I have a free rein to do whatever I choose. Thus, we fall.
What of the actual voice, though? How important is it? In answer to that question, just listen to Keir Starmer! Is he of the living? Completely devoid of vitality, his voice, alone, ensures he is incapable of commanding one’s attention, let alone respect. Convinced he’s a robot! No empathy, no feeling. A mere puppet. There he is, running across to Brussels, today, desperate to be back amidst the flock whom Trump deems ‘an atrocity’. No matter that his determination to re-kindle our relationship with the EU, at this point, is nothing but detrimental to that with America. Weak. Dripping, but with a coldness pertaining to evil undertones … You see, one’s voice is truly evocative. It speaks volumes – pardon the pun! Never under-estimate. The way one speaks has the power to negate all else, believe me. All else.
Actually, what about that of Renée Zellweger? She is everywhere, as of now, promoting the upcoming Bridget Jones film but I happened to catch her on Graham Norton last week. How much of her face can she move? Any bearing on the way she speaks – like a child! In fact, she and Michael Jackson would have been perfect together. Weird. Nothing against her, I might add, she seems – and, by all accounts, is – a lovely person but that little voice, and her plastic surgeon? Apparently, too, she is one of the only female co-stars for whom Hugh Grant has any time; nay, with whom he keeps in touch! Am I missing something? Sandra Bullock, yes, but Renée? Perhaps, in real life, she is more like Bridget than she appears? We’ll never know. We do know, however, that Michael Jackson put on that little voice … Sorry, Renée. Definitely not deserving of any comparison to that monster. Enough of voices.
On a lighter note, I remembered to turn the page on my calendars in the kitchen, the other night: Donny, Tom and a family one from several years ago. Why do I mention? Well, it made me smile, so ridiculous is it that I have a twenty-three-year-old Donny calendar – present from Becca, I think – hanging from one of the cupboards. The fact that most of the photographs are hideous and, of course, the dates are irrelevant makes not a jot of difference. It’s Donny! It’s funny, and it’s me. Tom? Who wouldn’t hang twelve images of Tom Cruise?! I nearly met him in Rome, once … The one of us, a mere five-years-old? Not only do all three of us look much younger but every month is a reminder of a happy memory and nobody can have too many of those, particularly now!
‘Time which none can bind
While flowing fast away, leaves love behind.’
Robert Louis Stevenson
May February be fast!
This is Trish, signing off.
