Friday 29th November 2019

Time to go home.

And for a change I am in Billund, in a room close enough to the airport to hear planes taking off, but far enough away so I don't hear them starting and taxiing.

But it is cold outside, and dark. Always dark.

I shower, get dressed and pack, then go down to settle the bill and have breakfast. There is just two other people eating, odd that this is Denmark's bigegst tourist draw. I know its November, but at least the American family are having the time of their lives, with all the figures and set pieces, all made from Lego, to themselves.

It is rather wonderful.

A quick drive to the airport, drop the car off and walk as quickly as my fat hairy legs would carry me. Check in and beat the rush of the next budget flight, passengers for which are already forming long queues at the check in desk.

I get through, have an hour to kill. I look at the Lego shop, and the wind turbine. €209 is a hefty price. One day, perhaps.

So I set up on a table, check mails and send out updates.

The budget flight was leaving from the gate next to ours, meaning that as we try to get past them queueing on the steps, they think we're jumping the line and trip us up. I have seen it before. So I am prepared, I have to go down saying "London City" making it clear I pay lots more than they have for their flight to the sun, and I was not jumping their line.

And that was the case, I squeeze past an elderly couple who eye me disapprovingly, but then go down to the lower level, where the 28 other passengers were waiting.

Nearly time to go.

We board and are moving off five minutes early, going to the far end of the airfield before turning down the runway and opening up the engines to full.

Away to the east. South east, the sun rises above the horizon, and the clouds part and there is blue sky.

Just in time for me to leave Denmark.

There are stunning cloudscapes as we fly south, the clouds touch the Danish coast, and over Holland, rain clouds start to bubble up promising rain or worse later.

All for my entertainment.

In an hour or so, we drop down to approach London, flying down the Thames, meaning that the low fly by over the City wasn't going to happen this time. But we would be on the ground ten minutes earlier.

We land, and wait for the ground crew to empty the hold, then have the whole length of the terminal to get to immigration. All meaning I would not make the earlier flight. But I had ideas how I could fill my time. Always with the ideas.

I have a seven minute wait for the train, then when I get to Stratford, I go shopping in Waitrose for dinner. And still have time to go to the swish French deli for a loaf of linseed bread, a cup of Americano, and on their recommendation, a slice of cake called a Napoleon.

It was all wonderful. And technically, work.

I go to wait on the platform, call Jools to tell her I had bought rack of lamb, meaning she did not have to go to Tesco on the way back.

All joined up thinking.

The train was less than half full, and once we emerged into the daylight at the end of the East London Tunnel, warm sunlight poured into my side of the train. And it was nearly the weekend.

We zip under the Thames, through north Kent and then under the North Downs to Ashford then to the coast. Nearly home.

There was six taxis waiting at the station, so I get one to take me home, and give the bloke a good tip as once home, once checked mails, it was the weekend.

What's not to like?

And after feeding the cats, I put the kettle on to make a proper brew, and once sat down with my slippers on, the weekend could begin.

Jools came home at three, we have a coffee and polish off a chocolate bar, what with it being the weekend. Not only that, this was the very last Friday Jools was going to have to work having had her hours reduced in a pact so she did not accept the job with the civil service.

We are so smart. And lucky.

Dinner was defrosted ragu and pasta and linseed bread and red wine.

And was magnificent. Even if I say so myself.

We toast ourselves, and eat well.

There is Iggy on the radio, and Alice Roberts on the TV, until it was time for bed.

And another week done.

Election on hold

Due ti the attack on London Bridge yesterday, there has been a collective agreement to suspend campaigning.

Or a collective agreement to suspend lying. If only that could continue.

One of the redirected letters from Mum's was one on behalf of the Prime Minister, and as I read it, I am finding it very hard to find any facts in the letter:

Brexit creating jobs(!)

£33.9 billion extra for the NHS.

20,000 extra police officers.

More funding for every pupil.

A growing economy.

Britain has spent three years going nowhere, apparently, spinning round on a hamster wheel of doom.

This is shocking stuff from the once party of Union and Business.

This time he's brought his Dad

So, the Father of Alexander Boris de Piffel Johnson is angry that Victoria Derbyshire is reading out tweets stating his son, the Prime Minister, is a liar.

That Boris Johnson is a matter of public record. He lost two jobs though either lying or making up quotes. He broke an oath to his wife. He gave unlawful advice to the Queen.

He is a liar.

He lies on a daily basis about Brexit and the Labour Party.

He lies about the effect of Brexit.

He lied about how easy it would be.

He lied that Parliament blocked his WAB. It passed its second reading by 30 votes.

He is a liar.

In a 1995 Spectator column, he wrote:

"ill-raised, ignorant, aggressive and illegitimate" in a magazine column, it has emerged.

In the same column, he argued it was "feeble" for a man to be reluctant or unable to "take control of his woman."

He said it was “outrageous" that married couples should fund "'the single mothers' desire to procreate independently of men.”

And he said a way needed to be found to "restore women's desire to be married."

After saying working class men are "likely to be drunk, criminal, aimless, feckless and hope- less, and perhaps claiming to suffer from low self-esteem brought on by unemployment."

He added: "If he is white collar, he is likely to be little better.

"It is no use blaming uppity and irresponsible women for becoming pregnant in the absence of a husband."

When he wrote this, 24 years ago, Johnson was an adult, so there is no point in trying to paint it as being ancient, the press should hold him to account for what he has said in the past, be that a day, week or year ago. This is who the Prime Minister is as a person.

He is and always was unfit for office.

Thursday 28th November 2019

Dateline: Aarhus.

Weather: Raining. Always raining.

One day a real rain will wash these Danes off the streets.

Apparently.

I look outside at the ring road beyond the barbed wire fence (seriously) even at six there are jams.

Better get among it then.

I have a shower, get dressed and pack, as I am to be in a different hotel that might. One last look round the room and I go down to the lobby to check out, then have breakfast. Fighting fit.

The drive to the office was horrible, pouring with rain and misty. Like driving in a hot shower. I was glad to reach Randersvej, turn right beside the tramsline then along to turn off at head office.

I had arrived safe.

Phew.

Inside, colleagues had arrived, I nab a hot desk, have a coffee and get down to work.

I have now tasks to get on with. Not a huge amount, but in my first 1:1, I am given something extra to do, as you know about that. I was told.

I doubt whether I know much about anything, to be honest, but I'll give it a go. Call me odd, but I like writing procedures, gathering the information, sources and so on. I plough on with that for the rest of the day.

And, I am told, I have to find a minion. A minion to go around the country with me auditing. A minion of my own. Do I know anyone?

No, but I'll think about it.

In the afternoon, people begin to leave for home. Outside the traffic is mad. If I left at three, or before five, there would be queues to get out of the car park, to get onto the main road, queue to get onto Randervej, queue to get on the motorway and queues at every junction. I stay and work, drik tea. Even though I tell the Danes the water's not hot enough. It needs to be boiling. But its better than the coffee.

Which is saying something.

At five, or just pass, I leave the office. Everyone else has left. Outside the rain has stopped, which means once through the traffic the drive should be OK. In fat, there is little traffic, or much going my way. I crise down to the motorway, ease onto it, and then motor along near the speed limit until the city is left behind, and the speed limit is 130 kmh.

I turn off at junction 57, taking the main road to Gove then cross to Billund.

I could have stayed at the travel hotel next to the runway, and be kept awake by starting and taxiing aircraft, and it has no kitchen so you have to phone for a pizza. Or, you could book in the Legoland Hotel, with it being term time, almost no children, apart from the grown up ones.

I chose wisely.

I have a pirate-themed room, and on the way to it, walk past a lego beagle dog having its dinner of lego bricks. Just like real life!

There is a lego cutlass above my bed, a dragonfly on the other wall, and the carpet is a treasure map.

All I want to know is when the restaurant was open. It's open now!

I grab my book and go, to fnd there are just two other occupied tables. Not much choice, steak or burger. Burger and the seasonal ale I order.

And it is good. I tell myself i can have burger every night as I don't have lunch. Though there was a lot of cake at work that day. Cake.

I try some just for quality checking purposes. And because a cuppa's too wet.

I have another beer and see if the chef will allow me to have the cheeseboard although its on the Christmas menu.

He does.

So I have a little cheese, some bread made mostly of nuts. And the rest of the beer.

Back in the room I put the radio on and watch the football. Arsenal were playing. I say playing. Falling over mostly. They lose 2-1, but I have slept through most of the second half, missed both Frankfurt's goals, and had to check the internet for the rest. I lay on the bed to listen to more radio, and fall asleep again.

I wake up, turn the radio off, and go back to bed.

Melting

Many years ago, Have I Got News For You put up a tub of lard as a panelist when Tory MP Roy Hattersley refused to appear.

This week, Channel 4 were to hold a seven way debate on climate change, but the "leaders" of the Conservatives and Brexit Parties failed to appear.

So, C4 put up blocks of ice that would melt during the debate, so they would slowly melt, like the ice caps and glaciers.

Our PM, BoJo, did not like this. Neither did the Tory Party who sent Michael Gove and a film crew to try to take his place. Gove lost the Conservative Leadership contest back in July, it was in all the papers, so not being the leader of the Conservative Party, wasn't allowed to take part.

Didn't stop Gove to try to put the blame on Labour and the LibDems who had, apparently, refused to debate with him.

IN an odd twist, the PM's Father was also at the TV studios, but the Conservatives denied he had been sent to replace his son, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.

I'm not making this up.

Nor the fact Johnson has since threatened to take away C4's public broadcasting licence for being, *checks notes*, being biased.

This is banana republic territory.

Wednesday 27th November 2019

Pay Day!

I know I should expect such things, having been coming to Denmark for some seven years or so, but when I pulled open the curtains at six in the morning, I saw rain. Lots of rain.

Welcome to Denmark.

At least, staying in the compound, aka Scandic Vest, its a short drive to the office and most interactions with manic cyclists are avoided.

I shower, get dressed then go down for breakfast before scampering to the car trying not to get too wet.

I catch most of the lights on the ring road until I get to the water tower which marks when I have to turn north towards the office, beside the trams then the hotel before taking a left turn into the area which sits our head office. And it being not quite seven, there were lots of parking spaces.

I walk to the office, enter my code to get through the outer door, enter it again to get through the inner door, register my car for the day so not to get a £50 ticket, walk to find an empty desk and unpack and begin work.

Outside it is still dark, and the traffic on the main road into the city inches by.

The has meetings, phone calls, more meetings, coffee and more meetings.

I am thrilled.

I also go to visit my former colleagues on the project. Serious shit is going down, but then it always was. Anyway, I go to show my face, so the Godly Kate can look into my eyes and see a smile. And she is then happy. I thought she was going to hug me to death. There are worse ways to go. But it is wonderful to be cared about.

I go back to my hot desk, do some work until half two, at which point I take the afternoon off, to drive back to the hotel, have a shower, then drive to visit my friends, Anni and Bo at their house on the edge of the city.

Anni mentored me in my early days as a Quality Manager, and without her I would not be here. In her house. Drinking beer.

We both have a lot to thank each other for, so we do, in a restrained way.

We talk for hours, while outside the rain continues to fall.

Until it is seven, and I am hungry, so say my goodbyes and drive back to the hotel where I am told all tables are full so will have to wait for dinner.

I have a Christmas beer, call Jools, then am showed to a table, and order a burger and more Christmas beer without looking at the menu.

I am experienced.

Dinner is good, if predictable, and back to my room in time for the quarter to nine kick off in the CL.

I have no idea who I watched play. Was it Barca? Maybe. They won, 3-1.

Brexit latest

On the day the Conservatives put out an ad saying EU migration needs to be reduced to stop drain on resources and jobs, the latest immigration figures were released showing that EU immigration is at a quarter of what it was before the referendum.

But non-EU immigration had increased to the point where net immigration had barely been reduced.

EU citizens come over here to work, pay taxes, rent or buy homes. There is very little evidence that anything more than a tiny fraction come here to claim benefits of for what is called “health tourism”, with many of the poorer paid and educated working in places like hospitals doing the jobs that we UK citizens don’t want to do.

Their NI contributions go to pay for the NHS, their taxes go to pay for other services whilst their renting and buying houses or flats keeps the housing market buoyant, so homeowners see their investment going up and up.

Without them there is a short fall of staff, NI contributions, taxes and people to rent and buy. I mean, its almost like there is no negative impact at all in EU citizens, except in the minds of gammons and brexiteers.

The PM is now dodging interviews, debates and anything that is going to show him in a bad light, which seems to be him goofing around on heavily choreographed visits to hospitals or schools where it all a photographic opportunity, and interaction with any “ordinary” members of the public is avoided.

If the media fails to hold the Prime Minister to Scrutiny but is happy enough to hold the various opposition leaders to scrutiny, or hold them to different standards, then it fails to serve the electorate or democracy. This week the BBC has interviewed three of the opposition leaders, without getting cast iron assurances that the PM would do the same on the 4th evening. Allowing him to cry off.

A leaver leaves

The brain on legs, the leavers leaver has left.

Dominic Cummings has resigned as special adviser to the PM.

So a beautiful partnership ends, a partnership that began with the Vote Leave campaign and two lots of law breaking, and ending with the PM giving unlawful advice to the Queen.

Quite a track record.

Classic Dom.

UPDATE: turns out all SPADs have to resign once an election is called if they want to take part in campaigning. So, a huge story shrinks minutes after it breaks.

Tuesday 26th November 2019

Half four on a wet and windy Tuesday is too early. Too early to be getting up and getting ready for travel.

But there I am, international playboy and quality expert.

Jools is making coffee, feeding the cats, and I can declare my shoulder is almost better.

But its still too early.

Jools goes for a shower and get dressed. I wash up, top the bird feeders up and all the other stuff needed before we load the car up at ten to six. Jools takes me down the hill, over the road to Martin Mill, dropping me off at the station with time to buy my ticket, then take shelter under the insufficient awning.

I saw Insufficient Awning support the Fall at the UEA in 1981.

The wind howled along the platform, meaning that no matter how far under the awning you were, you got wet. Gotta love this time of the year.

It was only just getting light, I mean light enough to tell the slightly later blue of the sky from the darker of the land as the train whizzed across the Essex marshes before plunging into the tunnel.

I get off at Stratford, walk to the DLR station, arriving just as a train left, meaning I had eight whole mintes to wait for the enxt one. We all have our crosses to bear.

Into the airport, and being a Tuesday, the place is nearly empty, as opposed to the crowds that are there on a Monday. I check in, drop my case and am through security in ten minutes, going to the restaurant for breakfast. And coffee.

I have sweet potato pancakes with a poached egg. And a bonus sausage.

Bonus Sausage also supported the Fall.

And have another coffee, then find somewhere to sit and wait for the flight to be called.

Time passes.

The rain continues to fall.

Aircraft come and go, but I am a seasoned traveller, I have seen such things before.

The flight is called, so me and the nine other passengers gather at the gate to board. I could have jumped the queue with my frequent flyer card, but with a row each on the plane, why bother?

And once in the air, London fades from view as we enter the low cloud, and the earth is lost from view until we were on final approach 100 minutes later, and skimming over the tops of fir trees next to Legoland.

It is raining. And cold. Welcome to Denmark.

I collect my case, jump the queue for a hire car, swap greetings with my friends behind the desk and I am off to the car park to find my car.

I have an Opel Insignia, with six gear and several horses. I load it up and set off for Aarhus, I know the way with my eyes closed, but keep them open. Just in case I'm wrong.

I arrive at the office, find a parking space and go to the office, a different one now, with new old colleagues.

I am hugged when I arrive and quizzed by my boss. She is pleased to see me and the fact I am now back at work. And after coffee I fore the computer up and get down to answering mails.

Four hours later it is time to leave for the hotel, Scandic on the outer ring road, as the city centre ones were all full. It is easy to get to, although the traffic was very heavy and I caught most of the dozen sets of lights on the twenty minute drive.

I have time for a shower, as my old RAF colleague, Shaggy, was coming as I had supplies of Marmite and Bovril along with tea bags for him and his children. He gives me home brew in return.

We talk and have a couple of beers before having a bite to eat. But he has to work in his home brew shop, then get ready for his day job, so he leaves and I go to my room to watch the footy.

But my eyes drop just after the game started. I wake at half time, then nod off again, waking on the hour, but give up and switch the TV off and go to bed. Properly.

Leaked

This morning, the Labour Party "leaked" a document detailing the series meetings between the UK and US on a potential trade policy.

I say leaked as it was leaked several weeks ago to The Sun, who did nothing.

Depending on who you listen to, it means something or nothing.

What we can say is that any trade deal, with anyone, the US the EU, is about trade-offs, you get something, the other side gets something. Usually the bigger side gets more of it wants than the smaller side. This is leverage.

Going into negotiations in the hope the other side, the US, will be nice to you, the UK, is beyond wishful thinking.

A lot of what it contains, it is reported, is nothing you wouldn't expect to find in two sides sounding each other out, and then there is talk of rights and copyrights. Which should sound alarm bells. This is the first tangible results of a potential trade talk with the UK. The Government can pretend its just about what the UK wants, or is honest that it will come, any deal will come, with compromises, and most of those compromises will be worse that whatever drove us away from the EU.

But with Johnson as the PM, the chance of honesty in anything is slim.

Monday 25th November 2019

One month to Christmas. If you put your sprouts on to boil in July, they should be tender by the big day.

Just saying, its what yer Mam would have said.

And in other news, shoulder is getting better, but not quite well enough to do any phys, anyway, I am off on my travels on Tuesday, so will get back into it once I am home on Friday. Or Saturday.

Sometimes, its best not to rush these things.

And for some reason, both Jools and myself were awake before five, and so at half five we get up and do the stuff we do before work.

She had left home by half six, leaving me to listen to the radio, have another coffee, breakfast and a shower, and be all logged on for work at half seven, like a keen worker.

And so the week begins.

It needed more wine. At nine in the morning.

Outside it is a dull and cold day, wind too strong and chilling to go out for a walk, just for the heck of it, so I stay in and look out, watching the birds and the cats trying to catch the birds. Its their jobs.

I have fried eggs on fried bread, washed down not with fried tea, but tea. Which was nice.

The afternoon passes slowly by, Jools has yoga after work, so I have like hours before she is due home, so get all my writing and editing done. Then think I should try the sloe port.

Its nice. So nice I have a second to make sure.

Then I have to cook. Shoarma chicken, curried rice and corn. And beer.

Its all too easy to wash the food down with more booze. I tell myself this has to change. Soon.

Next week.

And then there is football on TV; Villa v the Toon, and pretty good it was, but my eyes got heavy, so heavy I don't see the last quarter on an hour, and Villa leading 2-0, and in the words of my Dad, The Toon wouldn't score as long as they had a hole in their arse.

He was always right about these things.

Causing offence

As you will know, I am not the biggest Corbyn fan in the world, but he is no racist.

What has has overseen however, is a poor investigation into antisemitism in the Labour Party, allowing the canker to fester.

Another party leader, is only to happy to throw accusations at Labour, despite him comparing muslim women to post boxes and saying the people in Africa were piccaninnies with water melon smiles.

Now that is racist.

And the same party brought in a "hostile environment" and managed to deport many UK citizens of the Windrush Generation, and their families.

That is also racist.

The same party also dog-whistled that 76 million Turks were going to move to the UK if we stayed in the EU, despite the UK have an absolute veto.

I abhour descrimination of all kinds, and what I have seen my some in the Labour Party has been sickening. But senior members of the Conservative Party, including the Leader and current PM do far worse, and yet get a free pass.

Why is that?

Rinse and repeat

Brexit is some kind of Kafkaesque nightmare, where we are doomed to see the same mistakes repeated over and over again, and no matter how many times we say this, the Brexiteers ignore us.

The main issue today is the repeated insistence from Johnson and his merry band of incompetent ministers that the extension period would not be extended beyond 31 December 2020 under no circumstances, oh no sirree. So, imposing on the themselves and the country an added layer of pressure and an additional adversary in the shape of the calendar. And gives the EU another huge leverage tool.

May did this with the A50 notification, and now Johnson is doing it all over again.

As you will see from the previous post, this is doomed to fail, or trash the economy. Or both.

Or haw about starting a negotiation without knowing the end position you want to close with? Just like the first phase with DD and his vacant stare over the table at Mr Barnier.

With the second phase where the future trading position will be agreed. Maybe. Entering this where the Brexiteers want a distant relationship, but reality and the very basics of trade say the opposite is needed, is a recipe for more chaos and a major climbdown.

By which point the UK will be out of the UK, and trapped in limbo, out and not yet in the EU, doomed to follow their rules lest they won't be able to trade.

As ever, best be on the train pissing out than stand on the platform trying to piss into the train as it steams past.

The madness will continue, until a grown up takes charge. But I see none in Johnson's cabinet, and on the other side there is Corbyn.

The eternal Brexit

A dog is not just for Christmas, the ads used to say. The same is true for Brexit.

The UK and EU is suffering from Brexexaustion and no wonder.

Most people favour no deal because the think it will stop the endless talking about Brexit. But it won't, of course.

There are a number of reasons for this:

1. Geography. The UK is 23 miles of the French coast, that is never going to change. And in trade, a country (the UK) trades in greater volumes and most efficiency with it's closest neighbours (the EU), that is never going to change. Brexiteers can blather on an on about taking back control, but as ever, reality will be in control.

2. Trade-offs: As I have said before, there is a sliding scale with trade at one end and control at the other. Meaning, you can have lots of control but not a lot of trade, or lots of trade with little control. No both. This is one of the many trade-offs that trade negotiations will bring, and have to be decided upon. If the UK is really taking back control then it is giving up on trade.

3. Lobbying. Most trade deals between countries is based on the premise that trade between the two will be simplified, by either removing barriers and/or tariffs. Brexit will be the first trade talks that start with the objective to put barriers up to trade. It will be a long and painful process. Brexiteers will want a distant relationship with the EU so some kind of deal can be done with the US under Trump, if he is still in power. Meanwhile, domestic business groups and industries will lobby for closer alignment on tariffs and non-tariffs to facilitate trade. This is another trade-off.

4. Resources. The UK has few experienced trade negotiators, and those that we have will have priority in talks with the EU (see point 1), the Conservative Manifesto wants to have multiple trade talks taking place in tandem with completion in three years. Will. Not. Happen. Most trade negotiators will be learning on the job, and will be eaten alive by aggressive potential partners the other side of the table. The UK still has not agreed with itself what it wants at the end of talks with the EU, so cannot set it's negotiators a mandate. Other countries will wait to see what relationship the UK has with the EU before committing to talks. I seem to remember writing this stuff three years ago, or more. It really doesn't change. Nor will it.

5. Services. No trade deal includes services. Which is a shame as the UK economy is a service-based one, and the financial service industry is hard-wired into the EU, leave the EU without a serviced-based deal and those companies will starve, and many will relocate to within the EU.

6. Non-tariff barriers. Non-tariff barriers are anything that can increase friction in trade, from standards, documents or even language. These change all the time, so there will be talks forever between the UK and EU on how each new non-tariff barrier will be implemented and overcome. The UK will have no say and little leverage in each new non-tariff barrier the EU brings in. We will have to accept it or not trade in that area or goods.

7. Rules of Origin. Rules of origin are key in trade talks. They decide what tariffs, tax and barriers are applicable or not. Rules of origin will mean, even in the most friction-less Brexit there will be friction. And possibly a lot of it. And it is unavoidable. Which is why you never hear Brexiteers talk about it, because they don't understand it. And don't want to, as it would destroy any kind of hard Brexit. Quickly. But the pain would be extreme.

8. Ratification. Any trade deal that is negotiated, either with a deal or after a no deal, but a deal will have to be negotiated, will have to be ratified. Ratified by the UK Parliament, by the EU Parliament, by the Parliaments of each of the EU27 and by a number of regional Parliaments, like the Canadian FTA, which Walonia nearly scuppered. These take months to ratify. So any deal needs to be done by July, or there is no time to ratify, so an extension would be needed. And despite all what Johnson says, one would be sought, though it might be called something else, like an implementation period. But will happen. And as any extension would carry talks into the next EU budget round, it would be cripplingly expensive for the UK. Which might just upset some Brexiteers.

So, Brexit will go on forever, unless it is revoked. Which isn't going to happen.

So, Merry Christmas. Now, about that puppy.....

Sunday 24th November 2019

I have been doing the Kent church project, as I like to call it, (*checks notes) May 2009, and over the years some churches have been very difficult to see inside of. Thanks to the internet, many of those have been now covered and recorded.

The most recent tricky one was Bicknor.

Bicknor is a hamlet near to the Medway towns, up on the downs, among woods and orchards. Being remote, it has become a target for vandals and thieves, so is now kept very locked. Lat time I tired to see inside was during the recent Heritage Weekend, and the Ride and Stride list assured us that it would be manned at least.

A half hour trip out of my route brought me to the usual situation of the church locked up tight.

And then a couple of weeks back, the warden at Milstead told me there was to be a Christmas Fayre at Bicknor on the 24th. A plan was set.

But come half six on a Sunday morning, my enthusiasm was at a low ebb, and it would not have taken much for me not to go.

Whatever the outcome, there was coffee to drink, football to watch and bacon to cook first.

Jools went swimming, and I watched the football, not from behind the sofa as Norwich not only won but played very well indeed. A pleasant change from recent weeks, and hopefully the start of a charge up the table.

At nine, the football was watched, Jools came home and I cooked bacon.

All good.

And I decided we would go to Bicknor after all, and a good job we did, as we saved the fayre, partly.

Bicknor is a 45 minute drive away, and in dull and drizzly conditions, it wasn't a pleasant drive, but with the radio on and traffic not too bad, could have been worse. From the A249 junction, it was a ten minute drive along the narrow lanes leading to the top of the downs, then along the ridge to Bicknor, where outside the church people were putting up stalls ready for the 11 o'clock start.

We parked under a tree at the edge of the graveyard, I got my cameras and we went to see if the church was open. The front door wasn't, bu the vestry door was, and once through there, the nave and chancel was a scene of chaos. The lady running the event had a million things to do, chase up were three quarters of the stalls had got to, dress as a fairy and find Father Christmas his suit.

Not sure whether the suit was ever found!

We were free to take pictures, but it was clear that much work needed to be done. I was asked to light the dozens of candles round the church, I was assisted by Jools. We did the three chandeliers, and around the corbel line at just about head height.

I took more shots.

We took the step ladders out, moved the pews. And just when it looked like all was set, three mayors of neighbouring villages arrived. A forth was on his way, has car needed space to get into the small car park. All car owners were asked to move their cars. This gave us an opportunity to leave, so we said farewell to the stressed lady, and I got a kiss on the cheek!

Before we left, I take the role of official photographer and snap the three mayors, and we are gone.

Back home down the narrow lanes and down to Maidstone before turning east on the motorway to Ashford and home, listening to Desert Island Discs whilst we drove.

We got back home, had a brew, then I put the selection of party food in the oven to warm though. Heck, it is nearly Christmas! I also open a bottle of Tripel to wash it all down with, which was certain to help me nod off during the football later.

After lunch, Jools went out to meet an old friend for a walk and long chat, leaving me home to tidy up and get ready to watch the Sheffield Uts v Man Utd game on TV. As expected my eyelids became very heavy, but I did watch it all, and trilling it was too.

Outside the day faded, as the thick cloud brought dusk an hour early. The Utds share six goals and I then go to prepare and cook chorizo hash, so to warm the cockles of our hearts. And stomachs.

We also have pink fizz, because Sunday.

And again, by the time we tidy up and make a post meal coffee, it is eight in the evening and the day is gone.

Policy problems

The Conservative Party released their election manifesto yesterday, and the general message is that their policy is to reverse their policies of the last decade, from trying to increase the numbers of police, nurses, end austerity, give people the right to question the executive (unless it is embarrassing for Johnson, of course).

Not that many journalists have pointed this out to Johnson or any of the current cabinet. Which should be their job.

And looking at the front pages it is all about how wonderful things will be under Johnson in the new year, with Brexit and the increase in spending increases and all the other lies the Tories have been spouting.

In total the Tories have promised to increase spending by as little as £3 billion; maybe they know the piggy bank is empty?

But when experts look into the figures of how many of the "new" nurses are actually new, its very few. Johnson being economical with the truth? Who'd have thought it. And they are going to reverse their policy of scrapping nurse's bursaries, five years after it was scrapped.

"Boris Johnson pledge for 50,000 more nurses not quite what it seems - 12k from abroad, 14k new undergrad students, 5k degree apprenticeships. Which leaves 19k nurses “retained” who would otherwise have left... so not “new” nurses at all."

They really are shameless.

Which should surprise no one.

Saturday 23rd November 2019

Dr Who's 56th Birthday.

Jools's 56th birthday.

56 anniversary of the slaying of John F Kennedy.

Quite a day.

I first heard of William Blake when reading Red Dragon by Thomas Harris, that introduced the literary world to Hannibal Lecter. I read the book in a day and a half before the BBC showed the film. I would rather have read the source material and got my own ideas rather than the film director's impressions. The Red Dragon of the title is a painting by William Blake.

Next was in Bull Durham when Annie quotes Willam Blake to a stunned Kevin Costner, as Kevin plays stunned men quite well. “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom,”

And then I found out Blake wrote Jerusalem, my Father's and my own favourite hymn.

And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon Englands mountains green: And was the holy Lamb of God, On Englands pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine, Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here, Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold: Bring me my arrows of desire: Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold! Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand: Till we have built Jerusalem, In Englands green & pleasant Land.

I thought I knew Blake. But it turned out no one really knew Blake. Least of all me. As with all exhibitions, you learn not about his art, but the man. And his mind.

But first, we had to get to London. Which should have been simple enough. But it turned out this weekend was when Network Rail chose to close two of the three main lines into London from Kent. No High Speed Services, and none into either Charing Cross or Cannon Street. Leaving one direct service from Dover into Victoria, a journey that would take some two hours and twenty minutes. Frankly, I could get to Paris quicker.

So, drive to Ebbsfleet, catch one of the High Speed servies into St Pancras.

Which is what we did. After finishing coffee, we set off for north Kent, up the A2, in heavy drizzle, making the drive horrible. At least it was getting light.

We turned off just before the M25, and parked near to the station. It would cost an arm and leg, but coming back there would be a train every 20 minutes, so not too bad.

Into the station, down the steps and after buying our ticket, we had just a ten minute wait for the train to arrive.

From the station you can see the remains of old flint mines and workings that ravaged the landscape. The new high speed line cut through that to vanish to the north into the tunnel that takes trains under the Thames into Essex before turning west into London.

I take some shots, then more as a train heading to Margate pulls in, before ours arrives from behind, allowing us to climb on and find empty seats on the 12 coach train.

From there it is a 14 minute run into London, and arriving with 90 minutes before the gallery opened, time for breakfast. We chose a "French" cafe in the station, and I had croque monsieur, coffee and we shared a plate of dainty cakes, all filled with lemon or chocolate Fondou.

Yummy.

And then the final leg of the journey, a short ride on the Victoria Line to Pimlico, stopping to show our passports at the Burgundy border, we were in

! The Tate stands beside the Thames, opposite the HQ of UK's secret services, just up river from the Palaces of Westminster. But we stepped out into more drizzle, too wet for snapping it seemed.

And the signs for the Tate vanished, so we wandered around a bit, before the lay of the land made sense. And then we saw Graham.

Graham is a GOWUK frined, and he was snapping some detail beside the river, we were to meet him for the exhibition, and maybe some additional snapping afterwards.

We waved, he waved back and we met up.

Not the weather for wandering before opening time of The Tate at ten, so we go to wait in line at the gallery door, in the lea of the building, and do some chatting and catching up.

The door opened, so we swet in and walked down the scalloped stairs into the basement to the Blake Exhibition area.

Those in front of us start at the beginning with Blake's earliest drawings and etchings.

I soon give up and walk through the rooms until I had those with his colourful later works. It was mind-blowing.

I took lots of shots of these works, and the plates in his tomes too. Many paintings and plates featured several paragraphs of words too. All in all so much to take in.

Too much to take in.

Many years ago, Jools and I had our first date at The Tate for the Constable exhibition, and that had a handful of his most famous works, along with the prep-work for each.

For Blake, each room had dozens of works, many packed with images and symbolism, that would require hours of study and interpretation on each.

90 minutes later we meet back up at the exit, and leave only to be drawn into the works of JWM Turner, whose new displays first brought be to the Tate with my Father one summer day in 1987.

And they still have the power to dazzle and take your breath away. Some filled with detail and colour, others just a blur of movement and suggestion of something. Both Blake and Turner had no peers, and still don't.

We leave.

And walk to the river, at least it had stopped raining. Just. So we walk downstream towards Westminster.

On our minds was somewhere to have a drink, and the Marquis of Granby was the choice.

The pub is hidden away on a backstreet just off Milbank. We arrive two minutes after opening time. Sadly, the Old Ale had just finished, but I made do with a pint of festive ale.

We share more beers, and a bowl of nachos, before walking to Westmister, where as we have to get to Charing Cross, we bid Graham farewell, and we dive out of the crowds down onto the Circle line to Embankment.

Villiers Street is heaving, nothing compared to Charing Cross Road, but we have to go up both, until we dve down a side street to a small shop, the London Medal Centre, who I have tasked to frame my Granddad's medals and other military mementos. I wait in line, hand over his medals, we agree on what it will look like, and we can leave.

Up Charing Cross Road to Leicester Square station, down onto a waiting train, and four stops up the line we are at St Pancras, and a train due to leave in 5 minutes. We slide into the pair of seats at the very end of the train.

And sigh......

The train speeds out, accelerates into the East London tunnel, and we leave that London behind.

We get out at Ebbsfleet, wait in line to pay the £12 for parking, then wait in line on the road out to get on the A2.

It was getting gloomy, not dark, but not fully daylight. To keep awake, I put the radio on so I could listen to the football.

We drove east, and the games started, Norwich away at Everton, we needed a win.

We arrived home at ten to four, also half time. I make coffee, and whilst reviewing the pictures, the second half begins, and Norwich score!

Take the lead.

I am on tenderhooks all day, then at quarter to five: "news from Goodison where there has been another goal!".

FUCK!

But needn't have worried, as we had scored a second and moved off the bottom.

YAY! Jools birthday, a day in London and Norwich win?

Even better than that, I had arranged for us, Mike and Jane, meet at Jen's for a Chinese, which was due to be delivered at six.

Which is what happened: we all, along with Sylv and JOon sat down for a banquet, going back for seconds.

And afterwards we sat round chatting, laughing and gently ribbing John and Jen.

It was fine and harmless stuff.

And so at nine, we say goodbye to all, and come home. Another packed day.

Worn out again.

Promises, promises

Conservatives have been in power, either in coalition or on their own, since May 2010. Over nine and a half years.

The policies they are currently pushing and will do further when their manifesto is published later today, they could have enacted at any point in those nine and a half years.

But they haven't.

Even worse than that, the these new policies will just serve to change the policies they have been pushing in that time, so the line of questioning my journalists should be, you got it wrong for so long, why trust you now.

But they won't.

20,000 extra police?

To replace the 20,600 posts they scrapped. Natural wastage caused by retirement means that 9,000 a police retire each year, the 20,000 will not make an improvement at all.

Cutting hospital parking fees? Could have been done at any point, already scrapped in Scotland and Wales. Anyway, although I am against the principle of hospital parking charges, for many local authorities it is used as a revenue stream as Government cut their funding. Where will the shortfall come from, or will there have to be yet more cuts?

Friday 22nd November 2019

Friday.

At last, my old friend.

And my head says lets get back on the cross trainer, and my should says fuck that for a game of soldiers.

So I don't.

Friday is Jools' early morning yoga session, and she must leave the house by ten past six, which means that we are up, heating on and drinking coffee before six.

She leaves, and I call my friend Tony in NZ. It is amazing that I we call our contacts on Facebook, for free, and just talk like they were in the same room. OK, there is a delay and they are using our date to subvert democracy, still, the technology behind it is amazing.

After half an hour, I have to get ready for work, scan some bills for travel expenses, then get the home office gear out, make a fresh brew and get down to sorting the fresh issues of the day out.

It is a slow day, outside it is a cold and gloomy day, not fit for walking in, so I find stuff to do, plan my activities for the new year, and finish preparations for my trip to Denmark next week.

Have lunch.

Do some more work.

And thats that.

I pack up at three, watch something on TV, waiting for Jools to come home with the week's shopping, which we put away, have a coffee. And then the exciting stuff.

The exciting stuff is an actual gig.

Dover now has a venue, we've been a few times, but not for a year. And this week one of the original UK punk bands, the UK Subs were playing. A work colleague, Pete, said he wanted to come, and my orchid loving friend, Henry, was also a fan.

So plans were made for Pete to come over from Thanet, and Henry to come over from Sussex, meet in Cullins Yard for a pre-gig drinks and a meal. And banter.

Cullins Yard is a bar-cum-restaurant down by the marina, has a nautical flavour, but does a good line in beers and food. We arrive an hour early, so decide to have an early dinner instead of waiting for the others.

Fish and chips was good, as were the pints of Broadside I had, though the chips did lay heavy.

Pete arrived with his "colleague", Lizzie, and so did Henry. We moved to a big table and wJools and I had another drink, the others had food, and we talked about all sorts of things; music, orchids, work.

Meanwhile a jazz trio was setting up.

We hoped this would be a trad jazz band, rather than the noodling kind. But our fears were realsied when they started, Jazz noodling to the extreme.

Not nice.

We leave and walk along Townwall Street to the old Harbour Station, show our tickets as the support band takes the stage. A local band that does a set of punk standards. And a George Michael cover.

Seriously.

They were OK, and set the mood well.

The UK Subs have been going for over 40 years, and are lead by Charlie Harper still, who is 75 years old: the same age as my Mum was. But Charlie is not giving up now.

He is not as movable as he used to be, then who is. But he is punk as it gets, climbs on stage, abuses us in a lovable way, then the music starts, and he barks along.

And this continues for an hour.

A group of drunken men, roughly my age, threw themselves around the area in front of the stage, shouting along to the shouty songs. Tey were happy has pigs in shit.

I knew two songs they played, didn't matter, as most songs sounded the same anyway, and the drunken bums in front, slamming into each other, loved it.

The end came just after ten.

We were all hot and sweaty, and our ears were ringing.

Pete offered to drive me home. So we walked back to the promenade where his 400 hp Audi was parked, and it growled its way up Jubilee Way to St Maggies. The exhaust was so loud, it nearly drowned out the Ramones in concert album were trying to listen to with our ringing ears.

And that was that, nearly eleven and time for bed.

What does a PM have to do

For the BBC to actually call his falsehoods lies?

The Conservatives are currently upgrading six hospitals, but this equates to building 40 new hospitals.

One is fact and the other fantasy, and its repeated use, a lie.

And yet the BBC says its not its job to call lies, lies.

Then whose job is it?

The media and press is are the guardians of democracy, ignoring the Government trampling all over it, is dereliction of their duty.

But for now, that is all.

Thursday 21st November 2019

It looks like winter. It feels like winter.

Once cloud rolls over, mornings take until nearly lunchtime to reach full daylight, then fade soon after two towards dusk before five.

Welcome to November.

I hear Jools in the kitchen, knowing that soon there will be a big cup of coffee waiting. My shoulder is no better, some kind of muscle strain I have decided, but once up the pain fades.

There is no sign of the moon, now nearly new, instead the sky is dark and featureless, and once dawn comes, shows it to be totally covered in featureless cloud. The birds are out and about early, so I go out to top up the feeders, scatter seeds on the ground, and go back in to watch.

Jools leaves for work, so I have another coffee, some toast for breakfast and look online for the news. No good news, Brexit still happening, Tories streets ahead in the polls, and Trump still president.

There is always work to distract.

At the moment, work is light, I answer mails that have come in, and begin to plan audits for early next year. I am an auditor; I audit, therefore I am.

Outside, a sea mist rolls in, hiding the village and the dip behind the house. It looks really cold, so I turn the heating up another notch and make a fresh brew.

The day goes on, so at three I decide I should do some gardening. Yes, you heard that right. Just some tidying. So, I put on an old coat, my old boots and pull up the Mexican sunflowers that had died and gone to seed, then tidy up the Virginia Creeper that grows beside the shed and over into the raspberries. Finally taking out the dead annual climbers from the bottom bed, but the cup and saucer plats in the top one are going strong and still flowering.

I pack all the dead and dying vegetation in a bag, put the hostas in the shed to protect them from the frosts. Finally put the tools away and close the shed. All done for another year.

It was half three and seemed to be getting dark, though the mist had cleared.

Dinner is simple enough, caprese and garlic bread. All done for when Jools comes home, which she does at quarter to six, and another day is nearly over.

We listen to music, talk a bit about finances and what to do next year, we have plans, exciting plans of things to do, maybe. And one day I will say what they are, we shall see. Trying not to count chickens and all that.

And that is that. Day is done.

Expert Brexit

Its funny, you know, that during the campaign, Michael Gove said, and I am not making this up, in response to the point a journalist was making that expert opinion was that any Brexit would be a disaster, that "people have had enough of experts".

That's why I get the paper boy to do my dentistry work, had enough of expert dentists, charging me money to look after me teeth.

And like a fundamental Christian, railing against science 99% of the time, only to shot from the battlements when science says 1% might have some basis in facts, then Brexiteers are only to happy to use "experts" to denounce opposition policies, whilst not letting those same experts say anything about theirs.

Because, apparently, upgrading 6 hospitals is now the same as building 40 new ones. The Tories are not building 40 new hospitals, nor are there plans for 40 new hospitals. ^ are being upgraded, and 36 might also be, and yet, Gove refuses to accept this "evidence" and calls it polemic questioning when it is pointed out that 6 does not equal 40.

Chief target of the Labour manifesto was tax rises. A guy earning £80,000 a year was on Question time last night complaining about having to pay a tenner extra a week in tax, saying he is earning less than the national average wage. Eighty grand puts him in the top 5%, the average UK wage is £28,677. The top earner refusing to help out the lower 50% is sickening, but what we have come to respect. But the rich helping the poor, the strong helping the rich is literally the basis of Christian teaching, and even then, is the right thing to do.

I have always willingly paid my taxes, not that I ever had any choice, but I thought that I got where I am today with support from tax-payers, supporting my education, my time in the Air Force, so why not pay back some of that? Even if I had not had that support, I would still willingly pay. I used to write on an American Blog site, and they used to nickname me "Jelltax" for my views on tax, mocking me for wanting to pay tax.

I mean, what the actual fuck.

I have friends who are currently going through the third or fourth process of assessing their disability in a decade. They already have had their mobility allowance taken away, so no car or free bus transport for them, and what car they might now afford will have a negative impact on their disabilities. This is happening all over the country, and has been since the Tories came to power in 2010, because the financial crisis of 2007 was caused by people like Gary and Julie being able to have a quality of life.

Disabled people, the sick, the elderly, single mothers are being targeted by the monied ministerial classes to save a few quid in the name of austerity supposedly to reduce the national debt, when in that time they have managed to double it. So it was all a waste of time, but that was the point, to punish those classes of people, to provide tax cuts for the wealthy.

And now Brexit.

Brexit will reduce further tax income, and mean far harsher spending cuts or huge tax rises, and who will have to suffer the consequences? It won't be the rich,, let me tell you. But lets get Brexit done, so we can kill of those we have so far failed to do so......

What happens after Brexit?

It emerged today, that for every £1 that Labour gets in donations, the Tories get £25. The Conservatives are some 15% ahead in the polls.

Were Johnson not to win, it would be astounding.

But it hasn't stopped he or his ministers lying. Pritti Patel said today, that the Government could not be held responsible for poverty in the country.

Tories have imposed austerity on the country, re-distributed wealth to the top 5%, but that has nothing to do with stuff like food bank use, which is a lifestyle choice.

Johnson can claim a cut in NI contributions will lead to everyone being £500 a month better off, when it would be just £80. The remainder is "an aspiration policy". That the Party had to post a clarification less than 12 hours after Johnson spoke says a lot.

All this is a build up to the fact it is hard to see how Johnson cannot lose the election. If he has a working majority, then the WAB will be passed and so from the 31st January 2020, the UK will no longer me a member of the EU. It will have a few months to negotiate a trade deal to encompass everything else that is not included in the WA.

If no application for an extension is made by the Government by the end of July, then a full exit from the WA is inevitable. But, and a big but, business, the border agency, the EU, and the Customs agency would not be ready.

Given the choice of honouring the political promise of leaving no matter what, and the impending collapse of exports and cross border supply chains, some kind of extension seems inevitable.

As said previously, most trade deals have businesses calling for exceptions to protect native industries. Brexit will be different as businesses will lobby for close alignment with the EU.

And if the need is indeed for speed, then speed will only come about by compromise, and compromise will be via alignment. It comes back to our old friend the sliding scale: you can have lots of trade but little control, of lots of control but little trade. Just choose. You can't have both.

Maybe the reality of the situation will bring honesty int the Brexit debate.

I heard it said today that the UK will never rejoin the EU once things settle down. I think the opposite is true, that there will be a push, sooner or later to rejoin. People want to be able to live, work, study in 27 countries, and they desire of the young will overtake the desires of gammons and swivel eyed loons to live in the 1950s.

For too long, the failures of domestic political policy has been blamed on the EU, when they can't blame the EU, then blame will be on them, no matter how much they kid themselves.

And that includes you, my pretty Pritti.

If not for Brexit

Brexit has thrust some very ordinary people into the spotlight, because of the small or larger part they have played in the Brexit story.

I follow several people on Twitter, whose views and expertise have given hope when all seemed to have gone. And helped give me the understanding of the issues Brexit has raised and call out bullshit when I hear it.

David Allen Green (@davidallengreen) is a constitutional law commentator, whose matter of fact views of the issues and hurdles that needed to be overcome, delivered when he does radio or podcasts, in a thick Brummie accent. He has seldom been wrong. Except when he said no Government would be stupid enough to trigger A50 with no plan.

Ian Dunt (@iandunt) is the sweary editor of the politics.co.uk website and "star" of the Remaniacs podcast. He has provided people with live Twittering of debates in the Commons and Lords, so we don't have to. Then writes it up for his website.

Jo Maugham (@JolyonMaugham) is a barrister, who ruse the Good Law Project, crowd funded and whose challenges have helped make sure the Conservate Governments of May and Johnson obey the rule of law, and respect, under duress, Parliament.

Chris Grey (@chrisgreybrexit) is a blogger, who once or twice a week does the round up on the events in Brexit, in a far better way than I ever could. That he is a hobbyist like myself and is so respected speaks volumes.

James O'Brian (@mrjamesob) is a presenter of a show on LBC and who challenges the day's Brexit tropes and lies. A voice of reason in a sea of chaos.

There are others, but these are my go to guys.

When it comes to Brexit heroes, now will be bigger than Gina Millar, who took on May and the establishment to ensure that Parliament got its says on sending the A50 notification. She endured so much hate. A woman, a woman of colour and clever. Gets right up the Gammon's nose.

More heroes are Lead by Donkeys (@ByDonkeys), who started out as a drunken idea to post Brexiteers and other liars tweets on billboards, to make sure they have to explain what they said in the past.

Wednesday 20th 2019

Hump day.

I wake up with my painful shoulder. Not quite as bad as the day before, but still painful.

Meaning no phys again.

Oh well.

Means I can drink coffee, have breakfast, watch Only Connect and be ready for work before eight. Or just after, I mean, no need to rush these things.....

Already you can see my days falling into a routine, doing the same things day after day, which most people do, but for me, an international playboy and quality expert each day usually brings new and, er, interesting challenges, normality is in itself a new challenge.

Regular brews helps. Of course.

And it is another fine day, though breezy. I really should go out and do some gardening. Oh, wait a minute, I'm supposed to be working.

Oh yeah.

Work is much the same, mails, calls, more mails, brew, lunch, feed the cats, brew.

I get a mail regarding Mum's estate, and I'm on the phone to the company an hour, then have to find loads of related documents, put them in an envelope and take them to the post office to make sure they have the right postage on.

So, on with the boots and coat, just my small camera this time, and along the road and down Station Road, past the new house and up the other side. Shadows were lengthening, but the light crystal clear.

I pay for the postage and it will go that evening. Over the road where I treat myself to a small chocolate bar, sit on the bench outside and watch the world go by. Or try to go by thanks to the inconsiderate parking.

Everyone needs a hobby.

Having eaten that I walk back down the hill and up the other side, arriving home as the sun set, and time for Mulder to tell me it was long past his dinner time. Though it wasn't.

I feed him to get some peace, then begin dinner preparation, as it's aubergine night. Though in order to ensure we don't eat too much, it's just aubergine, no pasta. No bread. No wafer thin mints.

Soon I have a plateful of egg, breadcrumbed and pan-fried aubergine to share with Jools, she arrives home on time, so she has a cuppa and I have a pint of Romney Porter.

Because, beer.

What to do...

Like you, I am fed up with Brexit. No really, I hate it with a passion, hate it that my mind knows all this Brexit-related stuff, and wish I could just stop writing about it.

And yet I've come so far.

Three and a half years, starting out with a blog a week or two, and now several times a day.

There are a couple of stopping points coming up: one after December 12th when the result of the election is known. Or 31st January 2020 when the next Brexit day is supposed to happen.

I think it would be worthwhile to see how Brexit pans out to be honest, to see how the country changes, gets poorer, and the majority come to realise that they wished Johnson had not go Brext done at all.

And again, when confronted with the reality of trying to negotiate a trade deal with the EU in six months, which won't happen, would Johnson really take the economy over the cliff at the end of the WA period anyway? He said he will, but then he said that about the 31st October date. A no deal Brexit, whenever it happens would cripple the economy, business and exports, and until the ways through it were found, which could take months or longer, confronted with a choice of that or breaking another political promise, I think Johnson would extend.

And extend.

Farage has put his faith in Johnson's promises. More fool him, Johnson hasn't kept a promise his whole life, and is looking at the election as not to deliver Brexit but to keep him in power for five years.

I wouldn't trust Johnson to tell the time to be honest, let alone trust him enough to stand down 317 potential MPs. It seems Farage doesn't really want Brexit that much either, just likes to sound he does. I don't think I have heard him come up with any constructive plans for Brexit, other than getting it done, to use Johnson's words. And his "part" still hasn't released its manifesto from the EU elections in May, let alone for this election.

This is one of the oddest elections I can remember, in that most politicians are hiding from the public. When Johnson does meet someone from the public, they lambaste him for not doing something, or having done something, and he cannot debate his way out of a plastic bag, odd for someone from Eton, but luckily for him he only has Corbyn to debate against, and they are both as bad as each other, and both refust to debae Jo Swinson or Nicola Sturgeon.

Cowards both.

So the election will be run on soundbites, lies and trying to outdo each other on who would spend more, tax less, without any reference to reality, and meanwhile both wanting to deliver Brexit that will wreck the economy.

What a time to be alive.

Tuesday 19th November 2019

Tuesday, and I'm not on a course, jetlagged or on holiday.

There's lovely.

I wake up to find I can barely move my arm, its as though someone has put an axe through my left shoulder. I can't turn my neck much, either. This getting old business isn't much fun, is it?

I go downstairs, like the little trooper i am, and find a coffee waiting for me.

Thanks Jools.

She offers me a massage, a hot bag, cold bag, bag of spanners, for my shoulder. I turn them all down. Maybe it'll sort itself out I say, hopefully.

She goes to work leaving me to think, not too hard about some exercise, and decide its not too clever to do that. So, I make a second coffee, have breakfast and mess around on the computer.

As per normal.

Eight comes and I put some trousers on, get the work station out and log on. The sky had not fallen in overnight, which is good.

Right?

So, the day settles down and I begin to plan next year's calendar. Yes, I kid you not, I am making yer actual plans. Seems I will be going to Cumbria. Twice. Aberdeen again. Hull.

So, all the nation's hot spots!

And so the day pans out in the way. Outside the sun shines from a clear blue sky. So, at dinner time, I go for a walk.

Not far, just over the fields to Fleet House and the pig's copse. Its been at least six weeks since I did that, maybe a week or two longer. Autumn is pretty much over, all is looking faded and windblown. And that's just the sheep!

Heavy rain means the ground is turning to mud, ad walking was more like slipping.

There were no pigs, of course, and the view over the fields to Kingsdown was as usual. I snap it, but don't go down to the dip as it would be so muddy.

I turn for home, walking past the two new houses in the quarry, neither still not completed, but I thought one had people living in it? Maybe it sprung a leak?

I walk home to the house, still warm because the heating is on. Hot.

I make a brew, watch Only Connect with my work computer on my lap as I catch up on mails. Sipping my brew and getting all the answers wrong.

Dinner is to be pasta, so I make a tomato sauce, add meat, onions, courgette, aubergine, mix and cook for a few hours. It is glorious.

We feast on that poured over spirally pasta, served with garlic bread and lots of vin rouge.

Lovely.

The day is all but done, outside it is cold and dark, and the crescent moon rises, casting pale shadows in the back garden.

We go to bed.