Ed Lines – August 2, 2019

Ed Lines – August 2, 2019

HE HASN’T quite promised an annual six weeks of guaranteed sunny summer weather once we’re out from under the Brussels yoke, but bouncing Boris hasn’t stopped far short.

A multi-billion-pound, super-duper, high-speed trans-Pennine rail link came steaming out of Boris’s bottomless bag of freebies on his visit oop t’north last week. 

Grateful thanks and all that Prime Minister, but if you could just get existing trains to run on time, with a seat for everyone who’s bought a ticket, we’d be reet chuffed.

The Welsh farmers have all been ‘no deal’ Brexit charmed, with BoJo promising them brand-new Hunter wellies to stick their sheep’s back legs down (or suchlike, whatever blows up their over-inflated Taffy balloons). 

Over in Northern Ireland he was understandably more circumspect, preaching peace, love and hope, because that lot are volatile even in their sleep. 

Ulster isn’t quite back to the bad old days of sectarian strife, but having fought and fulminated for their own self-governing assembly for so long, it now hasn’t sat for 30 months. 

The 90 elected politicians can’t even agree what to disagree over, so they sit sulkily hissing at one another, all the while picking up £36,000 of their £48,000 salaries. (Tip to Boris: I think we all know how best to get them back at work!)

But the meeting I really wish I’d been a fly on the wall for, was Boris’s showdown with Scotland’s poison dwarf, wee Nicola Krankie. I’d like to think that having politely shaken hands, once the office door closed behind them he just sat and grinned a beaming grin at her, saying absolutely nowt, for the entire meeting. Man, that would have steamed her haggis and not half.

Which brings us to today (as I write and the rain pours outside), Thursday, August 1st – Yorkshire Day. What a change a week can make. 

This time last Thursday the weather wor fair grand tha nos (to continue with the Tyke colloquial). 

Ah dug up t’wife’s cabbage patch and worked up such a lather that ah’d ter tek me donkey jacket off. Sun wor cracking t’flags. Bliss.

Well, if we can’t dabble in a bit of Dewsbury dialect on Yorkshire Day, when can we?

It puzzles me still that wee Krankie and her embittered Scot Nationalists want to wrest themselves free of Westminster’s benevolent influence, but are happy to be tethered by a political, judicial and economic leash to Brussels, Berlin and Paris – not that the EU would have them.

Without English tax pounds the Scots are pink lint – skint. The EU has enough basket-case economies to somehow sustain without the UK’s billions, so why would they imaginably take on a few million more sour-faced alcoholics? (And before you report that as a hate crime, Jock McNasty, at least I didn’t call you all methadone addicts, which was a charitable act of Yorkshire Day kindness on my part).

But as we all know – and Krankie and friends won’t admit – Scottish independence has always been more about hating Sassenachs than anything else. 

They’re like Jeremy Corbyn in that if they got their way, and inevitably wound up wallowing in financial penury, it would still be our fault.

And so, a Yorkshire Day question: God’s Own Acres house more people than Wales and Northern Ireland combined; our economic GDP is almost half as big again as theirs together. We’re on a par with Scotland.

And much as our dialect can somewhat puzzle outsiders, the Yorkshire Day Declaration of Integrity will be read at York’s four Bars (Micklegate, Monk, Walmgate and Micklegate) at midday in the four languages Tykes have spoken this past 2,000 years – Latin, Old English, Old Norse and modern English. 

Culture and identity? We have it in spades. Bucketfuls of it. Sporting talent too. 

So thanks for offering to buy us some new chuff-chuffs Boris, but here’s a better idea. Give us our own assembly, so that Yorkshire’s future can be forged by men and women of vision and talent, and not left to ladder-climbing, parochial numpties like most of the nutmegs on Kirklees Council.

I’VE lived through some heatwaves in my time, but the people affording that label to last Thursday’s one-day wonder need a serious talking to. 

It was a tad warm admittedly and The Press munchkins were sent home early once their work was done. 

The radio airwaves meanwhile were infested with trade union jobsworths and health & safety doomsayers demanding a law to have temperatures over 90F (in old money) designated unworkable in. 

Why a law? Why not apply common sense, as we would if a foot of snow fell? Not many streets get swept or houses built in those conditions.

Still, the weather-frenzy passed as quickly as the one-day heatwave, with a typical July washout weekend that still shows little sign of picking up. I wonder – do you think the ancient pagans and druids could have been onto something when they offered human sacrifices, by way of trying to woo the weather and yield a good harvest? 

If so I’ve got a really long list of ideally suited, public-spirited candidates who continually preach that they’re only doing “what’s best” for we people who shouldn’t be trusted with the vote. 

I mean, to all intents and purposes people like Anna Soubry and Vince Cable have outlived their usefulness anyway, haven’t they? Go on, be good chaps … lead by example!

No? I thought not. 

So how exactly will our depressing British weather for 2019 be remembered? As the year when summer fell on a Thursday.

YOU may recall some weeks back I wondered aloud who would win the ultimate battle of the privileged minorities – the perennially outraged LGBTQ lobby, or the Muslim mullahs. 

The battleground was a school in Birmingham where the liberally ‘enlightened’ head Hazel Pulley was insisting on educating primary-aged kidlings that men have every right to have babies too (or some such idiotic tosh). 

Equally outraged Muslim parents gathering at the gates of Parkfield School in protest predictably objected. Well, the result is in folks … and Allah has it! There was never any contest really, as the British establishment determinedly retreats every time a mildly-offended Muslim hand is pushed in its chest. 

The Department for Education has silenced Ms Pulley and made her drop the lessons, while trying to appease other fuming lobbies saying they are “working hard to resolve the issue”. No they’re not. They just want it to go away.

I happen to see the bright side in all this because at least now the kidlings won’t be taught that men can have babies, whatever their imagined rights. 

But I do suspect it would have been a rather different outcome had they been Christian parents protesting at the school gates – they’d probably be facing hate crime charges by now.

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