TUESDAY, February 6th, 2018. A big anniversary for a lot of people, not least the millions of women celebrating the centenary of winning the democratic franchise.
Not all women were given the vote – only some, and those over the age of 30, but it was the point that marked the turning of the Suffragettes’ tide.
The UK was by no means ground-breaking in its emancipation. New Zealand (1893) and Australia (1902) were global pioneers in giving women the vote, with the Scandinavian states following, plus Canada in 1917, before the stuffed shirts of Westminster finally succumbed to the inevitable, the same year as Germany, Austria, Poland and the newly Sovietised Russia.
Much to celebrate then, and I’d gladly raise a glass to Emmeline Pankhurst and her brave compatriots, every bit as courageous in their battles as the millions of British menfolk who had shown such selflessness and sacrifice for the previous four years in Flanders’ fields.
You could make a fair argument that those men died so that future generations of women had British politicians to vote for. And say the same even moreso, when they were called again in 1939.
The sad fact is that to the strident haters of 2018 those men symbolise a Britain that is roundly despised by so many of the very people it empowered.
I suppose they’d have been far happier if we were all speaking German and had a Swastika flying over the Palace of Westminster. Not a lot’s changed for them in 100 years, except it would be German with a blue flag and gold stars.
But that glass I’d raise to Mrs Pankhurst and her colleagues, I’d gladly tip over the heads of some of the harridans for whom ‘equality’ is just a perverted code for power-mongering.
Leigh Day is a bloated firm of Manchester lawyers, fat on the milk of legal aid and the ‘where there’s blame there’s a claim’ culture that just coincidentally is crippling the NHS.
It goes without saying that they worship the European Court of Human Rights.
Leigh Day are suing Tesco for an estimated £4 billion on behalf of women shelf stackers, arguing they are being trodden down by the male jackboot (my words not theirs), because blokes working in the warehousing and distribution side of the business earn more.
I’m not getting bogged down by the detail. Suffice to say Leigh Day are essentially saying they both work in getting product to customer, ergo an hour worked in either pay should be the same.
A couple of questions occur – why no mention of the male shelf fillers who presumably earn the same as the women?
And if that warehousing job is so much more lucrative, why don’t the women just apply for it? Because that’s where equality should exist – in opportunity, not simple reward. Do Tesco really advertise ‘Warehouse Staff Wanted – Weakling Women Need Not Apply’? You know they don’t.
The fact is it’s probably much harder, more physical work, in a far less cosy environment. So, a different job then. With different pay.
Lord help UK industry if these Leigh Day parasites win because it would ruin businesses – although having said that, one answer would be for companies not to raise the shelf-fillers’ wages, but lower the warehousing pay. Not thought of that, eh?
And if the bloke who unblocks the executive lavvies at Leigh Day’s offices feels like suing because his hour should be worth as much as any of the company’s 27 female legal partners, I’ll tip up a few quid to fight his corner.
After all, he’s up to his elbows in the brown and dirty.
They just talk **it.
STILL with Tuesday February 6th and at least one half of the city of Manchester was in sombre mood, marking the 60th anniversary of the Munich air disaster in which 23 people perished.
Down in deepest Camberley, Surrey, news of the Manchester United tragedy was muted by the arrival of baby Glynis, third child of Mary and Glyn Jeffery.
As such it was a ‘big’ birthday in the Locky household this week, though Mrs L neither looks it, feels it and quite frankly is horrified mostly by the sound of it. I mean, 60, that’s old, isn’t it?
At least it used to be. I’m of the “60 is the new 40” school of self-denial. The kids still refer to her as being 38.
My wife is one of the most impressive people I’ve met, and not just because she’s got the ‘grown-up’ job in the family, not me.
UK and Europe sales and marketing director of an international company, responsible for generating tens of millions of dollars a year – a job she held down throughout a brutal battle with breast cancer and all the surgery, chemo and radiotherapy that entails.
How she handled that shouldn’t be a surprise. When our son was five months old she had to return to work in London. As a family we hadn’t a choice. A taxi would pick her up at 5.30am every Monday and she cried all the way to Wakefield station, knowing she wouldn’t see her new baby until 9pm on Friday.
I wished I could have done that for her, like I wished I could have taken the pain she endured during a traumatic 24-hour labour before our son was delivered by emergency section.
But I couldn’t, because for all the banshee feminist wailing, me and the missus were made different. Equal (I like to kid myself when pleading to wear the trousers in the house once or twice a year), but definitely different.
Maybe I should give Leigh Day a ring and see if there’s someone I can sue over it.
WHAT to fume about next? James Matthews, the former soldier who went to fight against Islamic State and was charged with terrorism offences when he came home to attend a fallen comrade’s funeral?
It isn’t just the perverse interpretation of the state’s definition of ‘terrorism’ with which to shout its “all equal under one law” credentials. We know Islamic State murderers are limping quietly back amongst us, but there is silence regarding their arrests and detentions. Why? Because I suspect there are none. Our politicised, agenda-driven police and CPS are a menace to freedom and democracy.
Anna Soubry perhaps, the self-aggrandising Tory MP who threatened to quit the party if Brexiteers take the leadership? Bye love, we’re really (not) missing you already.
Or still on Brexit, the pumped-up US multi-billionaire George Soros, the man who famously broke the Bank of England during the Black Wednesday crash of 1992?
Soros is a real friend of ours, eh? And now he’s back, bankrolling a huge plot to undermine Brexit, bring down the government and force a second referendum.
You see, leaving the EU is a bad move according to George Soros – but bad for whom? Because I really can’t see him acting in anyone’s interests but his own financial ones.
The Home Office should ban Soros from entering the country because the only thing this sedition could possibly lead to is civil strife.
But no, what exercised me most this week came on the back of Jeremy Corbyn’s masked acolytes causing mayhem at a university speech given by the magnificent Jacob Rees-Mogg.
I was delighted that main agitator Joshua Connor’s girlfriend got an accidental belt in the mush for her troubles – now that’s what I call equality – and indeed that our man Rees-Mogg rode the swell of discontent like Nelson on waves of glory.
But what emerged from it was Corbyn’s lieutenant John McDonnell – kind of Labour’s Goebbels, Himmler and Heydrich all in one – declaring there should be no platform where Conservatives are free to speak unmolested.
That’s the future, is it? Not just the undoubted economic abyss these idiots would plunge us into, but a police state where pointing out the errors of their ways is verboten.