IT’S the start of a new decade and I can’t put my hand on heart and profess unbounded confidence that it’s going to be a plain-sailing, peace-and-goodwill to all mankind sort of decade.
If I was doing a Gypsy Petulengro turn on Blackpool promenade, I’d be tempted to hide my head in a potato sack and make any predictions through scrunched-shut eyes and a fearful grimace.
As some folk might say, “owt could ‘appen” – especially with that lunatic Trump still throwing intercontinental tantrums round the White House.
Closer to home we face interesting times of our own, and the gypsy in me doesn’t mind casting off the tatie bag and proclaiming, loud, proud and clear: “Three cheers for Brexit! We’re going to get along famously with our EU cousins and the UK economy is going to thrive!”
If nothing else, that should have the loony left and their Snowflake cousins melting faster than an Arctic ice floe – and yes, I know that’s not funny. Climate change is a real worry, but no one from the highly-strung Swedish child to masses of climate experts appear willing to confront the real problems.
Still, the way President Trumpton is starting his (hopefully) final year in office, the root cause – a soaring global population – could be solved by a couple of hastily-pushed nuclear buttons.
As I write on (1pm Tuesday Jan 7) the planet’s population has grown by almost 1.5 million people in six-and-a-bit days. For every death, there have been almost 2.5 births, so please Swedish child or Saint Attenborough, explain how we feed, clothe, house, educate, employ and care for the old ages of people on that scale via a few more wind turbines and solar panels.
No ideas? Easier just to blame plastic packaging and people booking a cheap flight to Tenerife? You must be right, because greenhouse gases are entirely the fault of indulgent western nations, aren’t they?
A BBC news reflection on the past decade perfectly exposed its prejudices during Radio Two’s Jeremy Vine show.
There was young royal love and babies plus the London Olympics, the death of Margaret Thatcher (they couldn’t resist mentioning celebrations of Mrs T’s passing), Jeremy Vine appearing on Strictly (really), Nick Clegg’s bare-faced lies over tuition fees (his fee for becoming Deputy PM), various bits and bobs plus Brexit, Greta Thunberg and our recent political turbulence.
The 2010s in a nutshell, then? I’d say not.
No mention of Drummer Lee Rigby having his head half hacked off on a London street; not a whisper of the Manchester Arena bombing or London and Westminster Bridge attacks; those hundreds of Muslim men who groomed, abused and raped a generation of English children? It either never happened, or was so irrelevant as to not merit reference.
Neither was Jo Cox’s horrific murder mentioned, but if none of those terrors bear comparison with a C-list celebrity dancing like a bloke with two left feet, or the chance for the BBC to put the boot into an ex-Prime Minister it clearly despises, one obvious 2010s lesson remains – it was the decade our state broadcaster became unfit for purpose.
ON TUESDAY a group of old pals will gather at Cleckheaton Golf Club, to play a round in memory of Gary Birkenshaw.
It will be 20 years to the day since the popular local businessman collapsed and died, aged just 40, out on the course. If a measure of a man is how fondly they’re remembered, then Birky was some bloke. But it also reminds us how fragile this life can be. I hope you all have a great 2020 – and give it all you’ve got, while you’ve still got it.
CONFIRMATION – if it were needed – that there is one unsurmountable social stigma you can still be born with in our supposedly liberally enlightened disUnited Kingdom. A white male.
There is one get-out. You could be born white with a willy to hip, right-on parents who decide to name you Elderberry and let you choose a gender once you start school, but there aren’t many of those couples down Belle Isle or Beeston.
I would suggest your life might already be blighted by then, but if you’re the male progeny of a council estate Karen Matthews (six kids by seven dads) you’re goosed from the off.
Disadvantaged white boys lag massively behind all other socio-ethnic groups academically. Fact. But not disadvantaged enough to stop Dulwich and Winchester Colleges turning their noses up at a £1m grant from alumnus Prof Sir Bryan Thwaites (who made good thanks to such scholarships) to give other children like him a deserving leg up.
A grant for black boys, Asian boys, youngsters of all weird and wonderful gender inventions? Fine, bring it on! But a ‘white’ child whose dysfunctional, single-parent, benefit-crafted plight is ironically a consequence of 40 years of the UK’s ‘liberalised’ left-wing establishment and its socially idiotic brainwashing? Never!
The Dulwich/Winchester cowards hid behind ‘discrimination’ policies to decline the money. The only discrimination here is the only acceptable discrimination going – the despised white male.
PANSEXUAL. Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time.
Liberal Democrat MP Layla Moran being so starved of attention from members of any/all sexes that she felt the need to not only start humping the handle of her Le Creuset cast-iron 23cm skillet, but to tell the world about it.
One glance at a mush that looks like it’s just taken a swipe from said skillet tells its own loveless tale, but still, I must say it’s enough to put you off your full English.
What next – Pantiesexual, for the sad bloke resorting to going through the wife’s knicker drawer when she’s gone to bingo? PeterPansexual for a confused.com who dresses like a mute pixie and spends days on end at the Christmas panto?
(Editor’s note – you appear to have gotten hold of the wrong end of the – ahem – stick, Ed, it’s not that kind of pan).
Oops, silly me! Apparently ‘pansexual’ just means that Layla Moran ‘loves’ (which is one word for it) anyone she takes a fancy to, regardless of what tackle they were born with, have had grafted on/cut off, or more importantly in these 2020s, how they ‘designate’ their gender at any particular hour of the day.
I seem to remember the Vicar of Dibley character Owen (the marvellous Roger Lloyd-Pack) was similarly inclined, especially when out in the fields tending his flock.
And I wonder, have the local judiciary been presented with that as a ‘defence’ yet …. “Buttercup is one of God’s own creatures m’lud, and my client was merely expressing his/her/its (delete as applicable) perfectly normal pansexual affection for a fellow (fellowess?) inhabitant of our threatened planet before it’s too late … and after all he did write a letter to Greta Thunberg asking for permission.”
But ‘pansexual’? Really? Isn’t that just bi-sexual – or, as some might prefer to describe it, greedy? My totally unscientific assessment of this? She/it’s just a randy old goat who reckons going public about their unbounded sexual appetite will save time ‘swiping right’ or whatever they do these days for some legover and chips.
What it is for sure is another pathetic attention-seeker who deserves all the mickey-taking they get. I don’t care what any he/she/it/they does behind closed doors. Just stop trying to shove it down my throat … so to speak.