I MIGHT just be having a bad week, but right now it would not take much to win my support for a revolution in this land.
I’d happily barricade the House of Lords and set fire to the place just for starters, the mood I’m in.
I used to innocently think that National Insurance – that cute little income tax flimsily dressed up as something else – was supposed to pay for our pensions and the NHS.
I’m not sure where I got the idea, but given that workers pay 12% of their earnings as NI on top of the 20% basic rate tax, and employers pay another 13.8% plus the new mandatory 2% pension contribution, it’s a decent lump of cash.
That’s a figure of 47.8% of an individual’s taxable earnings finding its way to the exchequer, from their or their boss’s pockets.
Throw in 20% VAT, stamp duty, inheritance tax and being raped and pillaged for everything to do with your motor, plus the fact that the UK has more people in employment than ever, and it does make you wonder where the cash all goes.
Oh – and for anyone lucky enough to struggle over the pension line (except policemen, firemen and the like who swan off with gold-plated pensions at 52) our old age keeps getting pushed further and further back.
I do sometimes wonder why I bother, I really do – and don’t talk to me about the Tories being the party for business.
Still, there’s never a kick in the goolies quite hard enough for the hard-working, long-suffering, middle-aged Englishman that another eye-watering boot in the bolleaux isn’t overdue.
As the smouldering Lords cried desperately for help – I’d happily give them the number for the Brussels fire brigade, seeing as they’re so keen on the EU – my next stop, matches and firelighters in hand, would be to track down the do-gooders at The Resolution Foundation.
They are the people who announced this week that we should give £10,000 to every 25-year-old in the land. Not even means tested mind, just a £10k hand-out to them all.
The soft-headed idea is that it would help for house deposits or pay off students debts. Yeah, right. I doubt you’d be able to walk the streets of Ibiza or Magaluf of a night without stepping in another puddle of British millennial vomit.
And you know what, with the money p****d up against the wall of a Spanish nightclub, it would be all our fault anyway, for some simperingly pathetic reason or other. It always is.
So, would these Resolution Foundation idiots raid Jeremy Corbyn’s money tree to fund their moronic stunt? Oh no.
They’d pay for this mega-handout by hitting OAPs who have to keep working into their 70s with extra taxes, while robbing those of us who have scratted, saved, grafted and finally bought our own home, by slashing inheritance tax.
How dare they?!
LISTEN, it is no surprise that the first thing Comrade Corbyn would do if he got into No.10 would be to lower the voting age to 16.
That would be his version of Blair/Brown open the floodgates of immigration, thus ensuring a huge new natural pool of Labour voters.
And I half agree with the old duffer – we should change the voting age. I reckon 40 would be good, but wouldn’t mind 35 at a push.
I know it’s unfair to generalise about the young, but really – have you met any late teens or early 20s ‘children’ lately? Spoken to them?
Because believe me, most of them are – children, still. Bless ‘em, because it’s all my generation’s doing. Hard working, yes, good kids, yes too – but about as fragile as thin crystal.
They’ll get there eventually, I’m sure. But crikey, does the sense of entitlement and rush to blame any and everyone for any and everything pulse through too many pampered young veins.
It’s probably a good job I didn’t catch the name of the woman I heard on the radio this week arguing that young people’s votes should count for more – yes really – than we old duffers, because they’ve got longer to live, and a great stake in what’s already an unfair society.
If I’d been able to discover who she is and where she lived, this really might be an empty page you’d be looking at. I would quite possibly be in a straitjacket by now.
What this millennial, snowflake generation, quite obviously doesn’t get, is that life is not fair.
It’s okay that you sweethearts think hapless Jeremy Corbyn is the Second Coming of Christ, encouraged by the talentless, jealous crones of the far left.
You’ll mostly grow out of it. You’ll mostly learn eventually how deep you have to dig to get on in this bloody difficult life.
A lot later than we did, perhaps, but with a bit of luck you’ll gather enough life experience to recognise that it takes blood, sweat and tears to earn your own ‘luck’.
And you’ll watch the centenary commemorations later this year of an entire generation of men and women who sacrificed their everything – for you – but most of you won’t ‘get it’.
We don’t expect you to really comprehend how desperate millions of us were to save your generation from itself, and from slavery to the corrupt and venal European Union.
We don’t expect your thanks. But we won’t stand for your temper tantrums, your protruding bottom lips and your cries of “it’s not fair” either.
My, how I wish a new political force could rise to represent not the right or left of politics, but the common sense and values of the hard working British man and woman.
It would have to be committed to abolishing the House of Lords though, if not quite burning the doddering old fools at the stake.
EVEN when I could run a bit, I wasn’t much of a fan of anything over 400 yards.
Most days my knees give me a painful reminder of former rugby coaches like Allan Wood and Mick Doyle and the glee with which they had us pounding several miles-worth of pavements a couple of times a week.
I’d rather chew my own toes off than attempt the London Marathon – unless they allow you to do it on a bike (and I’ve only just got the feeling back in my knick-knacks from my last attempt at that).
As such, I can’t get too worked up about former local RL player Chris Walker (pictured) who has been named and shamed by The Times after apparently running a section of the London course faster than record-breaking Sir Mo Farah.
Just a little abashed, our Chris admitted taking a shortcut after nine miles and walking the rest of the way.
He was left standing though – literally – by Irish 60-year-old Rory O’Connor, who was clocked on one stretch averaging 34.4mph, which would be decent for a racehorse.
I can sympathise. Remem-ber when your sports teachers couldn’t be bothered organising a game of footy, so sent you all on a miserable ‘cross country’ slog through sodden fields? I don’t think I ever finished one fair and square – a badge I’d still wear with pride.
I’M REALLY pleased for our neighbours, the hard-working independent traders of Batley, who were recognised in a national survey last week as one of the most thriving towns in the country.
Surprised, yes a little, but pleased. And really not sure how such a thing is measured, especially when Dewsbury just two miles down the road was at the opposite end of the same survey spectrum.
Perhaps it’s the novel nature of some of Batley’s businesses.
I mean, I’ll bet you can’t walk round the centre of Harrogate or Stow-on-the-Wold and find such variety of bongs and drug paraphernalia, let alone to see right at the eye level of an average 10-year-old, bottles of amyl nitrate – poppers. Even sex shops (or so I’m told, having never set foot inside one obviously) tend not to have them on open display.
Good old bohemian Batley, eh? All we need now is a Variety Club revival and the place can really make a pitch for being the sex, drugs and rock’n roll capital of the north.