How The Failure Of McCarthyism Turned Cbeebies Red

When I was what is now fashionably termed a 'young adolescent', my parents decided that I was not watching enough television. In fact I was watching none. I am not ashamed to admit that the reason for this was a mixture of suspicion and snobbery. Popular culture in the 1970s and 1980s was characterised by men with long hair shouting, while women in dungarees prevailed upon young viewers to follow them through a series of square, circular and triangular windows. One's recent invocation of 'Bagpuss' in a speech to the House was wrongly assumed to be a tribute to the fluffy old cloth cat. In fact one was always far happier reading Horace than 'catching up' with the antics of that soporific feline and a soundtrack that consisted of 'folk music' being played on a 'banjo'. Worse. Even then, one could not escape the feeling that there was a hidden agenda at work. That somehow beneath the japery of Brian Cant and the tom-foolery of 'finger mouse', young minds were being indoctrinated, rewired, 'socialised'.

As long as pictures have moved there have been forces at work wishing to manipulate them. You are no doubt familiar with the history of early Soviet Propaganda in the 1920s and 1930s. The Romanoff family, who had for centuries selflessly served the interests of the Russian peasantry, were portrayed in a series of films as nepotistic despots, concerned solely with their own preservation, while their people starved and wept. Rot of course, but effective rot - and as was the case in one of our bathrooms last year, the rot spread.

By the 1950's the charismatic American Senator 'Joe' McCarthy had cottoned on to the fact that Hollywood itself was stuffed full of Communist sympathisers and Soviet Fifth Columnists. In a series of spectacular interventions  he proved beyond any reasonable doubt that, among others, Charlie Chaplin, Edward G Robinson, Marilyn Monroe, 'Zero' Mostel and even Daffy Duck  were part of a deeply entrenched Marxist conspiracy intent on corrupting the minds of American youth and the wider world with their 'socialist ideals'. Sadly, pressure by influential 'stars' ended the trials before they could finish what they had begun and many of the lesser known 'artists' (mostly writers) managed to slip through the fingers of the FBI. The grim determination of the 'Red' is well documented and I am sorry to say that many of them made their way to Britain.

From around 1950 these writers in exile, many operating under assumed names, found work in our nascent television industry. Perhaps the best known example was the shameful series The Adventures of Robin Hood and his Merry Men, which was written by a number of blacklisted writers. In this 'entertainment' Robin is seen not as a foul villain of history, which he undoubtedly was, thieving from hard working burghers and embattled local politicians, but as a sort of hero, 'redistributing' wealth to the work-shy poor. Although originally aired on what is now called 'ITV' it’s terrible influence spread, as those responsible for its creation hired like-minded 'creatives' and instilled a 'leftist' agenda in British 'TV' that continues to this day.

As ever, the main target of this propagandist filth was youth. By the 1970s one could hardly tune in to 'Watch with Mother' without being assaulted by a cavalcade of populist Marxist causes. The Wombles were a clear and obvious attempt to inculcate young viewers with 'green' ideals. Illegal immigration was brazenly glamorised and sanitised in the tale of 'Paddington' a stowaway purporting to be from Peru (his documents are conveniently ‘lost’) who arrives in West London and is hidden from the authorities by a family of well-meaning liberals called 'The Browns'. One can hardly bring oneself to mention the odious 'hippy' values of The Magic Roundabout or the innuendo filled 'design for living' as proposed 'a trois' by the presenters of 'Blue' Peter. Later televisual insights on working class children provided by first Grange Hill and later 'Byker' Grove convinced one of two things. The need for more affordable 'private' education and the true extent of socialist 'infiltration' within the medium.

Suffice to say, the liberal indoctrination of young minds by children's television and particularly the BBC continues to this day. The bias displayed in the average edition of 'Newsround' as ‘leftist’ disguised as 'good’ causes are promoted, is enough to drive one to burn one's license. It continues to astonish me that the superb 'Fox News' Channel, routinely comes in for a bashing from the left, whilst this brazen ‘socialism’ slips by. One has no doubt in one’s mind that last year’s riots were at least in part caused by befuddled minds, enraged by a babyhood spent parked in front of the ‘Teletubbies’.

What can be done? The answer is very simple. Monitor what your children are viewing. Encourage them to question the veracity of their news sources from a very early age. And under no circumstances read them those dreadful 'Gruffalo' books. Give them Horace instead.

My warmest regards to each one of you.

Time Bandits, The Royal Yacht and the Ugly Face of 'Tory Bashing'

How the Great Western Stole Somerset Standard Time

On the 15th of September 1830 the inaugural service of the Liverpool and Manchester railway was opened by the then Prime Minister, the Duke of Wellington. As he sat in his carriage at some point mid way between those two great cities, he was espied by the local Liverpool Tory MP Mr William Huskisson. The two men had recently fallen out over a bill on parliamentary reform and Huskisson clearly thought this a good moment to make his peace with the Iron Duke.

Checking his watch and judging that the West bound train was not due for another five minutes, he gingerly stepped over the lines, but before he reached the carriage, Stephenson's 'Rocket' appeared out of nowhere, hurtling towards him at a speed upwards of 23 miles per hour. Clearly incapable of even rudimentary common sense, Huskisson shrieked loudly and clung onto the carriage door, which in turn swung open, leaving him staring down a full seven tonnes of cast iron and steel. Which then crushed him.

Huskisson died some hours later and his demise has gone down in the history of the railways as the first 'train fatality'. In fact he was really the victim of his own rank stupidity and a simple misunderstanding. Huskisson's watch was no doubt accurate, but he was the MP for Liverpool and the train driver was a 'Manchester man'. In 1830 these two cities inhabited different time zones, that were five minutes apart.

Indeed, until the mid 1850's Britain basked in the light of several time zones. Manchester ran some five minutes behind London, while Liverpool, Bristol and Bath were between ten and fifteen minutes behind that. Further west, the great city of Exeter was a full twenty minutes behind. However, as rail lines spread across the country like a vast spider's web this very sensible practice, reflecting local daylight needs, was increasingly deemed 'inconvenient' by the people of London, who frequently forgot to change their watches and subsequently missed their trains. But more than this, the 'ghost' of Huskisson loomed large and omnipresent and the nascent 'Health and Safety Industry' demanded that something be done.

The Great Western Railway exerted considerable influence on the governments of the day to standardise time and by 1881, even the great clock on the Tom Tower at Oxford had fallen into line.

Huskisson was an oaf. A man of few achievements beyond an unhealthy fascination with horticulture and an impressive collection of carved gate-posts. His chief legacy is his death and the subsequent modern obsession with 'safe working practices' that led to the standardisation of time. It does seem dreadfully unfair that the West Country should be forced to suffer upwards of twenty dark minutes more than the South East on winter morns, simply because a pompous fool failed to employ a little bit of common sense.

My amendment to the Daylight Savings Bill, aims to turn the clocks back to 1830 and I have every faith that common sense shall prevail.

The Royal Yacht

The loss of the HMY Britannia was a spiteful and malicious kick in the face of our monarchy instigated by Tony Blair after his victory in 1997 in a petulant display of 'republicanism'. I am in absolutely no doubt that the current unpopularity of the former PM is largely down to this one ill judged act and it is only right that the pledge by Sir John Major in 1996 that the yacht would be replaced is met by the current administration. Bearded, hemp wearing crusties across the land have been heard muttering darkly that the richest woman in the world should perhaps 'fork out for her own yacht'. As usual, these ill educated, pop music loving, layabouts have entirely missed the point. The wider British people have long risen to the occasion on such matters and the sight of Her Majesty boarding her splendid new publicly funded vessel shall surely give a hearty boost to this nation in these dark and unsettling times.

Cambridge and 'Tory bashing'

I am off to the Cambridge Union this very night to debate whether 'Tory Bashing' is the last acceptable public prejudice. I intend to argue very strongly that it is and allow me too share with you but one example.

Last week one of our bathrooms suffered a 'significant leak' necessitating a call to a local plumber. The chap who turned up had the gall to ring the front door bell and when re-directed to the 'tradesman's entrance' objected saying (limply) that if he couldn't come through the front door he would leave us to ' bloody well drown'. Happily I was on hand to resolve the crisis and despite the fact that he was wearing neither  tie nor jacket, gave instruction that he might proceed.

The pipe was fixed and I paid the gentleman the princely sum of two hundred pounds, with a handsome tip of an additional three. The plumber stared down at the gold coins shining brightly in his hands and promptly demanded: "Is that an 'effing' joke?" When I told him it was not he snorted "Effing Tories" before hightailing it to his car.

Replace the word 'Tories' in that exchange with any other ethnic minority and then ask yourself: Is that acceptable? I think not and I hope very much that you share that opinion.

I must up and away. A very good day to you all.


JRM

Salmond, Egg and 'Wee' Jimmy Krankie

Some months ago an old chum from Oxford days rang to impart some rather frightful news. It appeared that his wife Susan had fallen for the charms of a double glazing salesman called Lief and intended to desert her aforementioned husband, their grade II rectory, three dogs, two horses and four delightful children  for a  new and more 'exciting' existence. Lief (an Antipodean late of Wellington) was a boastful exponent of the 'tantric arts', who dabbled in Buddhism and had plans to open a 'meditative retreat' in a mock tudor bungalow in Swanage. Poor St. John naturally felt more than a little intimidated by his 'love rival' and swiftly caved in to his wife's demands for a 'trial separation'. I shall return to Susan, Lief and St. John (and their relevance) later, for the curious arc of their modern morality tale has been much on my mind over the course of the last few days.

What is the United Kingdom if not a marriage? Admittedly with four nations involved, it is perhaps more akin to the 'continental style' relationships enjoyed by French Presidents and certain members of the Bloomsbury Group, but at its heart for more than a thousand years there has been an indelible bond between Scotland and England. It is true that as with all marriages there have been ups and downs in our long interweaving history. Indeed between 1313 and 1575 there were no fewer than forty major battles between the two countries and countless skirmishes. Later wars, culminating in the Jacobite unpleasantness, sealed together the fates of the peoples of our island with a mixture of gunpowder, despair and blood.

One might reasonably argue that the birth of our modern Kingdom, like marriage itself, was born from a kind of sacrifice and yet from that sacrifice we, the benefactors, have thrived. Indeed, as has often been noted, many of the greatest figures in British history have been Scotsmen. Without Mungo Park, David Livingstone and the oceanographer John Murray, the Empire might never have stretched further than the Isle of Wight. Without Adam Smith our modern banking system would barely exist. And without the noble bagpipe, Great Britain's contribution to musical invention would have amounted to little more than a limp pair of morris dancers' bells and the incessant 'warbling' of 'The Beatles'.

The Scots have increasingly been led to believe that there is a conspiracy at work here. That the English have somehow 'done them out' of their talent in addition to their oil. I would argue that our relationship has been symbiotic. Had Arthur Conan-Doyle remained in his native land, Sherlock Holmes would never have walked down Baker Street. John Logie Baird, the inventor of television was born in Dunbartonshire but it was to London that he came in order to make his name and crucially to find finance. Had he not done so Carol Smillie, Andrew Marr, Wee Jimmy Krankie and Lorraine Kelly might never have amounted to very much more than crofters, kelp gatherers or Presbyterian Ministers. It was the wider window on the world that England offered that made them 'global' stars.

Mr Salmond and his party wish us to throw away all we have achieved. Like an errant spouse he has made his mind up and would rather divorce than seek 'counselling'. That is his choice, as much as it was Susan's, but is it really fair to drag the labradors, the horses and the children down with him?

And so let us return to my old chum St. John. A fortnight after arriving in Swanage, Susan came home unexpectedly one afternoon to catch Lief engaged in an activity that even the twenty volume OED would be hard pushed to define. Realising her mistake she pleaded with her estranged husband to take her back, but it was too late. The damage had been done. St. John had 'moved on' (with his Lithuanian au pair as it so happens) and quite frankly, after the initial pain of being 'cuckolded' by a citizen from a junior Commonwealth nation, felt much better for her absence. Indeed, in a manner similar to the superb Augustus Leopold Egg painting above, her fate had been sealed from the moment she had allowed Lief and his window catalogues through her door.

One hopes most sincerely that Scotland shall not repeat Susan's folly and fall victim to the velvety flattery of the devious Mr Salmond.

JRM

Bowler hats, Eurocrats and Quails

Eurozone Crisis Summit

As David Cameron flew to Brussels today to take part in the crisis summit, I found myself meditating on the EU and asking one very simple question: What is it for exactly? Is it a trading block? Is it a union of states, seeking closer harmonization for the peace and prosperity of their collective inhabitants? Or is the question itself as elusive as Professor Heidegger's search for a definition of 'being'; is it in essence 'a great unanswerable'?

After much cogitation over a reasonably priced luncheon of quail, hare and gratin dauphinois, I had to admit that I had quite given up. I suspect in the end anybody asking the same question would, just as I did many years ago with regard to the foolish ideas upon which Mr Heidegger based his life-times work.

However, this I know: The EU is doomed and it is so for one very obvious reason. Since the beginning of civilization, no successful 'trading block' has ever been hewn from the rib of peace. From the Akkadians to the Persians, from the Byzantines to the British all 'trading blocks' have in essence been empires and no empire was ever created from anything so disagreeable as 'compromise'. One only has to think of the Romans who built harmony across their considerable domain, only after they had crushed inferior weaklings beneath the sandals of their all conquering legions. The EU, by contrast, has been a piecemeal affair from the very beginning, full of damp squibs, sops to French farmers, 'worthy' human rights acts, sops to Italian cheese-makers, minimum wages, sops to Belgian waffle salesmen, health and safety acts, sops to Spanish fishermen, curbs on bankers trying to make a decent living and sops to the Greeks (full sop). No blood has been spilt, no slaves have been driven before it, no elephants used to intimidate barbarians, no christians executed for sport.

Worse still, the Union has provided us with not one single great unifying figure. No Ghengis Khan, no Earl Grey, no Nebuchadnezzar or Alexander; not even an imitation Napoleon Bonaparte, just the suggestion of one.

As H hour approaches, the closest we are offered by way of an Otto Von Bismark is a Herman Van Rompuy, a man who would seem to personify that old gag about 'the problem with political jokes is they get elected' were it not for the fact that he has NOT been elected.

Bowler hatted council workers

Regular readers of this 'blog' will not have been in the least bit surprised to have heard of my calls in the House this week for council workers to wear bowler hats. This is part of my on-going campaign to 'spruce up' sloppy sartorial standards in the public sector. Some weeks ago I argued that HM Customs and Revenue staff, who present a lamentable first impression for visitors to these islands, should sport crisp 'military style' uniforms and possibly pith helmets. On reflection I have come up with some other 'workers' who might benefit from a 'make-over'.

• Latrine staff at railway stations in ruffs
• Leather jerkins for 'road-sweepers'
• Striped suits for prisoners (with matching hats)
• Frock coats for Railtrack staff
• Top hatted toll booth operators
• Starched wing collars, robes and mortar boards for all teachers in secondary moderns

Although one fears such suggestions will be dismissed without a thought, I feel convinced that they would at the very least offer a wonderful sight to behold.

As ever I welcome your comments and contributions and wish you all a hearty week-end.

Ego vobis valedico

JRM

Of Pippa Middleton, Idiotic Strikes and my Aspidistra

Public Sector Strikes

On Wednesday, as you are no doubt already aware, Midsomer Norton, Bath and indeed the rest of the country shall grind to a halt while 'Public Sector Workers' engage in yet another bout of unnecessary 'strike action'. The inconvenience caused by this outbreak of self indulgence shall affect many lives, leaving thousands of parents whose children are 'state' educated, no option but to 'keep the kids at home'. In turn there shall inevitably be a knock on effect as countless others, who have opted to privately educate, find that nannies, cleaners and other domestics are unable to turn up for work. Quite apart from forcing respectable women up and down the country to cancel luncheon and hair dressing appointments, it seems unfair that 'private sector workers' shall be missing out on pay. For my own part, one of the gardeners has already called to say that he will 'not be in' on Wednesday. It seems that for this week at least I shall be pruning my own aspidistra and while it shall save me some thirty pounds, Derek and his family will no doubt be having to cut back on the weekly shop at 'Morrisons'. I suspect the largely 'middle class' strikers involved had not 'factored in' the losses that shall now be suffered by Derek and his working class ilk.

But should we be surprised? As with many modern inconveniences this whole brouhaha is about little more than 'selfishness'. In spite of the global recession caused by New Labour it appears that people simply want 'more, more, more' even while the rest of us are struggling with diminishing portfolios and ill thought out boundary changes.


Boundary Change


The Boundary Commission is currently taking submissions on proposed changes to the size of constituencies and unfortunately North East Somerset, in it's current incarnation at least, is almost certain to be for the chop. One of the more worrying proposals on offer is to take Keynsham, Saltford and Chew Valley and add them to Kingswood (Glos.), thus breaking a historic precedent of county representation that stretches back as far as the reign of King Egbert in 834 AD. Many of my constituents have written to me expressing concern about the effect this could have on house prices and all I can say is that I shall be presenting the Commission with a lengthy appeal, more probably than not including a large dollop of middle English, should such an eventuality occur.

Children's Corner: The 'Tolpuddle Martyrs'


The Tolpuddle Martyrs were a bunch of 'work-shy' farm labourers who, in 1834, brazenly threatened their hard put upon employers with 'strike action' unless their pay and working conditions were guaranteed in writing. Happily the lazy rabble rousers were swiftly tried and found guilty of 'administering unlawful oaths' whereupon they were transported to Australia, wherein to have a good hard think about the upset they had caused, while breaking rocks in the outback. Sadly liberal 'campaigners and pamphleteers' (the early 19th Century equivalent of the 'Polly' Toynbees of  this world) managed to overturn the sentence and the whole shower were 'pardoned' and returned to England. The only happy epilogue to the whole unfortunate shindig was that within a year all but one of the 'workers' had 'emigrated to Canada'; a consequence, one imagines, that their descendants are living with to this very day.

Pippa Middleton

Being the offspring or sibling of a famous person can be a burden or a privilege or a bore. To this day I am oft accosted at social functions by women of a certain age, desiring to talk to one about Pa and his doings. It is, frankly, only a very special kind of person who can rise out of the shadow of a close family member's greatness and with the exception of William Pitt the Younger, Peter Hitchens and Sir Mark Thatcher, one can think of very few who have managed to pull off the trick. To that delightful list one can now add the sublime Miss 'Pippa' Middleton. That she has managed to escape her sister's bushel and pen a definitive guide to 'party-planning' is to be applauded. That the publisher deems this to be worthy of a six figure sum is a considerable testament to her undoubted talent and one looks forward in earnest to reading the tome when it 'comes out'.

That is all for now. I wish you a hearty week and trust that you are not too inconvenienced on Wednesday.

Ego vobis valedico.


JRM

Of Pig-Sticking Patrick Mercer, Tie-less Border Controls and Bagpuss

When Two Moggs Met - by popular request


One was delighted to be able to visit the "Pop Up" Bagpuss shop in Whiteley's Shopping Centre last week. It was a superb opportunity to 'catch up' with the famed, much loved, saggy old stuffed cat and one suspects that Bagpuss felt very much the same.


"To be Omnipotent but Friendless is to Reign"


Anyone fortunate enough to have attended an exclusive all male public school will have fond memories of hiding pathetically in the rhododendrons from chumps wishing to pig-stick one. Inevitably, as one learned often and to one's cost, those leading the braying charge were frequently the same scholars who, that very morning, had been sharing one's toasted tea cakes over a butter stained copy of Shelley. Once caught, one would be 'poked and flushed' and having recovered sufficiently would thank one's tormentors with a manly shake of the hand before retiring to one's cot for a well deserved whimper. To the layman, such debasing experiences might seem 'old fashioned' or even 'perverse' but those of us lucky enough to have suffered them understand the very real bond of trust that was hewn between victim and perpetrator; for although the practice was frowned upon by the beaks, one learned the hard way that it was wrong to 'tell'.

This week Patrick Mercer, the very clubbable Member for Newark was reported to have described the PM as 'the worst politician since Gladstone'. Patrick wishes to comment no further and frankly neither do I (apart from pointing out that clearly this was an utterly foolish, factually inaccurate and wholly idiotic statement made by a man who quite possibly had been enjoying the 'hospitality' a little too much) - no the real concern here is that Mr Mercer allegedly spoke these words at a 'private function'. One assumes therefore that those leaking his words to the gutter press were 'guests who told'. Whilst not wishing to re-introduce pig sticking onto the National Curriculum, one feels that something, somewhere needs to be done to remind our nation at large of the old Eton adage that: 'sneaks to the beaks, get kicks in their sleeps'.



Pushing One Over the Borderline


In the week that 'Brodie' Clark 'stepped down' from his post, over the small matter of allowing hundreds of thousands of asylum seekers to flood into the country over the summer, one has been reflecting generally on the way in which we might be able to better improve our Border Agency.

In my other life running a 'Capital Management Business' (hooray for small firms!) I have had extensive experience of the world's airports and 'Customs Officers'. In Singapore, upon arrival, one is ushered off the plane into a delightful First Class Lounge where tea, coffee (or even something a little stronger) are served to passengers while delightful young women settle the tiresome business of stamping one's passport and checking one is not an 'international jihadist'. While it is true that in New York one is often subjected to lengthy queues and invasive 'searches', it is all done in such delightful sing song accents and accompanying incantations that one should have 'have a nice day' that it matters not a jot that one is being body scanned, interrogated or relieved of one's shoes.

In London, by comparison, even the heartiest challenge of "Look here, do you know who I am?" is unfailingly met with tie-less gawps and gum chewing insolence. It often feels indeed that one has arrived not in Great Britain but rather 'Little Britain'. One hopes that Mr Clark's successor, ably abetted by Theresa May, shall address this stain on our 'front door' as his first priority and speed up the whole irritating sham in the process.

I wish you all a hearty week - and bid you Salve.

Yours aye

JRM

Newsletter: St Paul's 'demo' and what we can learn from Battleship Potemkin

Question Time


One is delighted to confirm that one shall indeed be on the 'panel' of the popular 'Current Affairs Show' Question Time this coming Thursday in Glasgow. One relishes the chance to meet ordinary 'highlanders' and discuss the issues closest to their hearts. Although it is impossible to predict exactly what will be asked on the night, one is already 'brushing up' on the historical inaccuracies of 'Braveheart', the porticos of St Mungo's Cathedral and the glaring paradox of the West Lothian Question. Geographers among you may have noted that Glasgow is some distance from Somerset, but my interest in Scotland and its affairs goes back some years. Indeed my old chum Bertie has a delightful 'holiday castle' near to Gleneagles where one has spent many an enjoyable Hootenanny and done many a spot of outstanding grouse shooting.

Twitter


Many of you will have noticed that Question Time is but the latest in a plethora of 'TV' appearances by yours truly over the last few months. It has also been noted that my vote to allow 'twittering' in the chamber seemed to go rather against the grain of what was expected of one. In my defence, Moggs have long been drawn to the bright lights of 'show-business'. Although one does remember with sadness a great uncle who died of exasperation during a recital of Ivor Novello 'b sides' at Wigmore Hall.

Children's Corner


Ave Discipuli. You are all no doubt familiar with the delightful film 'Battleship Potemkin' made in 1925 by the Soviet director Sergei Eisenstein. The film tells the story of a bunch of work-shy sailors and their land lubbing chums, who try to upset the rule of the superb Tsar and his hard working government, by lazing about on some steps in Odessa while the rest of Russia tries to get on with the job of putting their country back on its feet. Happily all ends well when the whole stinking shower are evicted from said steps by a group of loyal soldiers and their shiny steel bayonets. While one is in no position to instruct the Lord Mayor's office on how best to proceed with the chaps currently encamped outside St Paul's, they could do worse than 'check out' the example set by Russian Imperial guards in 1905.

Brain Drain


One was lucky enough to help some local volunteers clear a 'storm drain' in Midsomer earlier this year. The opportunity to 'rubber up' is one I rarely miss and I was delighted to be able to break in a new pair of Hunters. Unfortunately a long standing luncheon appointment  with an old chum in London did rather creep up on us. Still, it was a great opportunity to meet some hard working volunteers one of whom bestowed upon me the great honour of addressing me with the popular moniker 'Mate'.




Lunch is upon us and I must away. I am afraid that is all we have time for this month. I trust you are all well and bid each and every one of you a hearty 'adieu'.

JRM