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

World Wide Mogg Blog: Salmond, Egg and 'Wee' Jimmy Krankie

World Wide Mogg Blog: 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...

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

Why the time has come for Wales to lay claim to Argentina

The Falkland Islands and why Argentina rightfully belongs to the Welsh. 

In the last few weeks the irksome Argentine government under the mendacious, although admittedly extremely fragrant Mrs Kirchner has once more laid claim to the Falkland Islands. David Cameron has quite rightly rejected this tiresome claim stating that the sovereignty of the archipelago is not open to debate. I would go further and argue that perhaps the time has come instead, to debate the sovereignty of Argentina and whether we and specifically the Welsh should lay claim to it.

Allow me to explain. The Falklands were discovered by an Englishman, John Davis, who in 1592 claimed  them as a British possession. West Falkland was settled by a few dozen Frenchmen in 1764 and the first British came a year later. The two groups lived cheek by jowl, quite contentedly, until the typically trouble-making Iberians threw a Spaniard in the works by buying out the French in 1766 and illegally expelling the British. Happily English speaking islanders returned in 1771 and the land has been a dominion of the crown ever since. 

The Argentine claim on the 'Malvinas' therefore seems to stem from the brief period in which their former colonial overlord Spain, wrongly and maliciously laid claim to the rocks. Coupled with a frankly tenuous argument concerning geographic proximity, their twisted logic would presumably allow the polo playing, corned beef munching twerps to argue that any former Spanish holding in its vicinity from Chile to California is rightfully theirs. Should such demands be upheld under international law, Britain could well claim that Normandy, which belonged to the British Crown from 1066 to 1449 be returned forthwith along with Indonesia, Malta, South Africa, Ireland, the United States of America and approximately one third of the land surface of the planet Earth.

The only other conceivable claim Argentina has is that some of the Falkland island folk are descendants of the tiny group of Spanish settlers who arrived there in the mid eighteenth century. This logic, perversely, might offer a solution to the 'Malvinas problem. As I am sure you know, Argentina boasts the only Welsh speaking community outside of Cymru. Based on the Buenos Aires government's apparent logic that the land belongs to the ethnic origin of some of its current settlers, in spite of their own feelings on the matter, Wales might very well claim that as Patagonia is largely settled by the people of its delightful valleys, everything south of the 40th parallel is rightfully Welsh. As this area is particularly rich in Uranium, oil and coal, one is tempted to argue that the time has come to do 'swapsies'. They can have the Falklands and we (or more specifically the Welsh Assembly) shall reclaim half of Argentina. 

Glad Tidings

I am afraid that that is all we have time for in 2011. It has been my great honour to chat with many of my on-line followers over the last few months. One hopes that 2012 brings you all rich tidings whether working man, working woman, Conservative, socialist, psychopath or Liberal Democrat.

JRM

The PM, 'Professor' Dawkins and why we should bring back the Groat

David and Goliath

We witnessed last week what one is tempted to describe as a "Falklands moment" in the Prime Minister's term of office. David's bold leadership faced down an attempt by Mrs Merkel and the increasingly nettlesome Sarkozy, to drag this country into closer union with France and Germany, at the precise moment that the European 'project' looks certain to collapse.

The EU's false economy has long resembled the sort of sports day one reads about in progressive secondary moderns, where all the competitors are awarded first place in every race, thus rendering the prizes themselves worthless. It is time for the UK to prove itself as 'scholarship material' once more and return to the playing fields of 'gentlemanly competition', free markets and 'gold'.

As our party's poll rating shoots toward the heavens, those of us who have long argued the anti-EU cause can allow ourselves the chance to bask in a little reflected glory. More importantly, David's actions have ensured that the City, the power house of the British economy, can at last be left to its own devices. 

'Professor' Dawkins

In the build-up to Christmas, professional atheist 'Professor' Richard Dawkins has been out and about insulting people again. This time his target is the Prime Minister, who he accuses of being an 'agnostic' who 'believes in belief' as a means of controlling the populace at large (or some such rot). David has very sensibly dismissed this balderdash and at the same time pointed out rather wittily that 'Dawkins simply doesn't get faith', a superb retort to a bitter man who one pictures as a seven year old whispering in the ears of his school chums that 'Father Christmas doesn't exist'.

Frankly were I to have my way this dangerous, out of control buffoon would long ago have been prosecuted for blasphemy and sent to the Tower. Unfortunately we live in times when such actions are frowned upon and so my advice to Mr Dawkins is as follows: By all means refuse to celebrate 'Saturnalia' or 'Winterval' or whatever you wish to call it, but please do not expect the rest of us to wallow in your pitiful 'empirical evidence', your Darwinian self righteousness or you Grinch like determination to spoil the magic for everyone else. Having said that, were it true that we are indeed descended from 'apes' one look at the 'Professor's' photograph would appear to provide the evidence he so desperately seeks.

Children's Corner

In February 1971 the UK 'went decimal'. A system of currency that had existed since the time of Henry II was discarded overnight, as Britain kow-towed to the demands of the EU (then known as the EEC) and instigated a 'continental style' monetary system of 100 pence in a pound that we have suffered to this day.

Frankly the lack of imagination and backbone displayed by Ted Heath and his government, which I am ashamed to admit was of a Conservative bent, dis-spirits one almost as much in 2011 as it did when one was two. Generations of Britons have been raised under the false impression that the 'old money' was fiendishly complicated, but even the briefest perusal of the facts knocks that debate into touch.

The pre-decimalised currency was based on the 'Troy System' wherein a pennyweight of silver was equivalent to one old penny. A pound thus weighed 240 pennyweight and was equivalent to 'one pound', with two farthings being a ha'penny. With twenty four ha'pennies in a shilling and twenty shillings in a pound that meant that two shillings and six pence were equivalent to one half crown, the crown itself being worth (of course) five shillings of which there were four in a single pound. If anyone has ever come up with a simpler way of devising a currency I would be very glad to see it.

It is my sincere hope that as we drift further away from the European project and the idiotic euro the chance to reinstate our old system dawns ever closer.

I believe that is all we have time for this week. My warmest Yuletide Greetings to you all.

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