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

World Wide Mogg Blog: Of 'G' spots, Wicker Men and Sarkozy

World Wide Mogg Blog: Of 'G' spots, Wicker Men and Sarkozy: Amateurs do it better I was invited last week to a production of a new musical based on the cult British film "The Wicker Man" written, d...

Of 'G' spots, Wicker Men and Sarkozy

Amateurs do it better

I was invited last week to a production of a new musical based on the cult British film "The Wicker Man" written, directed and starring Keynsham resident Kenneth Pollock (in costume above). I must confess that I had never seen the original, but Kenneth has done a superb job of dramatising this timely theatrical treat. The story takes place on a small island, much like our own, which has its own ways, customs and idiosyncrasies. The people live an idyllic life, bringing in the harvest, dancing around Maypoles, maintaining a healthy tradition of ritual human sacrifice and working hard to ensure the success of the island's economy. Inevitably 'bureaucrats' across the sea become increasingly suspicious of this happy go lucky, living, breathing example of the 'Big Society' in action and dispatch a tiresome apparatnik to impose 'order' where they perceive there to be none. Happily, the locals are having none of it and through a process of 'collective decision making' (you might be more familiar with the term 'referendum') decide that the best course of action is to burn this oaf in an enormous 'wicker man' (hence one assumes the title of the piece) while singing delighful sentiments in Middle English. The musical was characterised by sparky performances from the Keynsham Amateur Dramatics society and special mention must go to Mrs Edith Orton, whose lively depiction of a 'sex obsessed  nymph' (clearly meant to be some years younger than the good lady herself) must surely have set many elderly hearts racing. One found oneself whistling the show-stopping "Burn the Pig Alive" for many days after. Frankly, with talent like this, who needs the West End?

The Rights of Succession, G20 and the Commonwealth

I was delighted to read last week that the Commonwealth Heads of State meeting in Perth, decided unanimously to overturn the frankly outdated 1707 Rights of Succession Act, finally allowing female offspring of the monarch the same rights of succession as their male counterparts. The act shall also of course afford the future King or Queen the option of marrying a Catholic if they so desire. Henceforth no-one shall be able to accuse the House of Windsor of being anything but a very modern hereditary monarchy (in the line of descendants of Henry VIII in accordance with the third succession Act of 1543).

By sharp contrast one was thoroughly under-whelmed by the 'G20' meeting in Cannes(not 'despots' but 'G spots') Like some mid nineties boy-band I would challenge you to name any but the star players of this expensive and short-lived bun fight. The sight of Mr Sarkozy strutting about, put one in mind of a decidedly 'New Money' acquaintance, who held her late eighties 'coming out party' in the grounds of a 'rented' castle.

Happily, her father was to later lose the lot in some ill thought out 'dot com' investments. A fate which brought a wry smile to the lips of many of those who had been unfortunate enough to suffer the aforementioned party and the intolerable non-vintage 'Lanson' that was served.Whilst wishing no ill on the diminutive Mr Sarkozy, one shall be watching the passage of his 'austerity' package with interest.

That is all for now. My lunch of quince and cheese is calling. I bid you all a hearty Ave and look forward to enlightening you further soon.

JRM

The Bagpuss Rebellion.

Bagpuss

One has had a most extraordinary week. Calls to stand as Mayor. Appearances on BBC Somerset and grillings from the 'rottweiler' himself, Mr Jeremy Paxman as to the nature of one's relationship with 'Bagpuss'. In all of this one does fear that one's original message has become a little 'lost'. 

It seems to me that there are three key issues that need to be addressed vis a vis the Referendum debate. Firstly, the last time anyone in this country voted on the issue was in 1975. Even a simpleton who had been on a thirty year sojourn to Mars would realise that the EU of today is very different to the EEC that we joined in the 1970s. Secondly, it is no exaggeration to say that the Eurozone itself increasingly resembles one of those 'Facebook' parties one reads about in the Daily Mail. Too many people have been invited and of those that have tagged along few have bothered to 'bring a bottle'. Worse still, certain 'party goers' have broken into the cellar glugged Ma and Pa's vintage Krug, vomited on the tapestries and then sued the home owners for negligence. 

My final point is this. It is very obvious that the people want it. Democracy is about trusting the voters and treating them as grown ups, not only when it suits one but all the time. Vox populi! Vox dei!

Eton Mess 

Fresh from my very own 'Jacob-lite' rebellion in the chamber, I bumped into an old chum who, during a very reasonably priced meal in Belgravia, reminded me of a dark chapter in my younger and more vulnerable years.

During the late eighties 'change' was in 'vogue' across the globe and even Eton was not exempt from the winds of 'Perestroika'. 

In 'eighty seven' a new beak arrived. 'Wetty' Williams was a man enamored of floral ties, dappled 'lounge suits', brown shoes of dubious provenance and a disregard for the poems of Southey that aroused both distrust and anger in the English 'Common Room'. However these outward displays of affectation were but the hors d'oeuvres for what was to follow. For 'Wetty', it turned out, was a fan of 'American' literature and it was his avowed intention to inculcate us with its interminable merits. This, in spite of a promise that I had secured from his predecessor (in writing) the previous year, that our syllabus would consist mostly of Dryden and in particular of his 1681 masterpiece 'Absalom and Achitophel'.

'Wetty' stood his ground and in doing so he lit a touch paper in the darkest recesses of my soul. For three long weeks during his 'lessons' I recited the Dryden poem under my breath, while he countered my stand with increasing irritation that eventually, spectacularly erupted into a four letter tirade of abuse and an admission of utter defeat. Within days, he had applied for a sabbatical in 'Auckland' and within weeks Dryden was firmly back on the syllabus.

Eton has had many famous rebellions in the past. Most notably in 1768, when prefects led an uprising against a progressive headmaster who wished to stop them caning the other children. Then, as in my day, the pupils won out and 'pop-tanning' continued merrily into the 1970's.

There are 20 Old Etonian MP's in parliament and one would, with all due respect to his remarkable talents, advise the PM (one himself of course) to remember this the next time a three line whip is imposed.

And finally:

Last weekend's bunfight at The Orchard Tree in Keynsham was a 'big' success. Thank you to the many constituents who attended. My medley of vintage hits was most kindly tolerated and I would like to thank Daphne Spragg for her wonderful accompaniment on piano. Rumours that I shall be releasing a 'double A side' of A Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square and I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues in time for the Christmas 'hit parade' are sadly quite unfounded. I long ago chose the path of public service over that of the performing arts and my dabbling in 'musical theatre' must remain no more than a hobby.

I bid you all a hearty 'Valete' and fare thee well, 

JRM

World Wide Mogg Blog: Of Blood lust, The Beano and the EU

World Wide Mogg Blog: Of Blood lust, The Beano and the EU: Habeas Corpus: On The Death of Gaddafi On a frigid January morning in 1649, Charles I was led to the scaffold. Permitted by Cromwell himse...

Of Blood lust, The Beano and the EU

Habeas Corpus: On The Death of Gaddafi

On a frigid January morning in 1649, Charles I was led to the scaffold. Permitted by Cromwell himself to wear two shirts for the occasion, in order that his shivering might not be construed as cowardice, the King had fulfilled his final wish and had spent the morning walking his dogs in St James's Park. The executioner's blade rose high in the chill winter air and in a split second the monarch's head tumbled from the cadaver and the nation committed an act of collective regicide. From a vantage point above, the venerable Archbishop Usher swooned and collapsed into the arms of an accompanying Deacon. The bloodied locks were held high and a voice cried out: "Behold the head of the traitor." Thus began Britain's short and ignoble experiment with 'Republicanism'.

Almost twelve years later to the day, following the Restoration of the deposed monarch's son, Charles II, Cromwell's disinterred body was (on the King's orders) dragged from its resting place in Westminster Abbey, hung for a day (much to the displeasure of local costermongers) and decapitated. The by now rotting skull was shoved unceremoniously on a spike and placed at the top of Westminster Hall, where it remained some twenty five years, until one night, during a dramatic storm, it was blasted to splinters by a bolt of lightning. That a man so obsessed with humility should lose his head in such an ostentatious way, is but one of the many quirks of this unfortunate story.

'Regime Change' has, in short, always demanded both sacrifice and degradation. From the schoolyard execution of the Ceausescus to the Youtube lynching of Colonel Gaddafi; from the arrow riddled corpse of the noble Harold Godwinson, to the public abasement of Mussolini and his mistress. In our own time one thinks of the blurred pictures of a weeping Margaret Thatcher being driven from Downing Street, or the humiliation of Gordon Brown and his family taking the long walk from Number 10. These events might seem cruel, might make one blanche, but they are a necessary line in the sand. A blunt message from the new regime to the mob that the order has changed, the dragon has been slain and that all is well - until the next blood-letting is required.

Go Compare

Talking of 'heads', the PM came in for some quite unfair criticism this week when he very sensibly suggested that members of the public might want to save money by using 'comparison websites'. For my part I managed to reduce the car insurance bill by several hundred pounds earlier this year when I combined the Bentley and the Audi in a single package. One fully intends to do the same with one's utility bill. In the meantime my advice for those of you worried about rising prices is this: shut off unwanted rooms or even whole wings for the winter and always purchase good quality vests.

The EU debate

Many of you have written to me about this. Yes, it is an important and very worthwhile 'conversation'. Having said that, while one is in no way intimidated by the Whips Office, one did manage to get through five years of Eton without ever being caned and I fully intend to achieve the same during my tenure in Parliament.

BBC Question Time

Thank you very much for the many delightful comments on twitter regarding my performance on Thursday. The long and frankly tedious hours spent watching 'Billy' Connolly videos seem to have paid off and I had little trouble understanding the highlanders present in Glasgow. One does, however, have to confess at one's disappointment surrounding the many quite unpleasant 'tweets' comparing one to a character in the children's comic The Beano. Although never having read the said organ, one can still guess from the tone of the comments at the implications being made and my response is this. Inverted snobbery is no better than 'racialism' and often in my experience far worse.

In spite of that I wish you all a hearty week-end. An earlier version of this blog appeared yesterday, but happily one of my children deleted it while looking for 'CBeebies' on my computer. As I am sure you can imagine this act was met with trills of gay laughter that resonated long and loud in Mogg Towers.

It is now time to take Aristophanes for his morning constitutional.


JRM