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The Dante Meeting starts now
Politics: we’ve definitely done Limbo, the first circle of hell. Whether we now hop out to live happily on the earthly plane, or some of us delve more deeply into the circles of wrath, heresy and betrayal remains to be seen.
Any road up, it should be interesting.
Horseracing: the Musidora Stakes is run today on the Knavesmire. The market will be formed around whether Cecil’s Aviate can stay and if O’Brien’s Cabaret is ready for her seasonal debut. On the book Eleanora Duse has not much chance, but I might side with her at a better price and expect improvement over a trip. To be truthful, I’m not much bothered either way.
For a day in May, there’s a depressing quantity of NH racing about. I might skip York (apart from Eleanora) and save myself for a bit of the flat at Naas tonight. So far I have only looked at the 7.40 maiden and I am hoping for some improvement on better ground by Tiznow’s Purple Land.
After the tumult of the last few days, I will confess that the excitement of four-legged creatures racing has been edged out by the fascination of the race between the two-legged variety. And most engaging to observe now is the unprecedented three-legged race between the curiously similar, yet different, public school boys.
And even curiouser were my eyes disobediently watering throughout. I rarely weep, but Brown’s departure started me off (most unexpected) and only finished with Cameron’s closing the ridiculously reflective black door behind him.
In the new spirit of austerity, I think he should paint it matt.
The Nine Circles of Hell
I hereby declare
This morning: a different perspective
At 4 a.m. I gave up, took some more Migraleve and put my earphone in to listen to Radio 4′s election coverage. I had turned it off around 11 ish when Kate Adie had reported the first result: a Labour victory in one of the Sunderland constituencies. What was noticeable at 4 a.m. was the general raggedness of the studio presenters: the doughty James Naughtie and Caroline someone. At 11 p.m. it was all perky, but by the time my head was raging they too were on their knees in the broadcasting sense. Who can blame them? I think they did a great job with interruptions all the rage and Naughtie saying to one guest: for goodness sake it’s 4.30 in the morning you can say what you think! I did notice we were told it was 4.30 in the morning for about half an hour. Maybe they had hit the wall.
Some old Radio friends were drafted into newsworthy constituencies to mumble their way through results and interviews in the wee small hours. An almost inaudible Jenni Murray with a contrite Hazel Blears in Salford and John Simpson and Jane Garvey despatched across the “kingdom” as Naughtie quaintly referred to the UK. I heard Peter Robinson losing his seat in the Northern Ireland: be careful what you wish for he said, the personable Communities Minister losing his seat in Yorkshire primarily because of boundary changes. The zillion independents dividing their votes between them in Luton South with a certain Esther Rantzen doing the best of them but still losing her deposit. The list was endless…
I had no agenda, with my thumping head I was just hoping for some sleep but I noticed a pattern emerging. Every time a Returns Officer mentioned the BNP candidate in each constituency I went rigid, fearful that they might somewhere end up with a majority, or even a “respectable” showing. As it turned out (so far) the biggest numbers I heard were in the low 3000s, more were in the low 1000s. Then Nick Griffin came on from Barking and announced that the “Liberal Elite” had organised immigration policy in Barking and Dagenham to a) smash up white working class communities and b) keep the BNP out of office. He said in summary: it is full of Africans. The studio were nonplussed. Oona King was offended, politely. I thanked God for the Africans, who I suspect many of whom can’t vote anyway.
The BNP have fielded a candidate in every constituency in this election and the result is it will have been a costly failure. Even as Gordon Brown attempts to gather Little Nick unto his lapels and David enjoys his moral, if not actual, victory I am just glad that my head is a little less painful and that Nick Griffin and his crew have had their butts kicked, if not out of town, at least not into our Parliament.
Another Maxim
So long as one does not despair, so long as one doesn’t look upon life bitterly, things work out fairly well in the end.
The Laki – George Moore
One will bear that in mind.
Take Your Pick
A Gorgon
Cleggmania
Endless repeats
It’s hardly a dessert menu is it. The thought of them trying to work together is even worse. They said on the Radio today that Wellington was the last PM to fight a duel. Now that would interesting.
Everything’s on the wonk
I tried, I did, but this sums up my week.
And Gordon’s probably. Drowning not waving. But as for the other two, God help us.
How You Like Me Now?
Well you might ask lads.
At least of one these kids is from round these sides. Big up to Essex. Watch David Letterman ask them to go again – a first on his show.
Shame about the would-be PMs.
“The Maxims of George Moore”
I was given this little book (it measures about 2″x4″) for my birthday last year and it’s been going round with me in my bag and pocket recently. George Augustus Moore was the son of a horse-breeding Irish MP and became a novelist in the realist style in the late 19th Century, this after trying his hand at being a painter in France where he met the Impressionists and was painted by Manet.
I don’t agree with all of George’s Maxims, but some are pretty pertinent, some are truthful and some are amusing.
“I would lay aside the wisest book to talk to a stupid woman.”
“We only recognise a selfishness when it takes a form different from our practice.”
This morning I was struck by these two quotes. Most probably because we are just over a week away from the General Election and the Party Political Machines have gone into Overdrive.
“Practice and principle are never reduced to perfect agreement. One is always marauding into the other’s territory.” Esther Waters
“It is not with truth that we persuade people, but with lies. Everybody is willing to listen to lies.” Evelyn Innes
Very true George.
More Hogwash
I think this current outbreak of blog effluent is because I have far more pressing matters at hand, but instead of getting on with them I am surfing the web and finding things to irritate, amuse and generally add to my monumental procrastination. Like this clip from the BBC where they are running the election race with three little pigs: David, Gordon & Nick…
Pigs, politics & racing = perfect
The pigs in the election race are Saddlebacks. These were my favourite pigs when I was little as I used to see them on Golden Cap in Dorset as child.
(Queue a helpful parent to tell me I have scrambled the memory…)
I like this extract from Wendy Cope’s Traditional Prize County Pigs
1. Wessex Saddleback
A porcine aborigine,
He has no trace of foreign blood.
His ancestors were wild and free
British pigs in British mud.
makemeadiva says: so far, it sounds alarmingly like a manifesto for the odious Nick Griffin and his BNP
He’s a hardy, outdoor type,
Who’s never heard of central heating.
He doesn’t whine, he doesn’t gripe
But, strong and silent, goes on eating.
Definitely a Tory then.
Party Political Wives
For goodness sake.
Is a man more wholesome if his wife is shoved into the media glare to press palms and sniff the air of constituencies across the country? Is he more trustworthy or intelligent or likeable? Will his party’s policies suddenly hum with a home baked aroma. No, I think not.
Do they think voting women will think: aha she’s got a nice pair of Converse trainers on, I’ll vote for her hubby. Or conversely, she’s a skinny cow I don’t fancy her in Number 10. Note to self on May 6th…
If I call a plumber out, or call the police does the job get done all the better if a spouse turns up alongside in their slippers to simper and drink my tea. No, certainly not. That is the element that winds me up. These women are not being their own selves in their own right, they have no policies of their own to offer me, they are merely there to nod and smile and act as a lowly prop in their husband’s stage show.
If you ask me, Nick Clegg’s wife who is “too busy” at work to get dragged in to the charade has it nearly right. Ideally, any self-respecting politician’s wife should be propping up a bar somewhere, drinking gin slings, backing losers on the all-weather and flirting with boys and girls half her age. In short, being a liability. That’s the job of a political wife. Then I might feel so sorry for the husband, I’d vote for him.
Seriously, Mrs Brown and Mrs Cameron, you are busy working mothers, you don’t have time for this. Please do women a favour and get off my screen.
Stationery maybe, policies certainly not
Now I just have to go and hold the Guv’nor’s ladder.
The Great Hogwash
It’s my considered opinion that David Cameron needs a toe up his backside.
His use of the clanging term “the Great Ignored” yesterday made me fulminate and I was going to bang on here about it being too close to the Great Unwashed and it being a nonsensical term etc. etc. Then I read this: Hopi Sen’s blog and decided a link to that would be better than any of my invective.
By this time though, for the sake of research, I had listened to his whole standing on a box by the Thames and surrounded by the faithful oration, and he was just way too limp. No matter that he promised me less paperwork and more of Parliament working for me, and you too actually, I find it hard to believe. And at the back of my mind I suspect if he can’t even talk the talk with conviction or with meaning, he has even less chance of walking the walk.
Of course, it is all academic in my neck of the woods, us being lumbered with a safe seat in a shade of Pompadour.
David and Gordon come to a soap-sharing arrangement
For the sake of balance and perspective I am sure I will lay into the other parties before the Great Day, where we the Great Ignored, go off and cast our Great Votes. Somehow, it doesn’t feel that Great to me.
