Not big, not clever…

Well hello faithful readers,

Another random selection of ramblings for your delectation, and we start with the topic that has, for reasons that escape me, appeared on the front pages and on news bulletins. Mexicogate – at least that it was I am calling it as shorthand.

I have expatiated on this head before when I talked about the needless horror caused by fairly innocuous jokes made on television. I have long tired of people who felt that they have the god given right not to ever be offended, and in most cases I would defend the right of a comedian to be able to make a joke (provided that it is not just an out and out insult) on whichever topic they choose.  I am not sure that I would be happy to do so in this instance.

I would argue that playful banter should be encouraged on television, but there is always a danger that the people involved stop worrying that they are on air and that they are there to entertain the viewer, the Top Gear lads are often at fault for making television for themselves and forgetting that what they are meant to be doing was informing the watching public about cars.

In their own admission Top Gear stopped being a car show a fair while ago – as can be seen in some of the early episodes of the revamped show (which can still see thanks to Dave), there was a time that they would do reviews of cars that people might want to go out and buy – no longer. I suspect that very few of you are currently in the market for a Rolls Royce Ghost, and Aston Martin DB9 or Ferrari GTO – but that doesn’t matter – as its audience would rather see one of those being put through its paces than the latest dullard offering from Vauxhall or Ford.

They have spent the last few years testing cars you can’t buy unless you have just received a banker’s bonus and being rude about…well everyone…cyclists, bikers, environmentalists, and of course the Germans. So what is different here?

Well Steve Coogan rather neatly points out in an article for the Observer, would we be so comfortable if they had trotted out well worn clichés about another race? What if they had said that Africans were ‘feckless’ and ‘lazy’? Mr Coogan makes a good point, although I suspect that such a defamation of an entire continent of people would never had made to air in the first place.

Naturally the boys appear to unrepentant, but I suspect when they look back on this shoddy piece of television they will see that they overstepped the mark. It wasn’t big, and it was not funny.

***

So, having got that off my chest, on to other things – you may have watched Top Gear last night, but I would urge you instead to watch The People’s Supermarket over on Channel Four. It peaked my interest because I remember the shop opening in Lamb’s Conduit Street last year – I passed it everyday but because I was usually making haste for work, I never investigated further.

It is a pity because it presents a radical alternative to the giant supermarket chains, which aims to get a community together to run its own supermarket, to save money on their grocery bills and best of all ensure that producers get a fair price for their goods.

It is an experiment that has worked well in the USA for years, basically everyone who shops in the store also owns a share by paying an annual membership fee and dedicating a few hours a month to work in the shop for free. Surely if such a concept can work in the US it can work here?

I for one hope that it can succeed, and I will try to stave off my natural cynicism here and say that provided it can get its members to fulfil their promise of working for a 10 per cent discount it will thrive. A visit to its website suggests that the project is still up and running, which is quite impressive given that a huge Waitrose, a Tesco Metro and a Sainsbury’s Central (possibly the grimmest place to shop in a twenty mile radius) sit on its doorstep. Were I still in the area, I would certainly have joined up and supported the enterprise.

***

Well I cannot sit here blogging all day, there are other things that need doing, not least ensuring that baby Harry is kept entertained. If not kept busy at all times he has the rather odd habit of trying to get himself to the floor by any means possible – even if he is some distance from it. Yesterday he made a valiant leap to the floor from my lap, fortunately I managed to halt his progress just before he fell to the very hard wooden floor. He has also become fixated by electronic gizmos, my mobile and the tv remote have all been just inches from going into his mouth for inspection – and while I was tip tapping away yesterday he tried to have a taste of my laptop. So, I must away to relieve my dear wife shortly who has been on guard all day lest he tries to devour the microwave.

So I will take my leave of you now…until next time dear reader.

JHK

 

Introducing Dr Jonathan Drake

Hi all,

This is just a quick blog which will serve two purposes.

When I originally conceived this blog, my intention was to post up excerpts from my novel (which is currently called Drake: The Case of the Last Werewolf), but to be honest I would much prefer to continue using it just to post up commentary upon my life, such as it is, and opinions, such as they are.

But, I have decided to post up this short intro to the main character, and tell you about a new Blog that I have just begun which will go into the backgrounds of the characters of the novel. Hopefully it will be good enough to hold your interest – should you wish to read it…

Well it is not good enough merely to talk about these things, I must get on and actually do it. So the blog can be found here, and here is that introduction I promised:

Dr Jonathan Drake had always liked winter; there was something about the crisp freshness, the knowledge that insects that have pestered you for months on end are finally being killed off by the stern temperatures. Alas, thanks to the efforts of industry in the developed world it is becoming an ever-shorter period, not even managing the full three months that it should, by rights, be allotted.

Drake may have enjoyed winter but he did not approve of early mornings. It seemed quite wrong – unnatural even – that he should be forced into the day before the sun had made an appearance. Rising before nine left him irritable for the rest of the day.

This particular day the sun had finally risen, although it had no energy to try and break through the thick blanket of cloud that had settled across London, which would remain in the same spot all day.

Drake had travelled to work in his winter wear – thick woollen grey suit, long black coat (collars turned firmly up against the biting wind), a stripy scarf, and his faithful fedora pulled low to protect what face was left exposed to the cold.

The freezing rain thumped with grim determination out of the sky, hitting the pavement so hard that it gave the illusion that is was also raining from the ground up, not helping the situation.

The streets of Holborn were crowded as usual, but thanks partly to his height (just over six feet), but mostly due to the fact that he always stood tall, Drake always stood out from the masses. Once divested of his winter wear and his face visible, Drake had sharp features dominated by a proud roman nose. His dark, almost black hair was unpredictable to say the least, a nest of uncontrollable locks that refused to be styled in any way – which was the main reason he had chosen to adopt his grandfather’s old fedora for much of the time.

His journey to work was made so much worse by the forest of umbrellas that filled the air. People would hold them high aloft in order to avoid taking out someone’s eye with one of the ribs, whilst others would dodge and weave around High Holborn trying to make it safely to their destination – the net result being that the pavement traffic was moving more slowly than a sloth that had rather given up on life.

Drake, knowing that he was already late, despaired at this sorry scene – he reflected that if people were to be made to choose a lane and prevented from walking willy-nilly wherever the whim took them, then perhaps this could be avoided. One of the pedestrians in front of him a few moments before had incurred his displeasure by walking along trying to juggle a briefcase, an out-sized umbrella, and talk gibberish on a mobile phone – Drake bullied him off the pavement and on to the road for being in his opinion ‘a little prick’.

It was in this foul mood that he bounded up the steps to the front door of the office and punched in his security number – which then failed to let him in. He would later discover that all the security codes had been altered over the Christmas break by one of the two ‘security’ guards without warning (the pair looked largely the same to Drake, so he had taken to calling them the cretin twins). He buzzed to get in and landed himself at his office desk.

So there you have it – if you think it is hateful rot, then I apologise for wasting your time. If you like it then that is great, and check out the new blog. Either way let me know, as feedback is always helpful.

TTFN

JHK

We interrupt this blog for this message…

It is probably not the best form to use this blog for commercial purposes, but this will be short and sweet and I will not mention it again to you dear reader.

Yesterday saw the launch of a new service for those who struggle with public speaking: Kingscripts.

Perhaps you have been asked to give a vital presentation for work, a keynote speech, or simply to address a gathering of friends and family at a social occasion. Are you wondering where to start?

Start right here. I can offer advice, guidance and, where required, a tailor made speech for every occasion. From conception, through to the final draft and even advice of how to deliver with confidence, I will be there every step of the way.

What I can offer:

• A complete tailor-made speech, working with you so that you can deliver a speech that will ensure that your audience are both entertained and informed.
• A guidance service that will am to polish and enhance a speech that you have already written, but lack confidence in giving.
• If you are worried about delivering your speech, I can one-to-one sessions in how to give that speech with confidence and panache – a great speech is nothing without the presentation to go with it. As a trained public speaker I can give you the hints and tips of the trade to really impress your audience.

I do not work from existing templates, so I can guarantee that your speech will be one of a kind, and because I work closely with you, it will also reflect you.

Apologies for this blatant piece of commercialism, but if this new venture is to succeed then it would be great if you, dear reader, could distribute this news far and wide. “How can we do this?” I hear you ask in unison. Well you could check out the website: http://kingscripts.webs.com/ and see what I have to offer and then pass it on to anyone who might need such a service.

Many thanks loyal readers – normal service will be resumed shortly, and I guarantee not to impinge on your time in this way again.

_______________________________________

What is Reality?

The question posed by the ever excellent Horizon strand on BBC2 last night. I’ll freely admit that Physics (the slightly hipper younger brother of Math) has always confused and scared me – which I think is its main attraction – but last nights programme was a doozy.

I am unable to go through the many and varied ideas – mostly because half of it I did not understand – but I will say that it touched on one of those theories that surprised and delighted me as a child and does to this day – parallel universes – that fabulous idea that with each decision we take the universe is divided into a parallel universe where the opposite decision was taken.

If you think that sounds far-fetched and a bit too sci-fi for you – I can tell you that it was not the weirdest of the theories – oh no – that falls to the rather brilliant, and entirely bonkers world of the Holographic principle. If you are interested here is the link to the Wikipedia entry – and it is, according to its main proponent Professor Leonard Susskind, well accepted in theoretical physics.

According to the principle, all the information for the universe is held at the very edge of the universe in two dimensions, making the world around us a cosmic hologram. At least I think that is what he was arguing – but the question that keeps nagging at me is this: does it matter? What if it does turn out that Susskind is correct and we are just a cosmic hologram? What if the nature of the universe is revealed by the discovery of the so-called ‘God Particle’ (a matter so complex and surrounded by language so dense that I could not begin to postulate as to what it is)?

Frankly, unless it means that we can bend the laws of physics and start running up walls in the manner of a character in The Matrix, I cannot think how it will change our lives at all.

Perhaps you disagree and think that it will make a massive difference to our day-to-day existence – I’d love to hear from you.

Well that is all for now – I have been up working since sparrows fart and I need to get out and get some air in my lungs.

TTFN

JHK

Back back back

Well, hasn’t it been a long time? Tut tut. It will never do.

The last time that I wrote in these pages I believe I was moaning about the World Cup – and the fact that I was looking forward to the impending birth of my first son, Harry.

All these things came to pass – the World Cup was so dull that I could not reliably tell you who won it – and much more  importantly my son (after some mild discomfort for my wife who insisted on screaming like a banshee about it) was released upon the unsuspecting world.

I am sure that much of what is to come in this blog will be very familiar to you dear reader, if you are a parent – the heady mix of euphoria of bringing a new life into the world and terror that this tiny fragile life is in your hands.

You soon learn that the medical profession have decided, in cahoots with the many and varied baby books, to have some fun with the newbie parent: they will insist that your baby feeds every three hours. Laura and I, noticed that young Harry had taken to sleeping pretty much through the night – so we, and I can hardly believe we were so wretchedly stupid, set an alarm at three hour intervals so we could wake the baby at silly o’ clock in the morning to feed him.

Yes you read that right dear reader. WE WOKE A SLEEPING BABY. Naturally, for Harry this meant play time– so having woken the chappie in the middle of the night we would not be resuming our nocturnal slumber. It was hell, but a self-administered hell, which I think you will agree is so much worse.

At no point in the very thorough baby book that my wife insisted we have, did it mention that in the first few weeks of your bonnie baby’s life that you will struggle to any of the following:

1.    Eat. Cooking is quite of the question, as you are so tired that it is actually dangerous to put the oven on.

2.    Shower or bathe – you just wash the essentials in your zombie like state and return to the needs of the tiny screaming machine that you have voluntarily brought into your home.

3.    Wash any of your clothes – this will be because the washing machine is now dedicated only to baby clothes, muslin squares, bibs etc. I found myself doing the sniff test – if it passed muster on it went.

Now, number three would be bad in any circumstances, but given the liberal doses of baby vomit, vivid yellow poo, and pee that they encounter from day to day, this is especially damaging to ones self-esteem.

I am not saying that I naively expected my baby not to vomit, pee and shit himself liberally, just that you never get any notice. For a short while on every occasion that I removed the nappy, Harry would merrily pee on me – and I do mean ON EVERY SINGLE OCCASION. This is a trying experience.

In addition, for the most part you are well aware if an adult is about to chunder, but not so with infants. You will be unaware that while you were carrying baby, the little one has been lavishly sick over your shoulder and down your back – something you will be blissfully unaware of until someone has the good grace to tell you hours later, after you have already visited the supermarket and stopped for a refreshing cup of coffee.

I am not 100 per cent sure that all babies are afflicted with the next syndrome, so I hesitate to say unless people say that Harry is a little strange. However, given the poor eyesight of all babies, perhaps this is more common than I think.

Harry could not tell the difference between a nipple and my nose. Now it may be that my nose just has a very nipple-ish shape, so it may be harsh to suggest that his attempts to feed from it lent my son an air of Mr Magoo – but again it was somewhat wearisome to be holding my son only for him to launch himself in the rough direction of my nose, often headbutting me in the process before trying to latch on.

Now that young Harry is older (5 months at time of writing) he is a delight – a very lovely little boy – and  we would not be without him (except when my inestimable mother-in-law has him for a few hours) for a moment.

I occasionally reflect back on my life pre-baby, the clean, ironed clothes; the money that was not disappearing into a black hole marked ‘baby clothes’, the all night parties and the following mornings epic hangovers, and I know that this life is infinitely better.

Thanks for reading as ever, and I’ll be back with more general thoughts in the not too distant future.

JHK

The World Cup Bore…

 

So after all the hullabaloo, the biggest competition in world football has finally kicked off – with the rather less than tempting South Africa vs Mexico. As I write the match is still 0-0 – although the host nation look to be holding on rather than holding their own if the BBC text commentary is anything to go by.

And so we get to look forward to a festival of Football – or do we? Do we, in fact, get tepid play for the first week or so, with teams desperate to not lose the first couple of games, followed by some better more forward play from those teams who will have nothing to lose, or teams who are going through the knock-out stages any way?

From here on in it will be back to the dry game of keep-ball engaged in by most countries, keen to make the quarter-finals/semi-finals/final. And I ask you have you ever seen a truly exciting final? No, me neither.

Despite this truth I shall no doubt torture myself by watching the games, in the slim hope that one of them will turn out to be a crackerjack of a game with end to end action and goals galore.

So, with that in mind who is up for Honduras vs Chile?

Anyone? Anyone at all?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Northampton Bound

I have lived in London for practically the whole of my life – my youth mis-spent in the suburban north, University in the East and latterly in dubious charms of the West – and so the thought of leaving the capital has been a difficult one.

The choice was made for practical and if we are being honest (blogs should only divert from the gospel truth to either protect the innocent or for comic effect) for economic reasons.

Northampton has its charms – it is the hometown of the current Doctor (Matt Smith), Comic-book writer Alan Moore and a successful Rugby team – but it is still just a provincial town. My only other experience of living outside of London was my time doing Postgraduate studies in Bristol. In the view of a jaundiced Londoner it was like moving to Royston Vasey.

I travelled up to Bristol just before term started to find somewhere to live – I got out at the bus station and immediately made a mistake. I asked one of the locals for directions to the Tourist Information Office. The man was at least two hundred years old, but then again on looking around the bus station, it appeared that everyone were enjoying their last few hours on earth before shuttling off this mortal coil.

His face was a mass of creases and his features were to be found in lurking in the many folds of skin that made up his visage, so it was impossible to tell whether the steady gaze he fixed me with was hostile or friendly, it hardly mattered since the information he imparted was indecipherable. The accent was, as I think I described it to friends at the time, a west country drawl speeded up 500 per cent. I smiled, thanked him, and then backed slowly away, possibly in the wrong direction – who can say?

I retired, baffled, to a McDonalds for a Coke and a sit down to read a map of the area. It was just as I sat down and rested my large Coke on the table that I realised that something was wrong with the pitch. For reasons that only God will ever know, I suspect, it had been purposely designed to slant at a 45 degree incline, thus rendering reading the map, while protecting my drink from an unceremonious trip to the floor, impossible.

I emerged into a light drizzle (I had not known this at the time, but this was going to be the state of affairs for practically the entire time I lived there), with my coke and still without a clue as to where I was, or indeed where I was going. I appeared to be in some sort of shopping district of town, which resembled every provincial shopping centre in Britain, it was depressing and I wondered how I would find the city centre, where I guessed I might locate the Tourist Information Office as I had not actually bothered to book a hotel before travelling.

I walked aimlessly for a while before coming across, quite by accident, a sign for the Tourist Office, hurrah and huzzah I thought, and before long I was safely in the warm surroundings of a palatial room in one of Bristol’s many guesthouses for the measly sum of £25 per night. I stepped, fresh, and with renewed vigour to take the night air and sample what Bristol had to offer.

I knew that I was staying a short stroll from a bus stop that proudly displayed that all its buses went to the City Centre, so I hopped on one of the single-deckers and waited for the bright lights of Bristol City.

The bus stopped in the shopping district that I had found myself in earlier that day and announced that this was the last stop. What had happened? Had I missed the stop? Had I momentarily blacked out while we whisked through the bars and restaurants? I questioned the driver tersely, only to be told that this was, in fact, the City Centre. Horrified I went to the nearest Tesco, bought junk food, and returned defeated to my room and ate alone watching television.

Naturally over the period that I lived in Bristol I did discover the bars and restaurants, I also discovered that the only way to go to the cinema in Bristol, or do any serious shopping, was to go on an hour-long trip by Bus to Cribb’s Causeway. I understand that Cabot Circus, a new £500 million development, is now located in walking distance of the City Centre – which is, in all likelihood, an identikit of all the others that have sprung up over the years, but at least it is not located miles from anywhere, which I suppose is a bonus.

So; provincial living, been there, done that.

We will not cut our ties to the great metropolis, I’ll still have to work here after all. More importantly we will be back to see our friends – and one of the many benefits conferred by living near a parent is that should there be a party we just cannot miss – we’ll have willing volunteers to looks after young Harry when he comes.

So it is not goodbye to London, it is a leave of absence – I am pretty sure that one day we’ll be back.

Thanks, as ever, for reading,

J

 

In Spain no one can hear you scream…

Holidays are never quite what you want them to be – and to be honest an ideal, perfect vacation in the sun would be incredibly dull to relate to friends and families later.

Think back to your favourite holiday-related anecdotes and you will find they are about mini-disasters. I have many of these in the bank – the time we set out as a family for a wine tour of Bordeaux and found an old man, a shed and couple of metallic vats (“voila!” says the man, “c’est tous?” say we, “oui” says he with apparent pride) and not the English speaking winery with free tasting as advertised.

There are abortive trips to caves (a few of those for some reason); getting diverted from our chosen path through France, only to find that the helpful ‘Diversion’ signs stopped after a going through miles of uncharted countryside leaving us lost and bewildered; Blackpool (not just one incident that – just the whole thing). But not one of them even comes to close to a true disaster – not one of them competes with the sheer unimaginable horror of a holiday to the Costa Del Sol.

We had not expected to find ourselves in Benalmadena – sandwiched between the delights of Fuengirola and Torremolinos – as we had thought we were bound for Marbella. Had we but known perhaps we would have been more prepared for the stag and hen parties, the overabundance of places guaranteeing Sky Sports and all-day breakfasts. Despite this horrible realization that I was not going to be enjoying a tapas plate in a small restaurant overlooking the sea, there were other small consolations.

The hotel, of course, was a monstrosity. A giant, terracotta abomination, the effect of which was only ameliorated by the other oversized cornflake boxes masquerading as hotels that surrounded it. But pool-side was pretty nice (if you ignored the clientele and their apparent tattoo obsession), and the weather was glorious – mid-twenties, blue sky, with a mild sea-breeze to stop it getting too hot. Perfect for laying back and doing nothing. If only we had done exactly that – but then we would have missed the sheer delights of ‘The Original Blanket Tour’.

I am a sucker for a freebie, so when it was announced that we would be able to travel for free and gratis to the pretty town of Mehas in the mountains we, my wife Laura and myself, put our names down. If you are ever in a similar position – do yourselves a favour and fork out the money for the bus or a cab.

The advert cheerily informed us that we would be ferried to the town of Mehas, and in return we would sit through a short demonstration of a ‘bedding system’. It did not say that this would, in truth, have us trapped in a room for the best part of two hours, whilst two rejects from QVC extolled the virtues of merino wool blankets (although some of the claims were truly hilarious). To say this was tedious would be to perform the most magnificent of understatement.

All this meant that we would have the luxury of one-hour to look around Mehas – marvellous (as Tony Hancock may have put it). They did point out though that a bus would take us directly back to our hotel if we wanted to stay longer. We found that we did. This was an error.

I don’t wish for a moment to suggest that Spain has an eccentric bus system. But, how is it possible after staring at the information for a good half-hour and having a lengthy conversation with someone who had used them before, to get on the wrong bus? We even indicated our destination on boarding, yet we still managed to find ourselves in Torremolinos – which is unlovely to say the least.

I could go on about the private horrors that assailed us – the ‘toasted’ ham and cheese sandwich where only the bread had been partially toasted and cold ham and a slice of something that may have been cheese-related, inserted into it. The Cappuccino that had been made with, what could well have been instant, coffee and then squirty-cream applied to the top. The €5 charge for a pint of lager – just because a certain Mr Banderos owned the bar. But these were minor irritants in comparison with what happened at the conclusion of our week in the sun.

EasyJet. Yes, those purveyors of not-really-very-cheap-at-all flights are much complained about. This was my first experience of this company, and it is very likely to be my last.

Laura, as you may already be aware, is pregnant. Flying we were informed would not be a problem, as the website seemed to suggest that 35 weeks was the cut-off point. Laura was only 29 weeks as we flew back. What we had not noticed stuck away in the smallest print known to man is that after 27 weeks you require a ‘fit-to-fly’ certificate. We were told with a certain amount of relish from the Spanish ground staff, (and let me insert here they were two of the ugliest women I have yet encountered in my life, making the Gorgon sisters look positively gorgeous in comparison), we could not fly.

Now, as you might expect, we were at the end of our hols – money had all but expired so any money we did have we were going to have to preserve for cab fares to and from a clinic and any expense for the certificate. They knew this. I had told them. They also knew my wife was heavily pregnant. And yet they thought it would be better to have her sleep in an airport overnight than ‘risk’ flying her home.

Now, we were also left to try and locate a clinic that might furnish us with this certificate – but luckily the helpdesk at the airport was a little more helpful and told us how much the cab would be and what to ask for.

In another happy accident our cab driver misinterpreted our haste to get to the clinic, and given his pedal to the metal driving style and his spectacular slide to the very entrance of the clinic, I suspect he thought Laura was about to give birth.

So that I do not bore you further with this tale of woe, I shall just say that the Spanish medical system is top notch and very thorough – they also did not charge us anything for the certificate – and we did eventually get a flight back to the UK – albeit 24 hours later that intended.

We travelled by a charter that was clearly laid on for a cancelled flight, but EasyJet, purveyors of airborne doom and gloom, had not provided enough food and drink for the passengers….a final flourish of crapulence that meant that we arrived in the UK feeling more stresses than we had going out, hungry, thirsty and wishing ill of those who had put us in this predicament.

I have complained – for all the good it will do – and if they surprise me with an answer, or some sort of apology, I will of course let you know.

TTFN,

 

J

What now?

Well – the result was not exactly a surprise. Perhaps what was slightly surprising is how apparently accurate the exit poll was – and the failure of the Liberal Democrats to make an impact on the election in spite of all the pre-poll day hype surrounding Nick Clegg.

In an uncertain election, one thing appears to come home very clearly. We cannot have another election on a ‘first past the post’ basis. The Liberal Democrats will be extremely disappointed, they have lost seats, and they have lost some excellent MPs – not least Dr Evan Harris who was a genuine voice for science and rationality in parliament, but they will be even more upset that there share in the vote went up by 1 per cent and yet they onkl. 57 seats (at time of writing) is a pity poor return for nearly a quarter of the vote, and whether or not you support their policies, you have to admit it is hardly democratic.

I did not stay up all night for the results, once the exit polls came out it did not look like we were going to have the upsets that we had in that election – no Portillo moments – which is a bit of a shame really, there is nothing so enjoyable as watching an MP with a solid majority suddenly realize that the voters have unceremoniously booted them out, like a rowdy drunk after closing time.

After all the hype and the hope, this election has become turned into a damp squib – no one has the keys to Number Ten as yet, and apparently this means that Dave will be playing footsie with Nick tonight to get him and his party on side (“ooh, yeah, do you like that promise of an electoral committee? How about a seat on the Cabinet?”)

Were I Nick Clegg I might have trouble with the ‘open comprehensive offer’ that Dave is making. It appears to be – we expect you support us on those policy areas on which we are agreed, and in return we’ll go ahead and do all those things we don’t agree on too. The maybe there is still an option to link up with Labour, but it is unlikely that he would flirt with Mr Brown – a man it is widely believed his dislikes intensely. So will the Dark Lord, Mandy Mandelson, start to plot against the Brown and install a younger, more attractive model that Clegg might prefer?

Whoever Clegg decides to ally the Lib Dems with, one thing seems likely. We’ll be back at the polls before very long, and have to go through all this again.

Who to vote for?

Hi all,

I said that I would try and pop a quick entry up before the election, but oh dear. That lovely man @stephenfry  beat me to it with his mammoth, but incredibly articulate blog on who he might vote for.

I wanted to say here, that regardless of you who want to vote for, please do get out tomorrow and vote. And when you do please vote for who you want, rather than against another party. We have, in my view, heard far to much on the subject of why we should not be voting for the Tories, Labour or the Lib Democrats – it is time to take a good look in your heart and vote for who you truly believe will shepherd us through these difficult times.

The choice, as it should be, is yours to make, without having to worry that the UK will implode if there is a hung parliament.

So go with light heart to your local polling station and pop an X in the box, and I’ll try and catch up with you all for a longer blog on Friday.

Toodle pip…

James

A is for Atheist

Quick one for today folks – and hi to anyone new who is looking at this blog – I have noticed an upswing in the figures recently – which has been nice. Still no illusions – the newbies may not be back.

You may have noticed that there is a nice red A just to the right of this text – nice isn’t it? You may also have noticed that it has the words ‘A is for Atheist’ proudly displayed above it.

This does not indicate that this blog will suddenly concern itself with religion bashing for its own sake. Indeed you will note that I have avoided commenting on the hilarious memo from the Foreign Office suggesting exciting things for the Pope to do – mainly because I was ashamed that I had not beaten them to the punch with my own suggestions… However I have noted in the Telegraph have a quote from William Hague, who seems enraged by the incident:

“This whole episode was utterly unacceptable. A Conservative-run Foreign and Commonwealth Office would put a stop to such pointless time-wasting and insulting activities. Visits by international leaders should be handled with the respect they deserve and that we would expect to be extended to us.”

Oh what a shame. I got considerable minutes of mirth out of it. Come on Billy, sense of humour please.

Still, this blog remains much the same, a collection of unrelated, but hopefully entertaining observations on the world around us – but it is as well you know that if I do post anything on the church that I do so as an unrepentant unbeliever.

What the A does do, however, is to support the work of the Out Campaign, you can read Professor Richard Dawkin’s introduction to the movement here.  And importantly for me this not just about trying to force our non-belief on those with faith, but,  in Dawkin’s own words:

“It follows that a major part of our consciousness-raising effort should be aimed, not at converting the religious but at encouraging the non-religious to admit it — to themselves, to their families, and to the world. This is the purpose of the OUT campaign.”

Thanks, as ever for reading. We’ll be back to normal next week with a pre-election blog and probably a quick reaction the next day (paticularly if as predicted we have no clear idea as to who has won!)

J