29 September 2019
This week wasn’t a good one for Our Dear Leader.
Tuesday, Supreme Court 11, Boris Johnson nil. (Isn’t it encouraging that 11 of our most senior judges can put aside their personal politics and feelings about Brexit and just focus on our constitutional law!)
Wednesday, Jekyll and Hyde: the Attorney General made the fair point that advice he might (or might not) have given the prime minister about proroguing parliament was made in good faith but the Supreme Court had decided he was wrong and he accepted their judgement. Then he transmogrified into Geoffrey Cox MP and got very unpleasant.
Boris Johnson said he strongly disagrees with the Court’s decision and threw all the toys out of his pram. (I strongly disagree with the law that says I can’t do 120mph on a motorway but I accept this doesn’t give me the right to do so.)
Thursday: the media almost unanimously describe Wednesday’s atmosphere in the House of Commons as “toxic”. Our Dear Leader takes the day off to avoid having to witness his 7th defeat in 7 votes and refuses to apologise for anything while Rachel, his sister, called his language “reprehensible”. (She was once asked which of her brothers would make the best prime minister and said “Leo”.)
Even on the unedifying interview on today’s Andrew Marr Show, Johnson was unrepentant though he did nearly admit that he hadn’t meant to imply that threats of violence against women MPs were “humbug”.
I can’t remember a time when Britain has ever been so angry. We wrinklies were all pretty scared during the Cuban missile crisis, Maggie Thatcher upset many of us and Tony Blair got two million of us onto the streets of London but the anger we’re seeing at the moment is unprecedented.
There’s even a rumour that Johnson will ignore the Benn law, claiming EU law allows him to do so. Poetic eh?
Which reminds me that our village is supposed to have a reputation for a very large population of rats. We’ve certainly been having frequent visits from dear little furry things who argue behind the kitchen cupboards and move furniture in the loft so I’ve been scattering poison like a Buddhist who doesn’t quite understand the rules.
The trouble is with the rats’ revenge. They obligingly eat the poison, then die and stink to high heaven for a couple of weeks, followed by we get an invasion of unpleasant large bluebottles who eat spiders for breakfast.
Greta Thunberg’s Twitter profile used to describe her as “16 year old climate activist with Asperger’s” until Donald Trump sarcastically tweeted “She seems like a very happy young girl looking forward to a bright and wonderful future. So nice to see!” Thunberg’s profile now reads: “A very happy young girl looking forward to a bright and wonderful future.”
Hargreaves Lansdown, the UK’s largest retail investment platform, has long recommended funds run by the investment manager Neil Woodford and still has to apologise for misjudging him. Woodford’s luck ran out last year and he suspended dealings in one of his most popular funds this year. He’s since been switching some of his dodgier holdings into four FTSE100 shares, two of which bombed on results announced this week.
Peter Hargreaves, one of the founders of Hargreaves Lansdown, retired in 2015 and is now a multi-billionaire. He has been very critical of HL’s failure to drop Woodford from their list of favourite funds but still owns 32% of the company and received a £64m dividend in August. When criticised about this, he said “Nothing to do with me and I’ve been very successful. What do they want me to do? Give the dividend back to the unit holders?” All together now: YES!
I’ve recently come across a new type of sexuality. Demisexuality describes people who can only have sex with people they know and like. Perhaps I’m demisexual because I can imagine having sex with people I like, and I can’t with people I don’t, but I’ve never previously realised I’m part of a minority group that needs a specific label. Mind you, I’m probably part of an even smaller minority group because most of my best friends – not just the male ones – don’t fill me with any temptation to rip off my longjohns.
So, it’s now LGBTIQD and I can go on Pride marches. Why don’t we just define people who can be aroused by the sight of a strangely-shaped carrot as NEH (Not Enough Hobbies) or PR (Potential Rapists) and treat the rest of us as normal?