DUFF & NONSENSE!

None so blind as them wot don't wanna see!

I suppose we all have our blind spots but it is a source of constant delight to me when I come across people, usually Lefties, who with great deliberation adopt the Nelsonian principle of carefully placing their world-view telescopes to their blind eyes.  Take for example, Councillor Bob Piper, a Labour tribune of the people, an impeccable liberal to his uncalloused fingertips, a defender of liberty, an enthusiastic supporter of trade unionism and a scourge of the boss class.  He likes to take his holidays in Cuba.  Quite!  Need I say more?  Well, I suppose I should just in case some lost Lefty stumbles in here and fails to spot the irony because he has his telescope rammed in his blind eye!  Councillor Piper is never slow to attack the 'Great Satan' in North America and is always enthusiastic in his defence of every gangster in South America including, and especially, Fidel Castro in Cuba. 

In this enthusiastic campaign he is joined by some eminent members of the 'Trot-lot Faction' like Derek Simpson, one of the joint leaders of UNITE, the trade union currently leading some of its dimmer members up the path to the personal financial ruin that awaits those on strike against British Airways.  So tirelessly does Mr. Simpson work on behalf of the idiots members of his union that he is impelled to seek relaxation where he can, for example, the 'PLAYSKOOL BAR' in Bangkok (Bangkok - such a very suitable name, in the circs!) whose name derives from a time when the ladies employed there used to dress in school uniforms:

 

As we all know, UNITE is using their members' funds to support a considerable number of Labour parliamentary candidates and when Mr. Simpson managed to drag himself away from the delights of the 'PLAYSKOOL BAR' he sent out a letter with a thinly disguised threat to these candidates:

As the Joint General Secretary of Unite, a trade union with almost 2 million members I am contacting Prospective Parliamentary Candidates to hear their views on Cuba.

If elected as an MP would you support better relations between the UK and Cuba?

Paul Waugh asks, not unreasonably, how Mr. Simpson's union would get on in were it operating in Cuba.  Not too well, apparently:

According to the ITUC'S 2007 report:

"There was no change in Cuba where the single trade union system persists, there is no genuine collective bargaining and the right to strike is not recognised in law.

"Independent trade unionists continued to face persecution and seven of the trade unionists sentenced to lengthy prison terms in 2003 remained behind bars. Humanitarian aid destined for them and their families was confiscated by the authorities. Another trade unionist arrested in 2004 also stayed in prison.

Lest there be any confusion, when the report refers to trade unionists being "behind bars" it is not the Cuban version of the 'PLAYSKOOL BAR'!

In fairness, I should make clear that whilst Councillor Piper is a prize humbug, in every other aspect he is, I am sure, a gentleman of taste and discernment who would shun the proletarian delights to which Brother Simpson is attracted!

Thank God - I've reached VE Day!

'Well I made it', which was probably a thought shared by millions of men and women in 1945, and one with which I can sympathise having at last reached the end of Armageddon, Max Hastings's immense chronicle of the Battle for Germany 1944-5.  Increasingly towards the latter half of the book Hastings tells the story through the personal experiences of an enomous number of participants from a wide variety of backgrounds.  After a while this becomes somewhat wearing but I think he was right to do so.  It shamed an amateur 'strategist'(?), like me, for having spent too much time with books full of maps and statistics and the movements of forces hither and thither and the arguments and squabbles of the generals and politicians.  Now my unbloodied nose has been well and truly rubbed in the filth and degeneration of a collapsed civilisation and through which only an occasional glimmer of human decency emerges.

Having said that, there is no doubt that it was a war that simply had to be fought and it is almost a duty for people today to try to comprehend it and to grapple with the problems our fathers and grandfathers faced.  History teaches us the mistakes to avoid which is why I think the teaching of it is so essential.  Oddly enough, I feel so strongly on this that recently I wrote to the Headmaster of a local school offering one of my military history PowerPoint talks free of charge to his senior students.  I have been told that my letter was passed to the Head of History who would be in touch.  The subsequent silence is deafening!  My aim in offering this was not to teach the details of this or that campaign but to enthuse the youngsters with the idea of studying military history.

Any detailed study of WWII leaves you shaking your head in disbelief and wondering by what agency of luck did we scrape through more or less in one piece?  The fact is, and whether it is good or bad can still be disputed, that the citizen-soldiers of the USA and Britain were just not very good at war and nor, with rare exceptions, were their military leaders.  Like every other rank amateur I have moaned and groaned at Eisenhower's ridiculous insistence on fighting slowly, oh so slowly, across a broad front instead of concentrating force on the crucial point and driving it like a stake into the heart of Germany.  But the fact is that his soldiers simply lacked the aggressive spirit and the confidence in their tactics to even attempt such a thing; and their officers, for the most part civilians in uniform like them, had no knowledge of any sort of theory of war to match that developed over 150 years by Prussia/Germany.  Any major thrust would have invited an instantaneous German counter-attack on both flanks leading to a disaster, much as Montgomery's ludicrous effort at Arnhem ended up.  So 'Ike' was undoubtedly right even if, as I suspect, he didn't know why he was right!  As Hastings puts it:

If allied soldiers had possessed the energy, commitment and will for sacrifice of either German or Russian armies, they might have achieved a decisive breakthrough.  But American and British soldiers were not panzergrenadiers.  Socially and morally, we should be profoundly grateful that it was so.  [...]  To have achieved a swift victory, Eisenhower's soldiers would have needed to be different people.  If American and British soldiers of 1944-5 had matched the military prowess and become imbued with the warrior ethos of Hitler's armies, it is unlikely that we should today hold the veterans of the Second World War in the just regard that we do.  They fought as bravely  and as well as any democracy could ask, if the values of civilisation were to be retained in their ranks. (My emphasis)

Let that be their truly honourable epitaph.

 

Tinker, Tailor, Tanker, Tossers

Down below I pointed to the travesty which the 'cousins' are conducting in their efforts to replace their ageing air-refueling tanker fleet.  I would not wish to give the impression that we 'over here' cannot compete on the world stage for sheer incompetence so I am delighted to tell you all that our brilliant Labour government and the superb Ministry of Total Cock-ups Defence have succeeded in spending £12.3 billion (let me write that again - billion!) on a fleet of transport and re-fueling tankers which cannot serve in Afghanistan, or any war zone, because they lack armour, anti-missile sytems and early-warning radar.  To correct this teensy-weensy problem will cost several million more, just as the extra maintenance needed to keep the old transport aircraft going for a few more years will also cost another £500 million.  In a previous post I referred to my doubts concerning the abilities of high-ranking RAF officers.  This latest cock-up confirms my worst suspicions, and whilst fingers can and should be pointed at ministers, then steel-capped boots should be put into the fat, useless arses of several air marshals,too.

If you can stomach it, read the whole thing here.

 

Alan Sullivan - an example to us all

To say that it is painful to read of Alan's battle against cancer invites the riposte that it ain't half as painful as it is for him!  In fact, in one way it is not at all painful for a reader of his blog because you come away heartened at this example of human fortitude in the face of disaster.  The drug regime is the equivalent of going ten rounds with Muhammed Ali but each and every time Alan comes out counter-punching.  With a steely determination to finish his self-imposed epic task of translating the psalms he carefully husbands his remaining strength and draws essential support from his profound Christian belief.  I read him every morning and wince in sympathy for his travails.  Perhaps his God is testing him.  If so, he's passed with honours.

My weakness - oh! alright then, one of my weaknesses

Regular readers will be familiar with my occasional references to the late (I assume, by now) Miss Woods, Eng. Lit. & Lang., c. 1950-55.  A thin-lipped spinster of the parish although, much to everyone's surprise, she did contract a marriage in her middle-age.  Miss Wood did not suffer fools gladly which meant that she gave me a hard time!  I should point out, even though none of you will be surprised, that during my 5 years in Grammar School I remained firmly in the bottom stream class, and frequently was bottom of that class.  It is in recognition of that dismal scholastic record and the oft-repeated phrase in my school reports that I have let it be known to my nearest and dearest that I should like the words "Could have done better" to be carved on my headstone.  And yet ... and yet ...

The fact is, and Miss Woods would likely drop dead with shock (or laughter), if she has not passed away already, were she to find out that I am one dunce with whom she actually succeeded.  (Did you notice the way I wriggled to avoid finishing a sentence with a preposition?) I still have some of my original school books because I loved them so much I could never bear to let them go.  As some of you know, later in life I turned into a Shakespeare freak/fan (you choose), and when it comes to the Eng. Lang. bit I am a nail-biting neurotic.  I really do worry about my grammar.  Everytime I sit here 'Boring for Britain' I keep shooting nervous glances back at what I have written hoping to spot at least some of the grammatical errors I know abound in my writing.  I find it intensely difficult to edit myself so that I can read and re-read a post in draft without spotting a single spelling mistake or grammatical error, but the minute I publish it on the blog they leap up and down waving two fingers at me!

All of this is simply a means of introducing a man who was, I suspect, Miss Woods's hero.  I refer to the godhead of the English language - Henry Watson Fowler.  He, more than most, would appreciate the irony that his Modern English Usage is now 84 years old!  It has, apparently, been subject to two revisions by later English language experts but happily original versions can still be found in the second-hand book trade.  David Crystal, part author of absolutely the best Shakespearean glossary ever written, has now written a book in praise of Fowler which has been reviewed in The Globe & Mail.  In it, Crystal points up the good-natured humour of the man and his easy going tolerance of English usage:

Crystal acknowledges the long polarization between descriptivists, who observe the way language usage is changing, and prescriptivists, who often lament those changes and insist on rules that buck current trends. Fowler was largely a prescriptivist. Crystal, like Burchfield [an earlier revisionist], is more of a descriptivist, but where Burchfield was unkind to Fowler, Crystal is of two minds: “Although the book is full of his personal likes and dislikes, his prescriptivism – unlike that practised by many of his disciples – is usually intelligent and reasoned.” [...]

“What grammarians say should be,” he writes, “has perhaps less influence on what shall be than even the more modest of them realize; usage evolves itself little disturbed by their likes & dislikes. And yet the temptation to show how better use might have been made of the material to hand is sometimes irresistible.” Crystal comments: “I sense a linguist inside him crying to get out, but being held back by a prescriptive conscience.”

Happily, whilst Fowler may have been somewhat prescriptive he was no pedant:

Fowler was no friend of pedants. He said it was fine to use a split infinitive, or to end sentences with a preposition, or to begin sentences with “but.”

Thank God for that - but I still tie myself in knots trying not to do it!

Fowler's book brims with inspired turns of phrase. The term “pedantry,” he wrote, “is obviously a relative one; my pedantry is your scholarship, his reasonable accuracy, her irreducible minimum of education, & someone else's ignorance.” The word “galore” is “chiefly resorted to by those who are reduced to relieving dullness of matter by oddity of expression.” (My emphasis)

Oh dear, how many times have I been guilty of that sin?  Anyway, I treasure my old copy of Fowler and I do refer to him from time to time but, alas, I still cannot get the hang of his prescription on the tricky problem of the correct use of 'that/which'.  Sorry, Miss Wood, another hundred lines, is it?

Additional:  I forgot to acknowedge the source of my link above - the invaluable Arts & Letters Daily - simply the best!

Deadly numbers

I am still making my way, slowly but steadily, through Max Hastings's superlative history of the final onslaught against Hitler's Germany - Armageddon.  It may be unfair but from my previous studies I had already formed a very low opinion of the general level of competence of the RAF High Command but this book confirms my worst suspicions.  Of course, 'Bomber' Harris attracts most of the venom but Portal and Tedder were no great shakes, either.  The reviled name of Harris remains forever linked to the unremittingly savage attacks launched against the cities and the people of Germany.  No blame can be attached to the young crewmen whose losses were only exceeded by German U-boat crews.  Throughout the air campaign the Allied Air Forces achieved the death of 2 to 3 civilians for each serviceman they killed.  They destroyed almost 2 million homes and killed a total of around 600,000 civilians.  These people were the unwitting victims of a bunch of Air Marshals bedazzled by the prospect of winning a war by strategic bombing and thus avoiding the bloody clash of armies which so many of them had witnessed at first hand in the trenches of 1914-18.  It was a glittering but false prospect and its failings were made clear during and after the blitz of 1940-41.  It is fair to include Carl Spaatz, the commander of the 8th USAAF, amongst this collection of aerial donkeys leading lions.  All in all, it was a prime example of a group of professional experts completely and utterly clinging to a theory even as it disintegrated around them like a Lancaster hit by AA fire.  (How many examples of that sort of arrogance are current today?)

Churchill, to his credit, never bought into the theory but during the 'interim' years of 1942-3 was forced to accede to Harris's importunings because he needed desperately to demonstrate to Stalin that Britian was prosecuting the war to the limits of its capabilities in order to avoid even a possibility that Stalin might sue for a seperate peace, and air power was the only means at his disposal.  However, in 1944-45 such an imperative had disappeared and Churchill must accept some of the blame for failing to bring Harris to heel.  Mind you, the American command failed equally in curbing Spaatz's ambitions and I suppose that Churchill was keen to have the RAF up there alongside the USAAF.

What is unforgiveable in this pig-headed mind-set which seized-up the professional intellects of the Air Force Commanders is that the horrific casualty rates amongst their own flyers was never allowed to impinge on what passed for their thinking.  Thus, men who had seen the waste of blood and treasure in 1914-18 simply kept the same useless mills of death churning from 1942-45:

Among every hundred RAF Bomber Command aircrew in the course of the war, fifty one died on operations, nine were lost in crashes in England, three seriously injured, twelve were taken prisoner, one was shot down and escaped capture, and just twenty four completed a tour of operations.

It is worth stressing here that the chances of 'enjoying' the equivalent of a 'Blighty wound' was vanishingly tiny.  By and large, if your plane was hit you died!

Yet another fault that Hastings points to is the complete lack of a systematic analysis of exactly who was really needed in an aircrew.  Why did American crews always carry a bomb-aimer, who was a passenger for all but 10 minutes of the flight, when their practice was for all aircraft to release their bombs when they saw the lead plane do so?  Did British heavy bombers really need two gunners when it was generally acknowledged that their pathetic .303 machine guns were never likely to hit an enemy fighter?  According to Hastings, far and away the most effective British bomber was the little Mosquito which nevertheless carried a formidable bomb load and with only a crew of two used its speed and its agility to avoid trouble.

The follies of the Allied Air Force commanders cannot, and should not, be compared to the crimes of the Nazis.  Even so, reading about it, even 60-odd years after the event, one cannot but be moved to anger at this catalogue of colossal errors, and then moved to pity for the horrendous waste of life.  Harris, Spaatz and their staffs were not evil men, and there-in lies the pity of it all.  They were decent men doing their unthinking duty.

 

Would a Labour victory necessarily be "A Bad Thing"?

An odd question, perhaps, coming as it does from a Neanderthal, old re-actionay like me but I am beginning to entertain the implication behind it.  Who-ever wins the next election is going to face 'a perfect storm', 'a sea of troubles' - oh, you choose your own metaphors - anyway, bucket-fulls of brown stuff are going to hit several fans simultaneously.  The Institute of Fiscal Studies, bless their bean-counting brains, has exposed the truth behind the utter waste of oxygen that was Darling's budget speech.  Everyone, well apart from large swathes of the Great British Public who remain in denial, knows that the next few years are going to be a nightmare.  The cuts in those public departments not ring-fenced will need to be close to 25% which will make 'that woman's' efforts at strict housekeeping look like cheese-paring.  Even the so-called 'ring-fenced' departments, like the NHS, are already preparing for cuts despite Brown's boast and whilst he might claim that front-line services will not be effected the fact is that we all know that in those huge bureaucracies it is always, but always, the people up the sharp end who are cut whilst the back office remains inviolable. Most of those laid off will be from that huge surfeit of public employees that Brown and Balls have recruited over the last 12 years precisely as an exercise in buying Labour votes so it is entirely fair that they should now reap the whirlwind of impoverishing these self-same people.

In addition, the unions, based mostly on public employees, are rolling up their sleeves to refight the battles of yester-year in an effort to regain what they lost under 'that woman'.  With the sort of mega-stupidity of which only union leaders seem capable, they have already kicked off before the election!  However, after it, with all the impending cuts, they will have even better cause for national disruption and the next government, of either party, will need to be prepared for wave after wave of national strikes in key areas.  Who better and more deserving to face this maelstrom than a Labour party in receipt of huge union subsidies?

And there is one more possible outcome from a Labour win, an outcome that is, in my view, "devoutly to be wished", and that is the removal of Cameron and Osborne from the leadership of the Tory party.  Whilst I fully understand that in politics it is often necessary to be circumspect that is no excuse for political cowardice and an inability to express a coherent, philosophical thrust to the people who are your natural supporters.  If Cameron/Osborne muck up this election they deserve to be 'disappeared' - although only the 'Intelligent Designer' knows who would replace them!

My perfect outcome for the next election would be a weak Labour government forced to face up to the consequences of its own misrule and by doing so educating the Great British Public into some sense of economic reality.  Hopefully, such a government would fall apart after about 18 months and a new and authentic Tory  leader will have arisen to sweep them away. 

Well, as I have said before, a man can dream, can't he?

Additional:  By pure fluke I came across this article by John Lanchester in The London Review of Books which, dammit, says what I tried to say above, plus more, and with more elegance and knowledge than I possess.  A 'must read'!

http://www.lrb.co.uk/v32/n05/john-lanchester/the-great-british-economy-disaster

And lo, a sickly, mewling infant was born . . .

. . . And his name was Democracy!  Unbelievable! A government changed hands in Iraq by means of the ballot not the bullet.  Thus, here at D&N we have succeeded in maintaining our proud record of being wrong more often, er, much more often, than we are right!  Yes, I know there was an election a few years back but that was an elected government taking over from the one imposed by the Americans.  Today we have a change-over by an election which was, by and large, reasonably above board. The crucial question is whether or not it will last?  The outgoing PM, Maliki, says he will challenge several perceived faults in the system but will abide by the result.  I don't think people in the West realise what a giant step that is in a country like Iraq.  It means that Maliki and his ministers and cronies and the tens of thousands of people they represent, are willing to take a chance by giving power to their opponents and taking the chance - a very big chance - that these self-same opponents will give them an opportunity to win power back in a few years' time.  Such a thing has never happened in Iraq before.  Will it last?  Will the sickly infant beat the odds by surviving and thriving?  Even as I write, some bitter Colonel may be plotting with his fellow officers, or some swivel-eyed Imam may be receiving his orders from Teheran whose government there will not be best pleased with this blatant example of democracy flourishing in their next door neighbour.  I hardly dare whisper the thought but if it succeeds, if the Iraqi political class do realise that they can give up power in the confidence that they will be allowed safely to recontest later, and if the people see and support the process, then the totalitarian Left here in the West who stood so 'valiantly'(?) by the side of Saddam Hussein and agitated against the war will be shown up for what they are.  Similarly, cynical old supporters of real-politik, like me, who never believed for a second that democracy would stand a chance in Iraq, will have been proven wrong.  Finally, and most galling of all to the Left will be the unpalatable fact that 'Dubya' was right as well as Right!

Additional: And Daniel Korski who has, as they say, been there, done that and got the T-shirt, shares my amazement:

http://www.spectator.co.uk/coffeehouse/5870753/the-neocons-were-right.thtml

 

Tinker, Tanker, Airman, Crook!

Here's an oddity and on the basis of my ignorance of much of the detail - so no change there, then - I will hold back from any clear conclusions.  Suffice to say that the World Trade Organisation who, amongst other things, adjudicate on international trade disputes, has come down hard against the French/Euro EADS Airbus in its air-refueling guise accusing it of cheating with illegal subsidies.  EADS was in receipt of a $5 billion illegal subsidy in its competition with Boeing for a US government contract for refueling tankers.

So far, so normal, for another of these eye-wateringly huge international contracts which always end in tears but there is one oddity with this one because the US Secretary of Defence having been handed an excellent excuse to switch the order to Boeing seems exceedingly reluctant to do so.  Apparently the original order to EADS was won with the support of members of Congress.  So who are the Congressmen favouring the "cheese-eating surrender monkeys", and why, I wonder?  And do their constituents know?

I would genuinely like to know the background to this one if anyone knows more.

Thanks to: http://biggovernment.com/ktoloczko/2010/03/26/every-tanker-delayed-is-an-airman-at-risk/#more-96266

The cubist vision of 'Dave'!

I seem to remember, vaguely, from my days at Art School more years ago than I care to dwell upon, someone trying to explain 'cubist' art as practiced by that old phony world famous artist Pablo Picasso.  It was, apparently, an effort to show all sides of an object on a two-dimensional surface.  (If anyone knows differently don't bother telling me because every example of it I have ever seen is rubbish!)  Anyway, this week The Speccie (no link yet) provides a cubist view of 'Dave' Cameron.  We receive two diametrically opposite assessments of the man as a politician.

Peter Hitchens does not damn with faint praise but with vitriolic verve:

Under the leaderhip of David Cameron the [Conservative] party claims to be rejuvenated and to have discovered a new form of conservatism somehow acceptable to modern Britain.  But open the tin and what do we find?

He then proceeds to an audit of current Tory thinking which, in his view, exactly contradicts traditional Toryism.  Cameron's failure to follow through on his promise to hold an EU referendum, his failure to fight for a traditional House of Lords, his support for an ex-LibDem who is an avowed anti-monarchist, his failure to promise more Grammar Schools . . . and so on and on.  He accuses the modern Tory party under Cameron's leadership of failing to challenge the Fabian progressive policies of nu-Labour, instead, settling merely to manage it better than Gordon Brown.

From the opposite corner steps the redoubtable Bruce 'the Brute' Anderson who claims to see more than a little of 'that woman' in Cameron's make-up:

He [Cameron] has many of the right qualities: physical and mental stamina, a good brain, decisiveness.  He has more  intellectual self-confidence than Mrs. Thatcher had, and a clearer mind [eh!?].  He does share two other vital attributes with the Iron Lady.  He is stubborn and does not like losing.  Like her, he would weigh up everything carefully before committing his troops to action.  Like her, he would hate to sound a retreat.

Well, 'you pays your money and you takes your chances'!  What do I think?  Haven't a clue.  Anyway, both articles are well worth reading when a link is up - or you could go and buy a copy tomorrow and help keep my favourite magazine going!

Ballots not bullets

The stench of hypocrisy wafting from Democrat quarters and their MSM orchestra is rank.  They have had a few windows broken here and there followed by some mouth-breathing down 'phone lines and suddenly they all scream blue murder.  Does anyone remember the vicious campaign mounted by progressives against George Bush with their innumerable effigies showing him being hung or decapitated?  Was there equal outrage from the MSM in those days? Well, if there was I didn't notice it 'over here'.

Even so, it is the truest of truisms to describe America as a violent country (like ours!)  I am not the praying type, not having anyone or anything to pray to, so I can only hope that the 'Intelligent Designer' stops any efforts by anyone to take a pot-shot at Obama.  In fervently wishing for that happy outcome, of course, I run counter to the deep, fundamentalist desires of the progressive Marxists who surround the president and who would like nothing better.  In a single shot, given the extra-ordinary powers of the Federal government and its Homeland Security apparatus, they would have the chance to impose the sort of emergency powers they dream of.

Disengage the bolt, Elmer, and engage the brain!

Germany vs. France: Germany wins, France surrenders: No change there then!

Yes, I know, my heading is nothing more than a cheap sneer, but I'm as broke as everyone else and I can only afford cheap sneers these days.  Anyway, it's the truth.  France was desperate for a 'European solution to a European problem' - that is, Greek debt.  Mrs. Bismarck Merkel insisted that her German voters were not going to pay to keep Greeks in the style to which they have become accustomed since they cheated manouvred their way into the rich man's club of clubs and she insisted that the IMF, normally used to bail out 3rd world countries, be involved even if that indicated that a united Europe (heh, heh, heh!) was incapable of solving its own problems.  Thus we are provided with the proof that the sardonic words of that old Thatcherite, whose name escapes me, were spot on when he described the whole European imbroglio as "a German racket".  Not that they are not right in this instance but it demonstrates exactly who is in charge.   Mind you, I don't know why I'm cackling, I read somewhere today in the prints that our contributions to the EU are about to double as a result of Tony Blair a few years back giving away the special arrangements negotiated so toughly by 'that woman'.

The fundamental economic problems faced up to in this budget:

Art for farts sake!

Have a quick look at these sketches by a young teen-ager and then consider the superior judgment of Michael Liversedge, Emeritus (got it!) Dean of Arts at Bristol University, who dismisses them as 'only up to moderate GCSE standard'.

Personally, for an untrained teen-ager, I think they're pretty good but 'The Emeritus Dean' can barely contain his sneer: 

'They look quite typical of an aspiring student hoping to get into art school - tentative and not very certain about his perspective when he's using pencil and pen, making basic errors by getting the top and the bottom of a candlestick wrong in relation to each other and so on.

'And he doesn't yet have much in the way of technical skill, but it's not so bad that one can't imagine him learning - especially when he's bolder with the charcoal or black chalk.

'But there's no latent genius here, and not much beyond a moderate GCSE.  Probably if the artist was at school today you wouldn't encourage him to keep the subject up at A Level.

'So if they are part of a portfolio submitted with an application to study at a major European art academy, the selectors were right to reject him - they just don't suggest he was more than pretty marginal and mediocre for a potential art school entrant then or now.

'If they are what he sent in he definitely wouldn't have been worth interviewing for a place.

Well, they are undoubtedly apprentice pieces but at least he can draw and he has enough facility for a good teacher to improve him which is more than can be said for the majority of modern art students - and their professors - who would have difficulty decorating the walls of a public urinal!

Ah, but you see, these are the drawing of the late, unlamented Adoph Hitler, so it really wouldn't do to offer anything but the most tepid praise.  Perhaps the 'Emeritus Dean' prefers this winner of the Turner prize who presumably underwent his training at a college for plumbers.

Why do so many of the monumentally stupid become teachers?

Here's the scenario.  School playing field containing a tree.  Small boy climbs tree - well, they do that sort of thing you know.  However, small boy then finds it impossible to climb down out of it and remains stuck.  School retards teachers assess situation.  Bearing in mind 'elf 'n' safety' rules and regs, they remain inside school leaving small boy up tree.  After about half an hour young mother passes by and spots boy.  Realising that no-one with a duty of care!!! for the boy is going to do anything, she enters the school grounds and helps the boy down. 

The outcome, you ask?  Letter of commendation and gratitude from the silly moo headmistress, perhaps?  Sucker!  This is 2010, otherwise known as The Year of the Dribbling Idiots.  What the lady samaritan received was a visit from the Police who had been sicked on her by the headmistress who accused her of trespass.

"Oh brave new world"!

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1260253/Teachers-leave-boy-5-tree-health-safety.html

On the one hand, or on the other hand, or on God's right hand!

What on earth is the use of experts?  Not a lot when it comes to bankers opining on high economics:

Greece will default on its bonds “at some point” as the euro region fails to deal with its first major economic crisis, said Paul Donovan, deputy head of global economics at UBS Investment Bank.

“I think it’s in an impossible situation,” said Donovan, who is based in London, in an interview with Bloomberg Radio today. “Europe has failed to clear its first serious hurdle. If Europe can’t solve a small problem like this, how on earth is it going to solve the larger problem, which is the euro doesn’t work. It’s a bad idea.”

On the other hand:

Greece is unlikely to default and there will now be a period of “muddling through,” Marc Chandler, New York-based global head of currency strategy at Brown Brothers Harriman & Co., told Bloomberg Radio today. In a separate interview, Columbia University Professor Charles Calomiris said it’s not “inevitable” Greece will default even though it needs to cut government spending by 25 percent.

“A 25 percent reduction is something I’ve never seen in any country,” Calomiris said. “It would require a huge lift.”

Right, got that all of you?  Good, carry on!

Oh, but before you go, Fitch Ratings have just cut Portugal's credit rating from AAA to AA with a negative outlook. 

Could it be?  Is it possible?  Is there just a chance that two of the most detested inventions in my world view, anthropogenic global warming and European monetary union, are about to disappear together, swirled down the toilet of history by their internal contradictions?  If so I take all the credit because it was me, pushing my grass-cutter backwards and forwards in the Churchyard on the strict understanding with Him upstairs that He would give an ear to my prayers and by divine intervention pull the chain on these monstrosities.

I'm warning you lot - don't ever cross David Duff - he's got friends in high places!

 

YOU MUST READ THIS!

Sorry to be so hectoring but during your tea-break, or your lunch hour, or at home this evening, please take time to read this essay by Mark Steyn in which he moves far above the fray of daily politics and takes a long historical look at the international landscape:

In my book America Alone, I point out that, to a five-year-old boy waving his flag as Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee procession marched down the Mall in 1897, it would have been inconceivable that by the time of his 80th birthday the greatest empire the world had ever known would have shriveled to an economically moribund strike-bound socialist slough of despond, one in which (stop me if this sounds familiar) the government ran the hospitals, the automobile industry, and much of the housing stock, and, partly as a consequence thereof, had permanent high unemployment and confiscatory tax rates that drove its best talents to seek refuge abroad. [...]

Perched on his uncle’s shoulders that day was a young lad who grew up to become the historian Arnold Toynbee. He recalled the mood of Her Majesty’s jubilee as follows: “There is, of course, a thing called history, but history is something unpleasant that happens to other people. We are comfortably outside all of that I am sure.” The end of history, 1897 version.

This is Mark Steyn at his coolest and most observent and it says so much better than I could so many of the things that I have been trying (and failing!) to put into words for some time.  Please give it a read.  Steyn's essay has provoked me into at least trying to formulate my ideas of the course Britain should follow in the first half the 21st century and I hope to put these before you in the next day or so, even if they fail to reach anywhere near Steyn's magisterial view.

http://article.nationalreview.com/428996/tattered-liberty/mark-steyn?page=1

 

This is breathtaking!

Sorry, sorry, sorry; yes, I did promise to try and keep you posted on events 'just over there' but I do have excuses; first of all 'El Presidente Rumpey-Pumpey' hasn't said anything silly and thus opened himself up for one of my beloved cheap jokes, and secondly, no Euro nation has gone broke - yet!  Anyway, the fact is that things are absolutely fascinating 'over there' just at the moment and I cannot tear my eyes away.

Now this is one I had never thought of but the minute you hear it you cannot help but be utterly gobsmacked at its diabolical brilliance.  I am enormously obliged to Alan Sullivan for pointing me to this article:

Talk-radio icon Rush Limbaugh today suggested the existence of U.S. elections are now threatened by a move he expects President Obama to pursue – a mass amnesty for illegal aliens – following the passage of his historic health-care reform plan.

"The next big push will be amnesty for ... millions of illegal immigrants who are here," he said on his radio program.

"Obama's gonna need their votes in 2012. The Democrats are going to need their votes in every election from now on – if we have elections, and I'm not joking.

Apparently there are something like 8 million illegal immigrants in the USA and if the Obama polit-bureau can force through an amnesty bill allowing them to become citizens that is going to be 8 million very, very grateful Democrat votes!

On top of that, they are also planning to switch the rules governing registration of voters which hitherto has been a voluntary act on the part of each individual citizen, but now the Obama regime is planning to put the onus on government to register everybody whether they like it or not.  All these new voters will, of course, be got at by so-called 'community organisers' like the corrupt Acorn organisation acting for and on behalf of the Democrat party.

How to steal an election in one easy lesson.

Now, be honest, do you really care what Baroness Ashton, the High Representative for Foreign Affairs (oh do stop giggling!), has to say about the political situation in Kazakhstan?  Take that as a 'no', shall I?

 

 

And next they called for the lawyers!

I cannot be sure, because I know even less about American constitutional law than I do about nuclear physics, what the outcome will be of the latest anti-Health Bill campaign mounted by sundry States' Attorney Generals but I fear ultimate disappointment.  Not that they lack a good case because the Obama regime is insisting that henceforth all American citizens must, by order, enter into a commercial agreement with a business provider of health care insurance.  Now, you might suggest that it is no different from a government insisting that if you drive a car you must have it insured, but the key 'get-out' lies in the phrase "if you drive a car".  Millions of Americans do not, but when it comes to their health-care arrangements the government is enforcing their diktat on everyone.

Virginia's Republican Attorney General, Kenneth Cuccinelli, has also vowed to bring suit, claiming Congress' constitutional power to regulate interstate commerce doesn't extend to requiring Virginians to buy health insurance.

"If a person decides not to buy health insurance, that person by definition is not engaging in commerce," Cuccinelli said in a statement. "If you are not engaging in commerce, how can the federal government regulate you?"

I gain the distinct impression from 'over here' that 'over there' anything that is perceived as an attack on States' Rights nearly always leads to 'tears before bedtime' so whilst i tmay not change anything much it should prove to be a great spectator sport.

Thanks to Alan Sullivan for the link.

The difference between Charles Murray and me

Knowledge allied to intelligence!  Depending on the subject I sometimes have some of both but usually never in sufficient quantities.  Charles Murray, on the other hand, has both and plenty to spare.  Since last night I have been ruminating back and forth to try and come up with something useful to say on the subject of the momentous events that took place yesterday in Congress.  I have been reading the American papers and listening to their TV and every wiseacre in the world has his or her take on it which leaves me even more confused.  Then I came across Murray and he expresses it exactly, briefly and with restrained but deep feelings:

In the past, we have often had politics as bitterly partisan and polarized as today’s. But, whether out of principle or self-preservation, American politicians have behaved as if they accepted the wisdom of the Federalist Papers, agreeing that democracies fall apart when faction gets out of hand. Yesterday’s vote was the culmination of another kind of wisdom—that of the revolutionary who is willing to accept tactical losses for strategic victory.

And with a cool, not to say glacial, eye he gazes into the future and tells it the way it will be:

Yes, the Democrats will suffer at the polls this fall. But there will be no repeal of health reform. Politicians never withdraw entitlements.

Thus, 'at a stroke' (to quote a phrase which will resonate in British memories), the Marxist revolutionaries who surround a president who is all too comfortable to be surrounded thus, have scored an immense victory and America will never be the same.  However:

The Democrats are right to think that what happened yesterday makes enactment of the rest of the European welfare state easier. But do Obama and Pelosi have any understanding of how profoundly they have violated the sense of the American project? Do they have any idea how hard it is to sustain democracies over long periods of time, and how fragile our democracy has become because of what they did?

Rhetorical questions, the answers to which leave Murray with a final and profoundly pessimistic conclusion:

This morning, unlike any other day in my life, I feel like I am living in an occupied country.

 

A Wax job!

In my last Sunday Rumble I drew attention to the "not fit for purpose" Home Office and the ghastly little creep, Sir David Normington, who is supposed to be running it.  Having got all of that off my chest I felt much better - until I clicked on the Daily Mail site this morning and read this:

Ruby Wax has been hired by the Home Office to help train staff in a move branded a waste of taxpayers’ money. [...]

However, the Home Office has refused to reveal how much Ms Wax is being paid for her advisory role, claiming commercial confidentiality. [...]

Her workshops have included clips of interviews with Madonna and practical exercises to highlight the difference between talking at someone rather than with someone.

Participants learn to be more aware of their colleagues, clients and partners and how to present a more human face.

Well, Sir David Normington could do with that last one!  Anyway, when your taxes go up this year - and they will go up, oh yes, they certainly will - at least you can console yourself that the happily smiling Ms. Ruby Wax has, er, much to smile about, really!

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1259716/Ruby-Waxs-leadership-workshops-Home-Office-staff-branded-waste-money.html#ixzz0iuR5Z1Ml

 

There's the stupid, the retarded and then the politicians

Let Stephen Byers stand as a monument to the memory of nu-Labour, and let a statue of him in lead be erected with the ghastly, unctuous Patrica Hewitt and the gallumpingly, stupid Geoff Hoon either side to form a triptych, and let it be titled Folly, Greed and Stupidity, and let it be erected above the Speaker's chair in parliament, and please, oh 'Intelligent Designer', let it fall one day on the head of the current Speaker, 'Berkow the Berk', as a sign of Your omniscience and as a small recompense to us, the long-suffering people of Your chosen land who have had to endure these unbelievably stupid, corrupt, bungling crooks for so long.  (Sorry, what was that ethereal voice saying?  "Choose this dump?  You must be joking!") Oh dear!

It's bad enough that a former minister of the crown is so thick and so greedy that he can't even suspect, let alone spot, a Fleet Street hoax but it is even worse when you realise, as Paul Waugh reminds us, that this is the second time Byers has been ratted out by the press:

The News of the World (who else could do it so well?) ran a classic story about 8 years ago, detailing how Byers cheated on his long-term partner by having a one-night stand with a blonde Labour councillor. At a local government conference. In Cardiff.

She, of course, being an upright, well, in this case a lying down, member of the comradely proletarian party immediately sold told her story to the dear old 'Screws of the World'.

"I must have been groaning too loudly because he put his hand over my mouth so the people in the next rooms wouldn't hear.

"Then, in his throes of passion, the things he began saying got stronger. Some women might like their men to talk dirty but this was obscene filth. He was, in effect, calling me a tart and getting a kick out of it. He said that he wondered how many other men I had been with and that's what he was getting off on.

"It wasn't just what he said or what he was implying but it was the language he used to express it. It was the most disgusting thing I've ever had a man say to me in my life.

"I had to stop straight away. It just killed all the passion dead. "He asked, ‘What? What did I do?' He had no idea how cruel he'd been. "I said "What do you think I am? A prostitute or something?' "

Perish the thought, dear!

If any dandruff-ridden, down at heel, scrofulous hack from Fleet Street (actually, I love those reptiles) has a recording of Patrica Hewett in the throes of her passion, please, please, I beg you, don't publish it, even the thought of it is too ghastly to c0ntemplate.

Paul Waugh is a 'must read'.

NAPOLEON: Act II, sc xi - The End.

Begin here at the introduction and then scroll forward

ACT II  sc 11

A room at the Palais.   Bonaparte and Josephine are DS one side, lit, whilst the

remainder of the cast [except Enghien] freeze DS on the opposite side dressed as

courtiers, ambassadors, officers etc.   They un-freeze as lights up at the appropriate

moment.   US centre behind a curtain, Enghien in a bloodied shirt is tied to a post.

 

Jose:  Sir, you are marching up and down like one of your precious guardsmen.   Whatever is the matter?

 

Nap:  Oh, Josephine, tonight … tonight is going to be a night to remember.   I have France in the palm of my hand and all Europe hangs on my every word, every action.   Outside there are a dozen ambassadors and behind them a dozen of the crowned heads of Europe all trying to anticipate my next move but none of them even suspects what I am about to do.   I want you to be the first to know because in a sense it concerns you, in fact, I'm doing it for you.

 

Jose:  My goodness, what is it?

 

Nap:  Josephine, who rules France?

 

Jose:  Oh, Sir, you know I never talk politics …

 

Nap:  Josephine!   Who rules France?

 

Jose:  Why, Sir, you do, I suppose, you and the other two Consuls.

 

Nap:  (Derisively)   The other two Consuls!   Josephine, I despair of you.   Who thrashed the Austrians at Marengo?   Whose sword enforced a European peace?   Who negotiated even those damned English into peace?   I did!   Not those two old political hacks left over from the Directory.   It's me that rules France and it's sheer hypocrisy to pretend otherwise.   Tonight I shall announce their dismissal and, something else as well.   I shall announce my own resignation as First Consul!

 

Jose:  Sir, I, I,  … you, resign!   I can hardly believe it.   No more wars and battles and endless, endless politics.   Shall I at last enjoy a normal married life with my husband at my side, to live just like other people and to …

 

Nap:  No, no, Josephine, you are a silly goose!   We can never live as other people.   I rule France, damn it.   In fact, I rule most of Europe now and I have absolutely no intention of giving it up.   No, my darling Josephine, I have even greater things in mind for you and me.  Surprise, Josephine, always use surprise, it confounds enemies and friends alike, and my next move will send a shock round Europe.   Tonight I shall announce my intention of becoming - Emperor of France - and you, my dearest love, shall be my Empress.   We'll have a grand coronation in Notre Dame, the greatest display France, or Europe, has ever witnessed.  I even intend making the Pope crown us!   It will be the final seal on all my achievements … our achievements.   I couldn't have done all these things without your help, especially in the early days.   Do you remember, when I was just another ambitious, young general trying to make his mark … how you used to guide me through all those ghastly society functions with everyone ready to sneer at 'the little Corsican' if he made a faux pas?   Well, Josephine, when you and I are Emperor and Empress of France, we'll be the ones doing the sneering.   (He claps his hands and the 'court' is lit and unfreezes, coming up one at a time to bow and scrape to Bonaparte and Josephine.   Whilst this is going on Talleyrand and Fouché enter and meet DS)

 

Tall:  My dear, Fouché, what exactly is our little Corsican up to?

 

Fouc: What do you mean?

 

Tall:  Come, come, Sir, I don't require the army of spies that you employ for me to know that he's up to something and I have a feeling it is going to be the very worst sort of 'something' - a surprise!   God, how I loathe surprises, they're so … so unexpected.

 

Fouc: Yes, you're right, as usual, he is up to something.   He's been looking very pleased with himself over the last few days.   Mind you, I've got some news that'll wipe the smirk of his face … and off yours too, I reckon …

 

Nap:  Talleyrand!   And you, Fouché, come here I want to speak to you both.   (Court retires to SL leaving the three men and Josephine SR)   So! Talleyrand, all goes well with the world, I think.   France rules most of northern Italy and the Rhineland.   The Swiss republic is our protectorate and the German princes bend the knee and try to ingratiate themselves.   The new Czar, Alexander, doesn't quite love us the way his father did but at least he remains compliant and, the Lord be praised, even those stubborn, stupid, English bastards have agreed to peace.   Amazing what a few cannon and bayonets can achieve … in the right place and at the right time, of course.

 

Tall:  Indeed it is, Sir, and these magnificent achievements of yours will assure you a place in History but, of course, from a position of great strength the wise and prudent leader will always seek to deal with the weaker powers in his sphere of influence in a spirit of benign tolerance, not looking to create new enemies where none existed before ….

 

Nap:  There you go again, Talleyrand!   If I'd listened to your honeyed words we would have lost all Italy and those damned Austrians would have been bombarding Paris.   The Hapsburgs are just like the Bourbons, greedy, stupid and vengeful.   Talking of Bourbons, what news from your department, Fouché?

 

Fouc: Very grave news indeed, Sir.   I have it from impeccable sources that the royalists are planning an assassination attempt, this time in concert with an invasion aimed at Paris.   One of my highly placed agents informs me that the invasion army is to be led by - the Duc d' Enghien!

 

Tall:  Impossible!  

 

Fouc: And I say it is so!   My agent is … well, let us say, he is close to the Duc.   I understand M. de Talleyrand's reluctance to accept that some of his old royalist friends are nothing better than traitors and murderers determined to crush our glorious revolution but  …

 

Tall:  Sir, I'm afraid Citizen-Minister Fouché has spent so much time peering through keyholes and listening at doors that he is now blind and deaf to reality.   The whole of France, indeed the whole of Europe, knows that the Duc d' Enghien is the very soul of honour and chivalry and that he has made it abundantly clear on many occasions that he will never take up arms against his fellow countrymen … which is not the least of the many reasons why so many of them love him.

 

Nap:  Love him!   Do they indeed?   (Pause)   Fouché, where is the Duc?

 

Fouc: In Baden, Sir, the court at Ettenheim to be precise.

 

Nap:  That's just over the frontier is it not?   Should be a relatively simple matter to slip a squadron of Dragoons across to, you know, persuade the young Duc to return to his beloved France, hmmm?   And when he's here, we shall know how to deal with him.   (Snaps out)   See to it, Fouché, immediately!

 

Fouc: Immediately, Sir.   (Exits)

 

Tall:  Sir, I beg of you to reconsider.   The Duc is loved and respected in every court in Europe.   Any, shall we say, mis-handling of his royal person would alarm and enrage every Prince in Christendom.   The results could be calamitous.

 

Nap:  Talleyrand, I often hear you described as the cleverest man in Europe but like many clever men you think too much. You forget that thinking paralyses action and it's action, preferably direct action aimed at the very heart of a problem, that usually solves it.   Now, I have an announcement to make.  (Talleyrande moves SL to rejoin the court)  Josephine, come and stand by me.   (Claps his hands for attention as Fouché re-enters)

 

  Ladies and Gentlemen, I wish to say a few words.   France has now regained her natural place at the heart of Europe and her power extends by right to those friendly States that share our revolutionary ideals.   As First Consul I represent that power which is vested in me by the democratic will of the French people.   Obviously it is necessary for me to deal regularly with the crowned heads of Europe and it is humiliating and belittling to the honour and the prestige of France for me to conduct these relations on anything other than equal terms.   That honour and prestige, I would remind you all, has been won by the blood and courage and sacrifice of the sons of France.  Therefore, in memory of them and on behalf of the French people, I announce the end of the Consulship and I humbly but proudly accede to the democratic wishes of the people by becoming …. Emperor of France!  (Murmurs of shocked surprise from the court)

 

  (During this next speech the US curtain is drawn to reveal the bloodied figure of the Duc d' Enghien tied to a stake and blindfolded.   Sound effect indicating a firing squad preparing and the final volley should crash out at the end of the speech to coincide with the applause of the court.)

 

  Ladies and Gentlemen, a new age dawns for France and for Europe.   Under French leadership the peoples of Europe will shatter the chains of medieval feudalism and join together in a march towards a new enlightenment, a revolutionary enlightenment, based on the logic of science and the rationalism of the new philosophies.   Everywhere in Europe the strangulating grip of old mysticisms and superstitions will be prised from the throats of the people so that with one voice they can cry out for … FREEDOM …EQUALITY … and DEMOCRACY!

 

  (Volley kills Enghien to prolonged applause from the court as lights down, curtain)

The End.

Shifting 'shrapnel' - new style!

I was intrigued and amused by this advertising copy on e-bay for a second-hand car.  Obviously things have changed a bit since my days of purveying horseless carriages to the gentry!  You can read the whole thing - and buy the car if you wish - here:

Attention Teenage Drug Dealers/Low Life & Oxygen Thieves

 

If you think you've saved enough benefit from your 4 children before your 20, this could be the answer to your prayers.

 

A proper bastardised, chaved up Skippy mobile if ever there was. Enhance your street cred at the local drive thru burger joint or council estate shop front no end with this utterly tacky converted little Renault Clio. Not your Gran's idea of a lift to town, granted, but a fantastic opportunity to increase 3 fold your class A drug selling ability. This is the car you need boys. The punters will flock to the window for your home grown skunk and other illegal substances. you just ain't gonna look out of place in this little beauty! Now I've made sure the tax ran out last November, so there is a big pat on your scrawny little backs already.

 

Dig out yer favourite unwashed "Umbro" hoodie and come cast your shifty little eyes on this. Ideal for the "Street Pharmacist" and other suitably attired twats. Your gonna need a baseball cap with this beauty, ideally one that comes with no fitting instructions. Heaven forbid you should put it on the right way. What better way to compliment your stolen Nike Air Max trainers than to be seen dangling a foot outta this pocket rocket.

 

Worried about the Babylon spotting ya, no need. Car comes fully equipped with proper blacked out gangster glass on the side windows. Hell, you could even fill the back up with yer ugly chav kids and knowone'd see 'em. doesn't get much better boys. Ah, but it does. It does.

 

[...]

 

You can pay in cash or wraps, I'm easy really. Bring along your mums credit card or one that your mate has cloned down the petrol station. If it is going to be hard cash, please ensure it is discretely hidden in a used Tesco carrier bag, and you have folded one £20 note around 4 others. Makes counting so much easier.

 

For any female buyer I'm offering a free Tatoo of something utterly meaninless to go in the middle of your lower back. If you haven't already got your "Tramp Stamp" that is.

 

If your an under-age drink driver, or under-age driver for that matter, this little beauty really isn't going to attract the attention of the local constabulary at all. you'll drift pass any patrol car effortlessly. Make sure there is at least 6 of you in the car though, Splif in hand. If your driving, have another swig from your 2 litre plastic "LIDL" brand cider as you nonchalantly flip the bird to the passing police patrol. Head off for the nearest estate for some tyre screeching fun. They ain't never gonna take you alive in this.

 

The car does like a good rev in the morning at any unsocial hour. Neighbours will love it and feel proud to live in the same road. don't forget to rev the pants off of it at all junctions and roundabouts as well.

 

[...]

 

For the disqualified driver I'll even offer to recover it from outside the local Magistrates or police station. What better way to impress the local Judicial system in one final act of defiance before collecting your ASBO?

 

[...]

 

Nuff said, innit.

The Sunday Rumble 21/3/10

Two for the price of one:  Race-goers at Lingfield on Saturday enjoyed a 2 for 1 special offer with a bit of boxing in the paddock as well as the horse racing on the course.  Apparently a horse owner, Mr. David Reynolds, got into a right paddy with the Paddy jocky, Kieran Fallon, and gave him a right hook because Fallon had pulled up his horse during the race due to injury and by so doing had impeded Mr. Reynolds's horse.  I assume Mr. Fallon is similar to most jockeys in being about 5' tall and unlikely to fight beyond midget-weight, where-as the photograph of Mr. Reynolds indicates a man whose drink you would not wish to spill inadvertantly in a pub.

Fight and race report here!  Such fun!

I almost feel sorry for the politicians:  I watched a programme on BBC2 last night by Michael Cockerell on 'The Great Offices of State', in this case the Home Office. Several past permanent secretaries were interviewed plus the current incumbent, Sir David Normington.  That name rang a bell because I'm sure I gave him a good 'kicking' about a year ago but for the life of me I can't remember why.  Anyway, they all came across as a bunch of utterly useless prats whose only aim in life was to ensure that the Home Office grew even larger than the over-sized mammoth it had become.  It is, I suppose, a sign of Normington's uselessness that it was during his tenure that the Home Office was cut in half and a seperate Ministry of Justice formed.  Normington, with his smarmy manners and hairstyle to match is the sort of man no-one with half an eye would like or trust and it is entirely fitting that he was the boss when the Home Office was described, with lazer-like accuracy, as "not fit for purpose".  Honestly, this lot couldn't run a piss up in a brewery which a generous-minded man (not me, then) might forgive but their high and mighty airs of superiority would have me calling for a firing squad!

Is there anyone sillier than a football manager?  I have just watched the 'Man U' vs. Liverpool match which was a bit of a slug-fest but did provide some light entertainment when an old-age pensioner with a red nose and an angry face had a handbags-at-dawn confrontation with a fat little Spanish advert for tapas with a poncy beard dressed in an appalling suit - I mean, he's on about £5 million a year, you'd think he could afford a decent tailor!  Then there is the actor who plays the part of a cod-Frenchman - honestly, when I die he will be the world's worst actor! - playing the part of a cod-football manager.  He has, or perhaps I should say, 'e 'as ze werst Frenchy-poo accent you have ever heard outside of "'Allo, 'Allo".  He never looks straight into the camera and has the miraculous ability to see in detail any foul inflicted on one of his players but a sudden blindness when the roles are reversed.  Then there is that opera buffe buffoon from Portugal with an ego the size of his football field but who manages to pout fetchingly at any camera pointing in his direction.  The only good thing he has ever done is to knock out his old club, Chelsea, from the European championship last week thus making sure that the biggest joke of all in football, Roman Abramovich, the Russian, er, 'entrepreneur'? who has wasted invested so many zillions of his ill-gotten well-deserved gains into Chelsea and who sacked the buffoon a couple of years ago was left looking as sick as the proverbial parrot.  He marched across the pitch after their defeat, unshaven and in scruff-order like most modern billionaires adopt, and with a pinched pained face on him that made him look like one of the Russian meerkats you see on the TV advert with a thistle up his arse!  (Apologies to my readers from 'over there' for whom this paragraph will be even more incomprehensible than my usual 'nonsense'.)

The 'Intelligent Designer' save us from intellectual prats:  For example, and they do not come more intellectual and prattish than this former Nobel prize winner, Paul Krugman, an economics guru who suggests that America slaps a 25% tariff on all Chinese imports!  I suspect there are a number of people in the White House who actually take this ninny seriously, in which case, stand by for a world-wide depression that will make the '30s look like good times.  I shall not rehearse the arguments, instead just go here and Jeremy Warner will explain all.

"Leave it aht Samanfa":  Lazy, I know, but I just cannot be arsed to think up a witty heading, or to tell the truth, I doubt I could think of a better one than this above Peter Hitchens's column in The Mail.  He takes Mrs. Cameron to task for her carefully contrived 'estuary English' accent during her recent TV interview.  Hitchens is entirely right in suggesting that it is indicative of the loss in self-confidence by the upper middle-classes that they feel the need to hide their background and their up-bringing.  What would the dear old 'Duke of Boot' have said, 'Speak and be damned!' I like to think.

Nail biter - not:  I began this 'rumble' on the subject of horse-racing so I will end in the same vein.  I'm off now to watch the last circuit of the Congressional Selling Plate in which a number of old hacks, nags and cart-horses are whipped around the circuit and finally herded into the knackers yard.  The outcome, I suspect, is already fixed. Pity poor America!

NAPOLEON: Act II, sc x

Begin here at the introduction and then scroll forward

ACT II  sc 10

This scene takes place along the DS edge of the stage, the US area being in

darkness.   Sitting DS left, writing at a desk, is the Duc d' Enghien.  

Standing SC, facing out is a footman, Jean.   The Duc finishes his letter and calls the servant.

 

Engh: Jean!  

 

Jean:  My Lord.

 

Engh: Have this letter delivered immediately to the castle and as usual it is to be placed only in the hands of the Princess herself.

 

Jean:  Very good, my Lord.   (Exits)

 

Engh: I never would have imagined that I could feel this way about a woman, well, not really a woman, just a girl.   But my goodness, what a girl, what eyes, what beauty, what charm.   It's ridiculous!   I'm the Duc d' Enghien, son of a Conde, a grown man experienced in the ways of the world with a dozen of the most beautiful women in Europe ready to fall at my feet … and I find myself hopelessly in love with this gauche, young girl … (Jean returns with the Duc d' Angers and takes his place CS, facing out and apparently paying no attention)

 

Jean:  Sir, his Lordship, the Duc d' Angers.

 

Engh: (Rising) My dear Sir, this is a surprise and, of course, a great honour, you are very welcome.   (Gestures to chair) Please be seated, you look weary and travel stained.

 

Duc:  Indeed I am, Sir.   I have come straight from His Majesty on urgent business.   Sir, His Majesty requires and requests your service.

 

Engh: His Majesty knows he commands my service.   What can I do?

 

Duc:  Sir, you know Bonaparte has returned in triumph to Paris.   All our hopes and plans for last year came to naught.   But the King's friends are determined.   We must strike back, and we shall, at Bonaparte himself.   (Holds up his hand top to forestall an interruption)   Don't ask the details, Fouché's spies are everywhere.   However when we strike there will be total confusion and it is essential that we march directly on Paris before the Jacobins have time to organise.   His Majesty wants you to lead that march.   You are a Conde.   You're reputation goes before you.   You're respected; indeed, I might say 'loved' by the people.   Another leader might be opposed but not you; you will be feted all the way.

 

Engh: Sir, I know not what to say.

 

Duc:  What is there to say but 'aye'?   His Majesty commands.

 

Engh: Sir, the King commands everything of me except for two things; my immortal soul which is God's gift to each and every man, and my honour which is each man's gift to himself.

 

Duc:  Honour!   What could be more honourable than to lead the King's army and place him back on his rightful throne?

 

Engh: You know, Sir, as does His Majesty, that he has no more devoted servant than me.   I have shared his exile.   I have spurned Talleyrand's approaches, tempting me to leave the King's service and return to France.   I ache, Sir, with longing to see France again but if it be the King's misfortune to die in exile, then I pledge my word of honour, that I, too, will end my days in exile.   But, I will not, I cannot, raise my sword against a fellow Frenchman.   I would happily fight the King's enemies from here to Araby but I can never count another Frenchman, even a republican Frenchman, as my enemy.   The people of France have been gulled by a set of monstrous charlatans and beguiled by a perverted ideology, but they have paid and paid again with their own blood.   I do not intend that I shall add to their suffering.   Sir, you must tell His Majesty with the greatest love and respect that the Duc d' Enghien will never draw his sword against another Frenchman.   Now, you are tired and in need of refreshment.   I will conduct you to your chamber myself.   We can talk again at dinner.   (Both exit and as lights fade DS a faint light comes up US to reveal the figure of Fouche.   Jean hesitates and then goes to Fouche, whispers, receives his reward and both exit separately.)

Jacques who?

Jacques Ellul (1912-1994), actually!  And no, I had never heard of him, either, but his name is now definitely on my 'reminder list' of authors whose books I must read when my 'waiting-to-be-read' pile ceases to be a threat to 'elf 'n' safety.  I am mightily obliged to Prof. Daniel H. Fernald for bringing M. Ellul to my attention via The American Thinker in an essay with a title absolutely dead certain to attract my attention - Beware the 'Expert'.  In particular, as a writer who ODs on inverted commas, I spotted those he used in his title and instantly took the inference.

Fernald's opening paragraph sets the scene:

The late French sociologist Jacques Ellul (1912-1994) is not exactly a household name. Yet this iconoclastic academic and veteran of the French Resistance predicted the current "cult of the expert" and its use as a means of directing public policy and silencing dissent.

In his book The Technological Society, Ellul investigates what he calls 'technique', that is the application of science and technology to social, political and economic activities.  'Technique' always searches for the 'one best means' of achieving a goal, for example, Henry Ford's idea of the production line as the 'one best means' to mass-produce cars.  This notion of the 'one best means' has now been applied to the business of ruling and running a country.  It has led to the birth of 'The Expert'! 

 

Over the previous century and into this one the cult and power of 'The Expert' has grown and grown like a cancerous tumour.  As I have written before, an even earlier example from the 19th century can be found in the history of the Prussian, and then the German, General Staff.  This body of experts arose directly as a result of the technological advances in warfare which meant that generals, no matter how brilliant, simply could not command and control armies single-handed.  Thus was born a new type of army officer, a managerial class, who would have spent many rigorous years at Staff College learning the technology and its correct application and whose 'expert' advice to a commanding general, or even a king/emperor, could not be gainsayed.  Well, we all know now where that particular body of experts led Germany!

 

Today, there are simply too many 'experts' in all sorts of fields who have turned out to be utterly and completely wrong.  Prof. Fernald points to one of the most recent and egregious examples, all those scientific 'experts' who assured us that the science of man-made global warming (AGW) was settled.  Happily in that case, and hopefully perhaps in others, the advent of technology has brought about their downfall.  It was the technology of the internet, applied by a few men and women who understood that proper science is never settled, and supported either positively or passively by millions of non-expert people, that eventually brought the fiasco of AGW crashing down for a long overdue reality check.  That is exactly the sort of paradox that always delights me!

 

 

You'll never go broke under-estimating the intelligence of a Trade Union leader

The union behind the British Airways strike is called 'UNITE' and for that title alone they should be sued under the Trade Descriptions Act given that, according to insiders, the atmosphere inside this amalgam of several different unions is so poisonous that several of the leaders cannot bear to be in the same room with each other.  As for their competence I can only say that if I were a union member I would demand my money back!  We have already witnessed the travesty that took place last year when the BA waiters and waitresses first tried to hold a strike ballot which was swiftly ruled illegal by a High Court judge.  Thus the 'leadership' enraged thousands of British people whose Christmas holiday trips were put in jeapardy.  So they tried again and this time just about managed to get it right - and in time to disrupt thousands more who had planned Easter holiday trips.  So now there are tens of thousands of people who detest UNITE and anyone associated with it, for example, the Labour party who are in receipt of £11 million from the union and who are about to face the British electorate in about 6 weeks time.  Goose-stepping alongside in a show of working class solidarity (that's solidarity beteen the ears) comes Bob Crow and his railway union, the RMT, who plan to walk out over Easter.  Of course, it is true that the RMT is not affiliated to the Labour party on account of the fact that its leader is somewhere to the Left of Karl Marx, but the general public, or 'the voters', as Gordon thinks of them, are unaware of such arcane details and simply assume that a railway union is joined at the hip to the Labour party. 

David Cameron may not be a very competent general but, by God, sir, he's a lucky one!  They must be cheering and laughing and high-fiving all over the place at Tory election HQ.  Over at No. 10, all that can be heard is the crashing and smashing of hurled staplers and mobile 'phones.  It is almost enough to make you feel sorry for the one-eyed Jock but, to quote a phrase, you would need a heart of stone not to cry with laughter!  Only one more thing is needed to ensure the utter destruction of the Labour party and that is for the international bond and currency dealers to start a run on gilts and sterling before the election.  As Max Hastings points out in The Mail today, the Great British Public is in denial over the true state of our economic affairs.  This fog of complacency has been encouraged by a duplicitous prime minister and his glove-puppet chancellor.  Even Cameron is too "frit" (now who said that?) to forecast the size and scope of the approaching tsunami, so it needs the markets to spell it out clearly.

I have said it before, and in order to maintain my reputation of being an 'AI crasher of the first order', I will say it again, in a democracy you get the government you deserve.  It almost doesn't matter precisely who forms the next government but it is absolutely imperative that Labour is smashed, if only to teach it a lesson!

NAPOLEON: Act II, sc ix

Begin here at the introduction and then scroll forward

ACT II  sc 9

Josephine at home in Malmaison.   Mde. de Remusat enters in a hurry.

 

Remu: Oh, my dear Josephine, have you heard the news?

 

Jose:  What news?

 

Remu: Victory!   An amazing, stunning victory, won by your husband.   Oh Josephine, the Austrians are completely defeated, routed, at somewhere called Marengo.   They sue for peace and now your husband stands as the most powerful man in Europe.   I heard some officers saying he'll go down as one of the great captains of history like Caesar or Alexander.   Oh, Josephine, it's too, too …..

 

Jose:  (Interrupting)   Peace!   Did you say 'peace'?

 

Remu: Yes, yes, peace, at long last, peace.   Of course, the stupid English carry on but everyone says that if there's a general European peace they can't possibly continue.   Oh, dear Josephine, can it be true?   Has the killing finally stopped?

 

Jose:  My very dear friend, if peace is to come then let's enjoy it.   My God, we deserve it after all this time but let me warn you - so long as men rule the earth, peace is as fragile as a woman and just as subject to abuse.

 

Remu: There's huge excitement in the city.   They say your husband will return to a hero's welcome.

 

Jose:  A hero?   (Smiling)   Well, yes, I suppose he is.   My little Corsican, a hero.   Is it not strange, Madame, that all Europe will now bend the knee to a man who is reduced to jelly at the thought of attending a society Ball.   (Lights down)

Things you never realised you needed - desperately!

Sometime ago I wrote of my intense pleasure and appreciation of small modern inventions which, when you need them, are an absolute treasure.  In that particular case I was writing about cuticle clippers without which I would be forced from time to time to tear the skin and nails from my fingers with my teeth in order to rid myself of those intensely irritating hang-nails which afflict one from time to time.

Today I received yet another of those marvellous little magazines, wrapped neatly in clear plastic, containing a thousand and one items which I had never myself thought essential but now, having seen them in this excellent little mag, I really cannot see how I can complete the rest of my life without at least some of them.  For example, how have I stumbled through life without a 'Tri-Relax Footstool', a neat little device which allows you to put your feet up at different angles and at different heights.  Alas, I fear the 'Anti-Ageing Diet Book' has come into my life a tad too late but on the opposite page there is, joy of joys, 'Toenail Softener'!  I'm sure that if I look hard enough I will also find a device which might assist me in bending over far enough for me to actually reach my toenails. The anguish I undergo every Christmas as I try desperately to think of something tender and personal to give as a gift to the little 'Memsahib' has been solved with my discovery of 'Universal Cover Plates for Cookers', they should bring a tear of joy and gratitude to her eyes.   Happily, I have no need - yet - for the Portable Urinal, one design of which looks like a gravy boat and reminded me instantly of a talk I enjoyed at my local PROBUS club on the social history of the Tudor period, in which, so I was informed, ladies attending a formal dinner and wishing to spend a penny would simply stand up to and move to one side but in full view of the company and a maid would slip the 'gravy boat' through the deliberate gaps in the gown and petticoats (drawers were not yet invented) so the lady could relieve herself.  (You see, you always learn something new, here at D&N!)

Anyway, I can now look forward to a happy hour or two going through this cornucopia of 'really useful thingies', so much more interesting than this week's 'Speccie'.

Pork-barrel beats principle every time

Pheeeew, what a year (and a bit) it has been 'over there'!  Obama has inflicted a massive trauma to the American body-politic.  Some might describe his almost fanatical pursuit of a Health Bill, any Health Bill, through Congress as courageous but I would say that it was the last desperate throw of a gambler out of money and reduced to betting the deeds of his house.  I suspect, barring the unsuspected, that he will win the bet on Sunday but he and his party will live to regret it.  In any event, the post traumatic stress inflicted on both politicians and public is so damaging that it will take a considerable time for it to heal.  In addition, I think it has set loose some political hares to run and we know not whither they will go.  For the first time in a long time (since the Vietnam war?) the American public is strongly engaged with politics and politicians but it seems to me that the divide does not run on party lines, instead it seems to split along those who back their party come what may, and those who are disgusted with the whole wretched, crooked, corrupt shenanigans that they have witnessed in the last year.  Where that will go and what, if anything, it will produce is anybody's guess.

'Something is rotten in the state of America'!

NAPOLEON: Act ii, sc viii

Begin here at the introduction and then scroll forward

ACT II  sc 8

Another 'multi-scene with lights going up and down as required.   US right and left

on rostra are, respectively, the Duc d' Angers and Marcel, the Jacobin.   Centre

stage also on a rostrum are Napoleon and a Staff Officer.   In front of them, DS

centre are two soldiers, a sergeant of the 21st and a young soldier.   All of this centre

grouping are, geographically speaking, high up on an Alpine pass and some effort

should be made with their clothing, demeanour, the set (use a white sheet on the

ground) and sound effects to indicate terrible wind, snow, cold and distant canon fire.

DS right and left respectively, are Talleyrand and Fouche.

 

Nap:  Give General Lannes my compliments and tell him that the entire Army of Reserve is slowly but surely starving to death on this damned mountain pass because either he is too lazy or too incompetent to move his troops forward.

 

Off:   Sir, it's this fort at Bard, (indicates map) it completely dominates the pass with cannon.   Nothing can get through.

 

Nap:  Then tell General Lannes to attack it - immediately!

 

Off:   But, Sir, he has no guns and you can't expect infantry to assault a fortress without artillery to breach the walls …

 

Nap:  Do you argue with me, Sir?   Do you dare to tell me what I may or may not expect?   Of course they'll attack.   They're soldiers, soldiers of France.

 

Off:   Sir, with the very greatest of respect, I beg you, think of the casualties.   Men with muskets against stone ramparts defended by heavy cannon, it will be a massacre …

 

Nap:  (In a huge rage)   Massacre!   How dare you speak to me of massacre?   The only massacre we need worry about is the massacre of this entire army by frost-bite and hunger, to say nothing of the massacre of the Army of Italy by those bloody Austrians unless Lannes takes that fort and allows us to break out into Lombardy.   Now hear this, Sir, the soldiers will attack today and if necessary the day after and if necessary the day after that, and when their bodies reach to the top of the wall the rest can climb over them and take that bloody fort!   They're the scum of the earth and the only thing that will ever ennoble their miserable lives is to die for their country.   Now issue that order!

…………………………………………….

 

Sold: What do you think, Sarge?   Think we'll get out of this alright?

 

Sgt:   'Course we will.   ‘Old Boney'll look after us.   Told you so 'imself, didn't ‘e, when we left Paris.

 

Sold: Suppose so, but 'e did say it would be terrible 'ard going and, by Christ, 'e was right.   I've only 'ad three biscuits since Saturday.

 

Sgt:   And that's two more than you deserve, lad, so be grateful.   You 'eard what ‘Boney’ said, there'd be 'ard soldiering but we'd all come through, 'specially us, the Twenty First, the 'fighting' Twenty First 'e called us, said 'e relied on us, so we can't let 'im down.   Right, lad?

 

Sold: Yeah, right, Sarge, you're right.

………………………………………………….

 

Tall:  Well, well!   'No risks' he said, 'no risks when I go campaigning' but it seems to me there can be very few affairs so risky as marching one's army to the top of the Alps and finding it corked up like wine in a bottle.   Meanwhile, France is left defenceless with enemies gathering at the frontiers - to say nothing of the enemies within!   If Bonaparte is forced to retreat from his 'great adventure', his reputation will be utterly shattered and his regime doomed.   And if his army dies in the Alps then he had better die with it because either way he will be finished.   All of which raises very grave questions.   Matters of the utmost seriousness.   Whither France?   Whither Europe?   But far more important than all of that, whither Talleyrand?

……………………………………………

 

Fouc: He's bloody finished now!   Stuck up that poxy mountain, freezing his bollocks off.   Serves him right, jumped up, little Corsican bastard.   But those Royalist swine are gathering, sniffing the wind, thinking they're in with chances.   Time I jerked Marcel's strings, make sure him and his lunatics are organising properly.   If Bonaparte does go it's essential they seize Paris first before the Royalists move in … and when they've seized Paris, I'll seize them!   All of them, but especially that clever-dick, Marcel.   Intellectuals, make you sick!   I've served enough masters in my life and now I reckon it's my turn and by Christ, when I've got the power, I'll make the revolution safe for a thousand years.   Still, mustn't move too quick.   I don't know if Bonaparte's a good general but he's certainly a lucky one.   Best wait and see how things turn out before I make a move.

……………………………………………….

 

 

Duc:  It's madness.   The Alps!   Good God, who does he think he is - Hannibal?   Might have been possible in his day but now?   A modern army must have cannon and how the devil do you take cannon across the Alps?   Madness!   But of course, it does provide us with an opportunity.   France is undefended.   His Majesty must be informed and we must try and bring forward our arrangements.   Paris, that's the key, we must thrust directly at Paris.   (Prays)   Oh, please, dear God, bless our enterprise with success.   I don't know what sins we committed in the past to incur your wrath but surely France, your France, has now suffered enough.   The blood of your Son washed away the sins of Man and I beg you to accept the blood of a hundred thousand Frenchmen to expiate the sins of our beautiful country.   Bless her now by restoring your anointed deputy to his proper place so that old wounds may heal, terrible memories fade and the balm of peace and tranquillity enfold our blessed France.

………………………………………………

 

Marc: This might be our last chance.   We must seize power for the people and once we have it, we must never let it go again.   This time we must rip out everything, show no mercy, no weakness.   You can't build a new future on the foundations of the old because they're fundamentally rotten.   Everything must be torn down, dug up, destroyed, utterly destroyed.   Only then can we make a new beginning, build a new France for all Frenchmen … but first, we must seize power.   Fouché’s absolutely right, we must be more practical.   Less arguing, more concerted action, that's what we need.   He's a good comrade, Fouché, a true revolutionary, Fouché'll help me, I can trust him, he's one of us.   I must get a grip on the committee, get them organised, all they do is talk, talk, talk.   I must forge the movement into a weapon and when I've succeeded, I'll weald it with a ferocity that will keep France safe for ever.

………………………………………………..

 

Off:   Sir, despatch from General Lannes.   Sir, he says the last attack on Fort Bard was beaten off with heavy casualties … Sir, he says he needs cannon … (Nap cuts him off with a gesture)

 

Nap:  Tell General Lannes the fate of this army and the Army of Italy, indeed the fate of France and the Republic lies completely in his hands.   He must, repeat, must, take that fort and get us out onto the north Italian plain no matter what the cost.

 

Off:   Yes, Sir!   Sir, there's also a despatch from General Massena in Genoa.   (Reading)   He says he is completely besieged and cannot last much longer.   He asks when you will enter Lombardy and relieve him and his Army of Italy?

 

Nap:  (Quickly)   His army!?   Well, tell him, oh, tell him, (Dictating) I rely on him utterly and that, er, I'm glad it's him in Genoa with the brave Army of Italy, my Army of Italy, because, oh, because it's the perfect example of one man being worth a thousand!   Tell him it's but a matter of days before we reach him.   (Pause while Staff Officer gapes)   Well, Sir, what are you waiting for?   Draft the despatch!

………………………………………………..

 

Sgt:   (Himself wounded and cradling the body of the young soldier)   Well, lad, old Boney said 'e'd take care of you and 'e 'as.   You're not 'ungry now, are you, no more worries now, no more worries - not ever, just peace and quiet for you, lad.   You and all the others, good lads, all of 'em.   All gone now, all gone to rest … only me and a 'andfull left … but, by Christ, didn't they go well, the good, old Fighting Twenty First … good lads, all of 'em … good lads … (Lights slowly down)

It ain't over 'til the fat Italian lady sings!

Still valiantly doing my duty and averting my eyes from the incredible, unbelievable goings on 'over there', I bring further news from 'just over there'.  I confess that I did, and still do, harbour hopes that Greece might well and truly upset the European apple-cart but for the time being I suspect they have scraped through.  I stress those words because there's many a slip and all that sort of thing.  For example, one result of the strict fiscal and economic constraints slapped on the Greeks had never occurred to me, that is, that as their GDP declines, as it must under such a rigorous regime, the ratio of their GDP against their debts will inevitably grow worse, thus further alarming international bond dealers.

I am obliged to Mr. Dicks, Chief Economist of Barclay's Wealth, for that lesson in Economics 101, as reported by Citywire.  However, it is to Italy that Mr. Dicks directs our attention, and in particular, the Italian RULCs!  (Oh, surely you know what an RULC is, I mean, do I have to explain everything?)  An RULC is a nation's Relative Unit of Labour Cost, and the Italian version has gone pasta-shaped!  I will let him explain:

Looking at the data from a different slant, Dicks highlights that back in 1995 Italian manufacturers benefitted from having labour costs per unit of output that were only 60% those of Germany. This, he points out, has given way to a 'massive disadvantage' of around 30%, meaning their relative unit labour costs (RULCs) relative to Germany have deteriorated by about 120% over the last 15 years.

Mamma mia!  But that ain't all:

Italy's public debt-to-exports ratio is another big problem for the nation. Dicks points out that the country's debt-to-income ratio stands at around 4, a number which has been identified by Harvard economist Ken Rogoff as a key 'tipping point' for identifying when crises occur.

Everything he says about Italy applies in spades to Spain as well, and he ends his bulletin thus: 

Also he questions where there will be united political support to bail out the likes of Italy. 'Recently, the German chancellor, Angela Merkel, asked why Germany might be expected to support Greece, when Greek workers can, and do, retire earlier than their German counterparts. I wonder what she might say if Italy was under the cosh?'

"Nein", I would suggest.  Perhaps Italy will raise my miserable forecasting record because over a year ago I did suggest that it would be Italy that brought about the demise of the Euro.  Viva Italia! 

The uncertainty principle in action

This is a rum one! 

I have long been an admirer of Michael Frayn and his tantalising play, Copenhagen, which is, in my opinion, one of the greatest plays of this latter-day Elizabethan period of brilliant play-writing.  It investigates the mysterious meeting which took place in 1941 between the Danish physicist, Niels Bohr, then the dominant figure in quantum physics; and Werner Heisenberg, his German protege and almost his adopted son and the man who first proposed the uncertainty principle in relation to sub-atomic particles.  At the time of this meeting Denmark was a conquered country and Heisenberg was involved in the German effort to construct an A-bomb.  Even now, after nearly 70 years, no-one is entirely sure what was said at that meeting.  One important source was finally released by the British government in 1992.  It was the secret transcripts of bugged conversations by Germany's top scientists, including Heisenberg, who had been scooped up by British Intelligence in 1945 and interned, in considerable comfort, in Farm Hall, a large house in Huntingdonshire.  There, they were wined and dined and politely cross-examined but much more important, all of their private conversations were secretly recorded.  From all of this and much more, Frayn created a superb but teasing rendition of what may or may not have occurred at the wartime meeting between these two giants of physics, and I am delighted that the play, despite its esoteric interest, went on to run for a considerable time - with the same cast participating all the way through.  They were David Burke (Bohr), Matthew Marsh (Heisenberg) and Sarah Kesteleman (Bohr's wife).

Changing the topic slightly, but stick with me, I was recently given as a gift a slim paper-back volume entitled Celia's Secret which had been jointly written by Michael Frayn and David Burke.  In it, Frayn describes his astonishment when part-way through the run he received a letter from a 'Celia Rhys-Evans' who had been taken to see the play under the misapprehension that it was another of Frayn's amazingly funny farces like Noises Off.  I sympathised with that because when I saw the play a lady arrived, almost late and in a rush to take the seat next to me and who just had time to ask me if this play was a comedy.  In honesty, I was forced to say, maybe, but only if you find quantum physics funny!  Anyway, 'Mrs. Rhy-Evans' told Frayn that she and her husband had lived in Farm Hall for a short period during the 1960s and in the course of carrying out some repairs had come across some old and rather odd documents, written in German, hidden under the floor boards in the attic.  Frayn could barely control his excitement and was, so to speak, instantly off and running.

Then Burke takes over the story, in fact, they take turn and turn about in telling it, and very quickly it transpires that it is Burke perpetrating/playing a hoax on Frayn.  I deliberately leave the choice of words to you because much depends on your re-action to practical jokes.  Personally, I don't like them and I am wary of people who practice them.  It is interesting that when Burke confides in his fellow actor, Matthew Marsh, he makes it quite clear that he disapproves but grudgingly agrees to remain silent.  However, as this hoax gathers momentum, and absorbs more and more of Frayn's time and intellect in trying to decipher these mysterious documents, eventually Marsh spills the beans and tells him.  Obviously, Frayn and Burke remained friends, or at least, friendly enough to jointly write this little book, but personally, I would have thrown him into the orchestra pit!

Celia's Secret by Michael Frayn & David Burke

The lying liar's election publicity 'fraud'

For months now I have been meaning to bore you all enlighten you all on the insidiously creeping barrage of government announcements and adverts on my beloved 'TorkSport'.  Apart from the redundancy of most their messages (eg: 'Don't pile things too high on your lorry because it might fall off') it interferes with highly erudite discussions on, say, the advantages of 4-6-3 formations in 'footie' as against 2-7-4.  I may not have the numbers absolutely correct because I am still a beginner at this 'footie' lark and anyway, just as I concentrate in order to get the facts, it's interrupted by yet another stupid government advert.  Just recently the increasing numbers of these adverts has begun to get under my skin.  Today I read an explanation at The Coffee House:

Gordon Brown has been shameless in using the tools of state to advance his party political objectives – to him, government is electoral war by other means. Anyone who has turned on a commercial radio station recently will have worked out his latest trick: a mass propaganda splurge before an election campaign. Get on a bus, and it can be 100 percent state adverts – advising how Big Brother will help you get a job, buy a car, see off door-to-door salesmen, give you a job in the prison services – anything you want.

Well, so what, you may sigh, nobody listens to those things, anyway.  Well, I am delighted to give you one very excellent reason why you should be as irritated as me - you are paying for it and it ain't cheap!

We at The Spectator have tracked down the figures that show the extent of all this. State advertising was £13 million in December – yet surged to £34 million last month. To put this in perspective, the cap on election spending is £19 million.

Even worse is the inherent corruption:

No way could Gordon Brown raise this cash honestly. So he has unleashed what is, I suspect, the biggest propaganda spend in British history. The various advertising messages will chime with Labour's "big government will protect you" message – boasting about wonderful things which the state does.

Even MI5 are in on the scam warning us that the bloke who sits quietly in the corner of the office minding his own business and actually working might be a terrorist and should be reported to the 'Terrorist Hot-line'.  Creepy!

NAPOLEON: Act II, sc vii

Begin here at the introduction and then scroll forward

ACT II  sc 7

A servant's room at Malmaison.   Louise is in bed, obviously ill.   Josephine, looking flushed and unkempt, is rolling her sleeves down as Mde. Remusat enters.

 

Remu: My dear Josephine, I came as soon as heard.   How is she?  

 

Jose:  It's over.   She lost the baby.

 

Remu: Oh, God!   Poor girl … and poor Josephine, you look exhausted.

 

Jose:  Yes, I am … and I feel so …defeated.   She fought so hard, my poor little Louise.   I know she's only a servant but she's been with me since she was a child, when her parents died.   She's, well I suppose it sounds silly but she's almost a daughter to me.   She's been with me through the good times and the bad, when I was first married, when I had my own children, through the terror when my husband was executed, always there, always cheerful … oh dear … (She starts to weep)

 

Remu: There, there, don't distress yourself, my dear friend, I know you will have done everything that was possible.

 

Jose:  I did, I did and so did she.   Such courage but it was no good, the baby was quite dead.   Poor Louise … and poor Pietro, they were so happy, so expectant.   I think she was very shaken when he went to the war.   She likes to act tough and independent but she needed Pietro here, she needed his strength and support.   Perhaps being an orphan has something to do with it.

 

Remu: Will this wretched war never end?   How goes it with your husband?   I hear amazing stories that he's led the Army over the Alps.   Can that possibly be true?

 

Jose:  I don't know, truly, truly I don't.

 

Remu: The city's rife with rumour.   People say … forgive me, Josephine, but you should know … they say your husband is gambling with the fate of France, that this expedition across the Alps will end in disaster and bring down the Republic.   They say the King is raising an army at the frontier and that here in Paris the Jacobins are arming themselves to protect the revolution … (She is interrupted by a scream from Louise who wakes suddenly)

 

Lou:  Pietro!   Where's Pietro?

 

Jose:  Louise, you must rest …

 

Lou:  Pietro, please, Madame, I want to see Pietro.

 

Jose:  Oh, Louise, you can't, you know you can't, Pietro isn't here.

 

Lou:  (Coming to)   Oh, Christ, that bloody war!   Madame, my baby, please tell me, I'm not sure, it was a like a dream, a bad dream, with the pain and all, but my baby, it was a boy, wasn't it?

 

Jose:  Yes, it was a boy.

 

Lou:  Good!   A boy, Pietro said he wanted a boy; he said Corsican's always had to have a boy.   (Pause, then strongly)   But his boy's dead and I'm glad he's dead.

 

Jose:  Oh, Louise, you don't mean it, you're upset …

 

Lou:  I do mean it, I do.   At least my baby died here with me, in my bed, in the warm, surrounded by love.   Not like, Pietro, fighting for his life on some stinking, filthy battlefield … that's if he's not dead already.

 

Jose:  Louise, Pietro isn't dead, you mustn't talk like that, he's with the General and I'm sure he'll keep him safe.   Now you must rest.   Pietro will return safe and sound and you'll have a chance for another baby.

 

Lou:  What's the point, Madame?   Another boy to die.   Either here and now, or later, spiked on some Grenadier's bayonet.   What's the point … what's the point …(Drifts off into sleep)

 

Remu: Who can argue with that?   The girl's wise beyond her years.

 

Jose:  Giving birth gives you some wisdom.   Oh, not like an intellectual or an academic, I don't mean that, but just wise in the real meaning of things.   I probably express this badly, I'm not used to such talk but, when you feel that first change inside, you know it's a child long before it's confirmed.   And somehow, as that little thing grows and stirs in your belly, as it changes, so do you.   I don't know how you were but I could feel all my girlish ways dropping off.   My perspective changed, my view of the world, of the people I knew, those close to me, changed, sort of, tilted.   I still loved my husband, my family and friends but, it was different.   For instance, there was a lot less "me" and "I", now it was "us", me and my baby.   Oh, God!   Listen to me talking such nonsense, I am very fatigued.

 

Remu: No, no, go on, you always avoid serious talk, it will do you good to get it off your chest.

 

Jose:  I'm making childbirth sound all mystical and magical and it's not like that at all, as you know quite well.   At best, it's uncomfortable and at worst, it's hideously painful but even so, just at odd moments, you can't help thinking of the wonder of it all, a complete human being, a new life growing inside you.   A bit like when you walk out on a moonlit night and gaze up at the stars, millions and millions of them and somehow, you can't comprehend the miracle of creation.   We've all had thoughts like that, haven't we?   Bearing a child doesn't exactly make you 'wise' but it gives you a sense of priority, place, a sense of what is truly important and what is simply … momentary, fleeting … unimportant.   And it certainly makes you realise that almost everything that men hold dear, their politics, their honour, patriotism, glory, reputation, all those tawdry baubles they're prepared to throw their lives away on, they're just, well, trivial.   And, God, it makes me rage inside because it's a man's world and there isn't a single thing I can do to change it. 

 

Sorry. Now you know why I prefer small talk, gossip, fashions, that sort of thing because if I allow myself to dwell on the insanities of this world of men and their foolishness, it makes me choke.   Let's go upstairs, I must write to Pietro and tell him the worst.

Liar, liar, combat trousers on fire!

'Yorkie' farmers are careful with their cash.  Gordon Brown's a liar.  It's raining in Wales.   

Yes, indeed, all statements of 'the bleedin' obvious' but I would like to dwell on the second for a moment.  There are lies, and there are carefully crafted, practiced, repititious lies.  What Gordon Brown spewed over the Chilcot enquiry was the latter.  He repeated endlessly, I lost count of how many times, that the Defence ministry budget was never, ever, cut but it now transpires that it was, on four annual occasions, and he was forced to 'fess up at Prime Minister's questions today.  There was a time when an 'honourable member' would have resigned for less, but not these days where inside No. 10 they probably fall about laughing and high-fiving everytime they manage to lie to the British people and get away with it.  Well, I can only hope that on May 6th the British people dish out the punishment this lying liar deserves.

However, none of that absolves the various ministers of defence, the top bureaucrats at the MoD and, most of all, the various Chiefs of Staff who served during Brown's tenure as Chancellor.  Just as one example, why were they wasting money buying Euro fighters to fight the Soviets instead of helicopters to fight real wars? Even more to the point, if they objected strenuously at the time to these cuts why did none of them, not one general, one admiral, one air marshal, resign?  Finally, do any of them rush to switch the telly off when the news shows yet more coffins being driven slowly through Wootton Bassett?  No, I didn't think so.  Pass the sick bag!

Good Times/Bad Times at the New York Times

The NYT is a particularly juicy if rank-smelling example of cant and humbug being, as it is, firmly on the side of Left-wing progressive politics.  In October last year they announced their intention to "eliminate" some 100 jobs in their newsroom.  Yesterday, Breitbart reported an analysis by Associated Press showing that last year the boss of the NYT earned roughly $4.9 million.  The latter-day 'Lady Gradgrind' concerned, a Ms. Janet Robinson, did, er, suffer by having her salary cut by 4% but bravely managed to carry on despite her tears by enjoying a bonus of $2.3 million which was 4x the size of her bonus in the preceding year.  Well, hell (as they say 'over there'), this equality 'shtick' is OK for Big Oil, Wall Street and all those other mega-capitalist outfits but we're different!  I can only finish this post by singing you a song.  Happily, you cannot hear me but you can 'sing-along':

And here's to you Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
(Wo, wo, wo)
God bless you, please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
(Hey, hey, hey)

We'd like to know a little bit
About you for our files
We'd like to help you
Learn to help yourself
Look around you
All you see are sympathetic eyes
Stroll around the grounds
Until you feel at home

And here's to you Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
(Wo, wo, wo)
God bless you, please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
(Hey, hey, hey)

NAPOLEON: Act II, sc vi

Begin here at the introduction and then scroll forward

ACT II  sc 6

This takes place on a main route outside Paris.   Bonaparte is walking back to a small

dais followed by a Colonel whose regiment he has just inspected and a Staff Officer.

Standing off on opposite sides are Talleyrand and Fouché together, and Josephine.

 

Nap:  Smart turnout, Colonel, I congratulate you and your magnificent regiment.   I shall speak to the soldiers and then you may march off.

 

Col:   Thank you, Sir.  (Bows and exits)

 

Nap:  (Aside to one of his Staff officers)   Which bloody regiment is this?

 

Staff: The Twenty First, Sir.

 

Nap:  Ah, yes, this is the sixth one this morning, I can't remember them all… (He mounts the dais and addresses the troops, ie, the audience.   During this speech, as appropriate, there should be a sound effect to indicate the re-action of the soldiers.)

 

Men of the Twenty First, I your Consul, salute you!   We have marched together before and now I am proud to march with you again.   We have won some great victories, you and I …. remember Italy?   We taught those Austrians three lessons then … how to march, how to fight and …. how to find the quickest road back to Vienna!   (Laughter and a few cheers)   But these Austrians are very bad pupils.   They haven't learnt their lessons.   We must return and teach them all over again, and this time, soldiers of the Twenty First, we'll give them a caning they'll never forget … (Huge cheers and Napoleon waits for them to subside before changing the mood)

 

The veterans among you, the old sweats, they'll tell you, there may be difficulties ahead … hard times … long marches … you'll be hungry sometimes, thirsty, cold and at the end of it all there'll be dangers … tough, hard fighting.   But, soldiers, I ask you, if you're going to be in tough fight, who would you rather be with than your comrades of the fighting Twenty First?   (Cheers)   The finest fighting Regiment in the Army.   (More cheers)   And led by a General who gives you nothing but victories.  (Huge cheers but cut short by Napoleon as he plays his audience)

 

Now … (Begins quietly but builds up) ... some of those victories were rather tight affairs.   Like all battles they had their moments of crisis, that crucial point when everything hangs in the balance.   But at those moments, I can tell you now, that your General remained calm and confident because I knew, even though sometimes I couldn't see for the smoke, but I knew, that down there where the fighting was fiercest, there in the cauldron where the ultimate decision would be made, there were the men of the fighting Twenty First …  (Cheers) … warriors I could depend on for my life … (More cheers)   and at that moment, I knew, knew with absolute certainty, that with courage like that there could only be one outcome … total victory!   (His voice is almost drowned by cheers)   Soldiers of the Twenty First, to your duties, march!   (Sound of troops marching off as Napoleon chats to his Staff Officer.)

 

Tall:  (To Fouché as the noise fades)   That's exactly the same speech he gave to the others although the alliteration of 'fighting' worked better with the Forty Fourth.   But what brings you here, Fouché, come to wave your tear-stained hankie in farewell to our glorious leader?

 

Fouc: I gave up crying when I was eight!   No, I've come to tell our First Consul that those Jacobin swine have been dealt with.

 

Tall:  Really!   All of them?

 

Fouc: (Sharply)   What do you mean?   Of course, all of them!

 

Tall:  (Not fooled)   Excellent, my dear colleague, then the First Consul may sally forth to slay our enemies in perfect serenity.  (Napoleon approaches)

 

Nap:  Is it done, Fouché?

 

Fouc: Yes, Sir.

 

Nap:  Good!   And, Talleyrand, Czar Paul still loves me?

 

Tall:  As a brother, Sir.

 

Nap:  (With sudden exuberance)   Then everything is set.   It's true what they say about you, Talleyrand, you are the cleverest man in Europe.   And you, Fouché, watch my back, mmmm?  (Laughing)  I always say one Fouché is worth a brigade of Guards. (Serious) I am leaving, Gentlemen, and I am taking with me the honour of France and the destiny of the Republic.   You're both practical men, I know, men of affairs who only deal with real politik and you may not understand this … but I tell you … at moments like this there is … what's the word? … a union, a mystical union, between a leader and his people that transcends mere politics.   This is a great adventure, Gentlemen, a feat of arms that will take France to its rightful place, pre-eminent in the councils of Europe.   France is Europe and Europe is France!   And none of it would have been possible without your guidance and support.   France is in your debt - I am in your debt.   Gentlemen, farewell.   (He embraces both in turn with sudden emotion and moves across to Josephine)

 

Fouc: (After a pause)   Bugger me!

 

Tall:  Thank you but no.   However, I do share your astonishment.

 

Nap:  (To Josephine)   My dear, I must take my leave.

 

Jose:  Oh, Sir, please …

 

Nap:  No, no, please, you know it's my duty, France calls.

 

Jose:  But, Sir, you never gave me an answer.

 

Nap:  Eh?   Answer, what answer?   What are you talking about?

 

Jose:  About, Pietro, your orderly, you said you would consider.   Louise expects his child.

 

Nap:  Pietro!   For God's sake, at a moment like this, to talk of an orderly!   Of course he must come, he's a soldier, it's his duty.   Please, Josephine, everyone is watching, this is an historic occasion.   Do stop babbling on about an orderly.   Just embrace me and wish me good fortune.   (They embrace to polite applause from the bystanders as lights go down.

Self-immolation: The new politics

As President Obama, sitting in the cockpit of the single-seat dive bomber, raises a last glass of saki in a toast to whatever gods he follows and allows David Axelrod to screw the canopy down so that no escape is possible on the final suicide dive to destruction, it can only leave observers slack-jawed at such an example of extreme folly.  Obama swept into office with a huge majority and on a tidal wave of hope and enthusiasm.  In just over a year it has all disappeared like Prospero's "revels ... [they] Are melted into air, into thin air ... [and] Leave not a rack behind."  As I am in quotation mode, Dickens provides the most apt:

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

The Health Bill may or may not pass Congress but it matters not a whit, the self-inflicted damage has crucified Obama's presidency and crippled his party.  If it passes it will remain round the neck of the president and his party like a concrete collar, and if it fails Obama's presidency is finished.  This can be lived with but the collateral damage, not just to the Democrats but to the entire political system, cannot be over-estimated.  The sheer magnitude of the despicable dishonesty, the vile and blatant corruption, the utter lack of honour and of principle, has indelibly smeared Right, Left and Centre, and I fear for what may arise from the yawning aversion that has arisen in the American public to anything and everything that emanates from Washington.

A Norwegian corker!

Honestly, I'm just too good to you lot!  Day in, day out, I wear my eyes out in order to provide you all with the very best book review service in Blogdom - and all for no money!  Now, to be honest, Norway is a country which raises mixed emotions in me.  In so far as I ever think about it at all, which is extremely rare, it is first and foremost a memory of c.1959 when my brigade was sent there for an exercise.  I can honestly say that I have never been so cold for so long - and it wasn't even proper winter-time!  I digress, again.   The setting for this particular example of 'pulp fiction' is mainly Norway in 1999/2000 and it must be confessed that Norway, splendidly dull and provincial as it is, does not seem a likely setting for a really exciting thriller.  However, if I tell you that it also moves backwards in time to the Eastern Front in Russia, to Vienna and to Hamburg during WWII then you will realise that there are good grounds for suspecting a fascinating and complex tale of murderous skullduggery - which is exactly what you get with this book.  It is terrific, not just in the sly, convoluted plot which never stops twisting and turning, but also in the gallery of well-drawn characters who people it.  Hanging over the entire story is a major assassination plot somewhat reminiscent of The Day of the Jackal.  Even more interesting to me is the light it throws on Norway's behavior during WWII.  I knew nothing of what went on there beyond the 'Heroes of Telemark' story.  I certainly had no idea that quite so many Norwegians had approved of Vidkun Quisling to the extent of joining up in the German SS and fighting in Russia.  Apparently this remains a scar on Norwegian society even to this day.   Again, I can only repeat that this is a terrific thriller written by a man who knows how to unfold a complex story inch by inch.  Thank God, I see from Amazon that he has written plenty of others so there are many more pleasures to be anticipated.

The Redbreast by Jo Nesbo - don't miss it, and that's an order!

Must resist 'over there' and stick to 'just over there'!

This blog comes with the D&N Lifetime Guarantee that we will stick rigidly to our aims and goals.  Of course, we haven't specified precisely and exactly the 'lifetime' of what and suggestions that it is the lifetime of a gnat are a disgraceful slur.  Some time ago I promised to avert my eyes from 'over there' and keep them focused on 'just over there'.  This is extremely difficult given the exciting, nail-biting goings-on 'over there' but is somewhat mitigated by news of a big row between the 'Bratwursts' and the 'Saussisons' (that's enough obscure heavy-handed humour - ed!)

Right, well, apparently the Germans and the French have had a 'handbags-at-dawn' moment over the deal to underwrite the Greek economy which the Germans (of course) have won.  They wanted the financial equivalent the sort of 'strict discipline' so beloved of Max Mosley, where-as the French pushed for much softer terms - well, cherie, it so easy being generous with other people's money!  According to the FT, the rescue package is so toxic that the Greeks are unlikely ever to use it - so where that gets us I have no idea:

The central element of the plan is that individual governments would, on a voluntary basis, make loans available to Greece at an interest rate that would make Greece think twice before putting in a request for help in the first place.  This, it is thought, will reinforce Greece’s commitment to the drastic austerity programme that the socialist government has drawn up since coming to power last October. 

[...]

At first glance, the success of the plan appears to rest on the willingness of financial markets to treat it as credible.  If they don’t, they will continue to keep Greek bond yield spreads high in relation to German debt, and Greece will find it harder and harder to extract itself from crisis.

[...]

But the plan also assumes that the Greek population will swallow its medicine at least until the end of 2012.  With a 4 per cent drop in economic output possible this year, public sector wage cuts and rising unemployment, it is a bold assumption.

Still a lot to play for, I think, or perhaps I should have said 'still a lot to pay for'!

 

 

NAPOLEON: Act II, sc v

Begin here at the introduction and then scroll forward

ACT II  sc 5

Below stairs at Malmaison.   Louise is heavily pregnant.)

 

Lou:  Nooooo!   (Screams and breaks into sobs)

 

Piet:   Louise, please; think of my son.

 

Lou:  He won't be your son.   You won't be here when he's born.   You're going to leave him … and me!

 

Piet:   I'm not leaving you.   I've been ordered back to my regiment.   The General wants me to go with him…

 

Lou:  Back to war?

 

Piet:   I don't know.   Maybe … but I have to obey orders, Louise, and remember, I've got a soft job being the General's orderly, even on campaigns, it's not so dangerous as being in the line.   And, well, if the General needs me, well, I have to go.   He's been good to me, to us.

 

Lou:  But I need you!   Here, with me, this is my first baby and what shall I do if … if, you're hurt or … if you're killed?   (Josephine enters and both youngsters adopt a respectful pose)

 

Jose:  Louise, whatever's the matter?   I heard a scream as I crossed the lobby.   Why are you crying?   (Louise is unable to answer)

 

Piet:   I'm sorry, Madame, but, well, Louise is upset, because I'm going, you know, with the General.

 

Lou:  Oh, Madame, forgive me, I didn't mean to disturb you.   You have always been so kind to me … and to Pietro … but he's going away, to the war and, oh, I need him here with me when I have the baby.   Please, Madame, I beg you, speak to the General.   He can have his pick of the army for an orderly, he wouldn't miss Pietro.

 

Piet:   No, Madame!   Excuse me, I didn't mean to shout, and excuse my wife, I mean Louise, she's upset, but I must go, it's my duty, the general wants me and I must go.

 

Jose:  Duty!?   What monstrous cruelties you men perpetrate in the name of duty.   Pietro, leave us please, I expect you have much to do and I want to speak to Louise alone.

 

Piet:   Yes, Madame.   (Goes to Louise and speaks tenderly)   Louise, calm yourself, it's not good for the baby.   I don't leave for a week and I promise you on the life of my son  (Pats her stomach gently)  I will return to you both, I promise.   (Kisses her, bows stiffly to Josephine and exits)

 

Lou:  Oh, Madame, I'm sorry but, it seems as though all my life has been spent watching men go off to kill each other for no reason that ever made sense to me.   When is it going to end?   I'm terrified for Pietro, and for me and the baby.

 

Jose:  (Taking Louise in her arms)   There, there, Pietro is right; it's not good for the baby if you upset yourself.   I can't answer your question; I've asked myself the same thing.   It's a man's world and that is the way they order our affairs.   We women must be strong … strong and patient and enduring.   We must crush our suffering, hug it to ourselves, draw strength from it.   Above all we must endure.

 

  Dry you tears.   I will speak to the General but I must warn you that it may do no good … but I will try.

 

Lou:  Oh, thank you, Madame, thank you and bless you.

 

Jose:  Yes, yes, but remember it may do no good, I can only ask.   Compose yourself and I'll speak to you later.   (Exits as Florence enters)

 

Flo:   (Cackling)   Ha, ha, not laughing now, eh?   Ha, ha, ha, not laughing now.

 

Lou:  Shut up, you old witch, just shut up!

 

Flo:   Ha, ha, ha …. (Lights down)

Do I hear the sound of the Bond-dealers galloping to the rescue?

Not quite yet, I'm afraid.  However, Moody's, one of the main credit rating agencies has issued a warning concerning both the UK and the USA governments that they are close to losing their triple-AAA rating.  Of course, the Yanks have much less to worry about than us because their economy by a long, long way is the biggest in the world and no-one seriously thinks they will default.  We, on the other hand, are extremely vulnerable, and as Moody's points out, by 2013 we will be spending more of our income in financing our debt than any other nation in the world.  The price of doing so will increase enormously as our credit rating sinks and sterling sinks with it.  It will take very little for the markets to move rapidly from stern injunctions for us to mend our ways into all-out panic selling of sterling and frightening hikes in the asking price for the money we desperately need to keep going.  Cameron & Co must be secretly praying for this to happen before the election, and if current stories and polls indicating that Brown might not be defeated are taken seriously, then it might well happen in the next month.  None of the politicians are being honest although, oddly enough, little George Osborne is edging closer than most.  We need a full-blown crisis to hit before the election, not only to force the politicians to tell the truth but also to wake the Great British Public out of its apparent complacency in which they appear to actually believe Brown when he tells them he has saved the nation.

ADDITIONAL:  I am obliged to my regular contributor, JK', for providing me with this link in the comments below:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/us_social_security_ious

I was in a hurry when I wrote this post and I rather let slip past the faith of the bond dealers in US debt without comment.  They might have ultimate faith in the strength of the USA but I do not.  'JK's link spells out just one reason but there are two others.  First, America is ruled by a Marxist administration many of whom positively desire a collapse in the USA; and second, a huge amount of American debt is owned by China and Japan.  The former will be delighted at the prospect of an impoverished America even at a cost to themselves, and if Japan, too, suffers, well, it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good!  Last month China began selling off American bonds - need I say more?

What is it with the Sterns of this world?

In a post further down I made clear my admiration for Jews on account of my impression gained over the years of their high average intelligence - using that poor, gang-banged word in its widest sense.  But then up pops Baroness Stern, no less, with a plate of steaming tripe on the subject of rape.  In her 'dafter than a daft thing' report she matches her name-sake, but no relation, Sir Nicholas Stern and his equally potty report on global warming.  I am forced to ask whether the tribe of Sterns are simply a Jewish aberration (like the Duffs in the Scottish clan system?), or whether it is a deeply laid plot to prove that my judgment is rubbish, hardly worth the effort, I would have thought!

Needless to say, I haven't read the report in detail, it was enough to read in The Times that Baroness Stern recommends that:

every victim to be offered the support of a specialist adviser to help them from the moment they make a complaint.  Hundreds of “independent sexual violence advisers” would help victims understand the police and criminal justice process as well as assisting them with other matters including getting new locks on their home, specialist counselling and emotional support.

The assumption that hundreds of so-called advisers need to be employed on the public purse is 'vot ve Jewish psycho-babblists call an auto re-action syndrome, my life, vich is alvays to be found amongst ze great and ze good'!  Of course, it never crosses what passes for Lady Stern's mind that it the task of family and friends to offer this sort of consolation not civil servants on £40k a year plus pension.  Not is it clear from the synopsis of the report exactly what constitutes a "victim".  Is it every woman who makes a complaint, or just the women whose complaint is pursued by the CPS, or is it limited to just those whose complaint is justified by a guilty verdict?

The part played by drunkeness in rape could not be avoided because:

She said the issue was raised in every meeting her team held during the course of its five-month review in which they met police officers, local authority officials, members of the Crown Prosecution Service, health workers and people working in the voluntary sector. (My emphasis)

However she carefully avoided spelling out any measure to deal with it claiming that it was outside her remit.  So, drunkeness is a huge factor in the rape of women but Baroness Stern steps delicately around it avoiding her eyes and concentrates on the really important matter of employing people to hold hands, make cups of tea (or large gin and tonics) and chat to the victims.  One is entitled, I think, to ask if Lady Stern was paid for her efforts to produce this report and whether or not she stands as an example of value for money, a concept suddenly popular with all of our politicians.  Also, one cannot help but wonder at the damage to the Amazonian rain forests in printing this report which is likely to have a detrimental effect on the global eco-system and thus raise the temperature of her name-sake, Lord Stern!

Creepy! Well, that's what I think ...

I have just received an e-mail from the IJNR!  At this point some of you wags might wish to depart and think up suitable names to match those initials but I haven't the time so I will drone on.  It actually stands for The International Journal of Neighbourhood Renewal.  Alas for it and its progenitors, three of the main components of its title are words that instantly repel me - International, Neighbourhood and Renewal.  Journal is OK-ish but leads one to suspect more than a dash of tedium.  Anyway, this e-mail invited me to part with £150, another off-putter, to attend a training session in  - wait for it because it's an absolute killer - 'Berming'am'.  My dear ... simply too, too, industrial!  Here are just some of the jollies on offer:

How to effectively evaluate neighbourhood renewal and sustainable communities projects and programmes

How to involve local communities and residents groups in developing and implementing neighbourhood and community renewal programmes

Evaluation Master-class – a specialised training day looking at issues such as how to measures the softer impacts of regeneration programmes

Why do I find all this incomprehensible guff faintly sinister?  Because I nearly fell for it once, that's why!  About two years ago I had a leaflet stuck through my letterbox telling me that there was going to be a public meeting to discuss developments in my village.  I assumed that some loony in the government had decided to build one of 'Gordie's so-called eco-towns next door so I thought it best to go along and find out what it was about.  Well, what it was about was a bunch of interfering, middle-class, busy-body prats trying to run the village the way they wanted to run it whilst covering the whole thing with a veneer of 'democracy'.  For example, we were all put in this small hall and told that we would have various propositions concerning the development of the village read out to us and if we agreed we should move over to one side of the room, or if we disagreed we should move to the other side.  Because I frequently had either no opinion or insufficent knowledge I, alone most of the time, remained rooted to the spot in the centre of the room - to the obvious irritation of the bossy-boots running the thing.  After a while I made my excuses and left!

What irritated me was that we have a perfectly good village council who at least have the fig-leaf of respectability by being elected rather than self-appointed.  Indeed, more than that, they take on the uttely tedious job of coming out once a month or more in all weathers (and, boy, have we had some stinkers this winter!), not to waffle about pie-in-the-sky dreams, but to discuss the nitty-gritty of the drains in Puddle Lane, the over-hanging trees from Farmer Watson's fields and all the other minutae of village life.  I am happy to say that like me, I suspect, most of them would find the topics of this proposed 'training course' as incomprehensible as I do.

Now if anyone has come up with any witty suggestions for the acronym, cheer me up by puttingthem in the comments - Internation Journal of Numpty Ratbags, perhaps?

NAPOLEON: Act II, sc iv

Begin here at the introduction and then scroll forward

ACT II  sc 4

This scene takes place mainly in two acting areas DS right and left which are lit

alternately as required.  US centre, dimly lit is a motionless, hooded figure perhaps

raised on a rostrum.   Later this figure will be lit and revealed as Fouché.   DS left

are three Jacobin plotters:  Marcel, an intense intellectual; Gaston, a rough- hewn

worker, and one of Fouché's spies.   DS right are three Royalist plotters (or possibly

only two - see Cast List):  The Duc d'Angers and two gentlemen, one of whom is

Fouche's spy.

JACOBINS

Marc: Kill him!

Gast: What?

Marc: Kill him.   That's what we have to do.

Gast: But, Marcel, how do we do it?

Marc: I'll tell you later but don't worry, it can be done.

Gast: Well, I suppose … but why?   I mean, he's only one man.

Marc: Yes, but he's the key man, the key to everything, in fact.   Let me show you.   (He produces paper and crayon and draws a large triangle which he holds up)   Who runs France, Gaston?

Gast: (Shrugs)   I dunno … the three Consuls, I suppose.

Marc: (As though speaking to a child)   Not three Consuls, Gaston, one, just one - Bonaparte.   The other two are just stooges, dummies, political hacks, told when to walk and whipped into a canter when required.   It's Bonaparte who sits at the pinnacle of this triangle, underneath him in layers, the Consuls and his ministers, shits like Fouché and Talleyrand, then beneath them the senior civil servants, the Prefects and so on, and then the clerks, merchants, shop-keepers and such like, and then right at the bottom - France!   The real France, the people, peasants and workers, people like you Gaston.   And none of them from top to bottom can take a shit without a permit from the great Napoleon Bonaparte.   Nothing moves, no-one acts, without his say so.

  (Holds up his diagram of the triangle)   Now, if this is France you'd think Bonaparte's power-base was indestructible, wouldn't you?   I mean, look at it, broad, massive base, gently sloping up to the pinnacle, to the man, the one man, at the top.   Pretty strong, eh?

Gast: Bloody immovable, if you ask me.

Marc: Well you're wrong!   And the reason you're wrong is because you’re looking at the picture the wrong way up … (Turn picture upside down)   now look at it.   That massive triangle resting on the shoulders of one puny man!   Take him away and the whole rotten edifice come crashing down.

Spy:  He's right, Gaston, he's right.   It just depends on looking at things the right way up …

ROYALISTS

Duc:  Disposed of, he must be disposed of …

Gent: Bonaparte, you mean?

Duc:  Of course, he's the man at the top just like his Majesty was - except for one thing.   Bonaparte's rule is un-natural, a perversion.

Gent: A perversion, my Lord?

Duc:  Absolutely!   His Majesty ruled with the legitimacy of his ancestral line and ancient custom.   Bonaparte's rule is based on the coup d' etat which is a fancy phrase for political thievery.   He depends utterly on martial law, secret policemen, edicts and fear.   The only good thing is that it makes him terribly vulnerable.

Gent: In what way, my Lord?

Duc:  It's the difference, Sir, between legality and legitimacy.   Those pox-doctors' clerks who are pleased to call themselves lawyers might like to quibble that Bonaparte's regime is legal de facto if not de jure.   But in my experience, Sir, mere legality was never enough to ensure obedience and loyalty.   Men have a deep and instinctive liking for custom and ancient usage.   They like things to be the way they have always been.  So long as the law of the land is enforced fairly and in accordance with tradition, they won't question it.   Unlike those weasel lawyers they don't seek to find some purpose in the law, they don't see it as a means to some abstract end; they accept it as part of the framework of their lives because it gives them a sense of security.   Of course, the revolutionaries call a framework a cage, and in a way, they might be right but they have forgotten what most ordinary folk know by instinct, that a cage keeps the wild animals out and the occupants safe!   And the ideal person to stand at the head of the legal system is a king who is there precisely because he represents custom, tradition, lawful succession, in other words, legitimacy.   Oh, I expect Bonaparte's rule will be obeyed but only through fear.   Remove him and the whole government system will shatter as officials scratch around for some sort of legitimacy to cover their actions.

Spy:  You're absolutely right, my Lord, a masterly summary, if I may say so.

Gent: And it is for us to strain every sinew and put the legitimate ruler of France back on his throne.

JACOBINS

Gast: But how are we to kill him?

Marc: The Committee has entrusted me with the plan and the number of people in the know must be kept to the absolute minimum for security reasons …

Spy:  Bloody right, Fouché's spies are everywhere.   The bastards burrow into everything like weevils in a biscuit.   I reckon the movement is riddled from top to bottom.   I know Fouché's supposed to be sympathetic to our aims, even gives us the odd nod of encouragement but I still wouldn't trust that swine further than I could piss into a gale.

Marc: Exactly!   Security is paramount but both of you are involved and need to know.   The plan is to put some barrels of gun-powder on a wagon and leave it in an alley off the street Bonaparte uses when he travels home at night.   You both know Jaques le Rouge, the ex-cannoneer who lost a leg in Italy; well, he's getting the powder from an old comrade in the artillery.   He says the alley being a cul-de-sac will act just like the barrel of a cannon and the explosion will blast straight out onto the street.   If we pack musket balls round the powder, he reckons it will be just like hitting Bonaparte's carriage with grape shot.

Gast: Er, yes but … well, won't a lot of innocent people get hurt?

Marc: I suppose so.

Gast: Well, we can't do that; there might be women and kids around.

Marc: Gaston, your fine feelings do you credit but what are a few women and kids compared to the future of France?

Gast: But … well … aren't women and kids the people of France?

Marc: Of course they are, of course they are but sometimes it's necessary to sacrifice a few individuals for the greater good of the many.

Gast: But surely, if we keep sacrificing all these individuals we'll end up with no people.

Marc: (Trying to remain patient)   No, no, Gaston, it's like the triangle again, you have to look at things the right way up.   Listen, you're a strong man, Gaston, an artisan, a worker and your strength, the strength of all the workers is essential to our movement but, you see, it has to be directed, aimed, it can't just be left to, sort of, flail around.   Now, to aim our strength, your strength, you need a correct analysis of the political situation which can be very confusing without a mind trained to sift all the different ebbs and flows, the pressures and counter-pressures.   That's why you need intellectuals, Gaston, thinkers, philosophers …

Gast: Like you, Marcel?

Marc: That's right, Gaston, like me and in exactly the same way that I trust and rely on your strength, you must trust and rely on my political judgements.   All right?

Gast: I suppose so.

Marc: Good, now listen both of you.   Me and Gaston must go and meet Jaques and his comrade.   You, Citizen, must go to Citizen Feyarde and get the money and then meet us, you know the place.   Come on, Gaston   (They exit and after a pause the spy hesitantly approaches the still figure of Fouché who remains dimly lit and disguised by his hooded cloak.   The spy waits, is beckoned forward, whispers in Fouché's ear and is dismissed with a bag of gold.)

ROYALISTS

Duc:  The King is ready and so are the people of the Vendee.   All our reports confirm that the people are sick of this never-ending war and yearn for peace, stability and a return to the old order and they know that only Bonaparte stands in the way.   However, before we can finalise our plans we must gain the public support of the Duc d' Enghien.   His reputation for honesty and integrity is a byword.   There isn't a prince in any court in Europe that doesn't admire and respect that young man for his virtue and honour.   The people of France still respect the Conde name, even republicans, so we must get him to commit his support to us before we move.

Gent: Is there any doubt that the Duke would support us?

Duc:  Oh, the Duke's a royalist to his fingertips, devoted to His Majesty, but as I say, the Duke's sense of honour is legendary, one might say fastidious, perhaps, overly fastidious.   Er, disposing of Bonaparte might not be entirely to his taste.

Spy:  I understand the Duke attends the court at Ettenheim in Baden.   The princess is, I believe, an exceptional beauty.   (The men chuckle knowingly)

Gent: Then we must remind the Duke of his higher duty.   The situation in France is intolerable and getting worse with Bonaparte strutting about like some latter-day Roman emperor.   Dear God, it's years since I last saw my estates, damn it, we must get rid of that man.

Spy:  But they do say Bonaparte is welcoming émigrés back, er, provided they forswear allegiance to his majesty, of course.

Duc:  Never!   The only way I shall return to France is at the side of my King.   One good thing about exile is the time it gives you to think.   I've always been a monarchist without knowing why.   I know people find it hard to accept the divine right of kings as I do but, damn it, monarchy works and it works at the level of practical politics.   A king might be cruel or kind, wise or foolish, that is God's will, but it is in the king's own interest to maintain custom and tradition and to administer the law according to precedent because his own position and that of his son depends on it.   But the usurper is different.   He hates tradition and custom in all its different manifestations because they remind everyone, constantly, of his own illegitimacy, and they act as a rallying point for all those in opposition.   So the Church, the law, the officer corps, the nobility, city guilds - all the great institutions of state must be ruthlessly destroyed.   But the paradox is that the more the tyrant slaughters, the less and less secure he feels because he knows that from each death a dozen potential enemies are likely to spring up.   No-one, from the highest to the lowest can sleep safe in their beds when they are ruled by a renegade who fears for the next coup.

Spy:  Quite right, my Lord, which is why it so important for us to maintain the strictest secrecy about our plans.   Fouché's spies are everywhere.

Duc:  Quite so, quite so.   Thank God we're all gentlemen and can be trusted.   (To the Gentleman)   Come, Sir, we must attend His Majesty and make our preparations.   (They exit leaving the spy who behaves in the same way as the first one.   When he exits Fouché steps forward, throws back his hood to reveal himself to the audience.)

Fouc: Scum!   Is there anything lower than a spy?   I doubt it (chuckles) except maybe a spy-master!   That's what Bonaparte thinks, looking down his supercilious nose at me, just like Talleyrand, except he looks down his nose at everyone!   Mind you, whatever he thinks, Bonaparte reads all my reports, devours them.   They want to know, you see, rulers, kings, princes, especially shaky ones like Bonaparte who don't really have any legal entitlement.   They stole what they got and they worry about who's going to steal it from them.   They want to know what everyone is doing but most of all - they want to know what everyone is thinking because thinking comes before doing.

  Can't say I blame him either.   Things are different now.   Years ago a mob was a few hundred drunks with one loudmouth and no brains.   A few men-at-arms would break a dozen skulls and that was that.   But now, oh dear, we live in modern times and mobs come in their millions and they're not just armed with sticks and stones but with ideas.   Oh, not their own ideas, of course, but some half-arsed notion from a clever-dick philosopher with his own axe to grind.   I tell you, when I rule this country I'm going to hang one in three philosophers and intellectuals to keep the other two dead quiet.   Some people reckon gun-powder is the most dangerous thing ever invented.   They're wrong, philosophy is the worst!   One over-educated idiot scribbling away in a garret about some daft ideas about right and wrong and before you know it we're all up to our arm-pits in blood and guts.

  Anyway, what am I going to do about this lot?  (Waves towards the areas previously occupied by the plotters)   I think I'll let that old buffer, the Duc d' Angers, run on a bit.   Those royalist arse-lickers can't fart without permission from his royal high and mightiness and it takes him all day to make up his mind whether it's raining or not.   Yeah, I'll let them run on a bit and just keep watching; but, Marcel and his murderous crew of cretins, that's a bit tricky.   Do I keep quiet and let them assassinate Bonaparte?   They've got a good plan, it'd probably work, and I don't like him any more than they do.   I didn't kill a king to let a Corsican bandit like him rule the roost.   But, on the other hand, he's only one man and one man can be influenced, controlled even, especially when you're the source of all his secret information, where-as Marcel's bloody committee, they'll be murdering each other within days if they ever succeed.   Bloody intellectuals!   And then again, if I pull them in, Bonaparte's going to think I'm the dog's bollocks.   Mmmm, yes, they'll have to go, oh, not all of them, of course, my agent …. and Marcel, yes, I'll tip off Marcel personally, he'll probably take over the leadership after I've hung all his bloody committee and he'll owe me a bloody big favour having saved his life.   But that ox, Gaston and all those crazy, old soldiers, they'll all have to go.   (Rubs his hands together)

  Altogether a very satisfactory night's work - but, my God, what's the time?   Christ, I'm late; I must get home, Mde. Fouché will have prepared dinner an hour ago and it does not do to keep Mde. Fouché waiting, oh dear me no, not at all, I must run … (Exits hurriedly, lights down)

What the ...?

Now this is a rum one!  Regular readers will know that whilst I support the State of Israel it does not well up from my heart but from my keen sense of national self interest.  Israel is the "plucky little Belgium", or even the 'Hougoumont', de nos jours.  Israel is a plucky little outpost which keeps Islamic eyes, and hands, occupied which might otherwise be even busier 'over here' than one would wish.  Even so, the fact is that, as a generalisation, I do like and admire Jews.  They have, no doubt, their own fair, or unfair, share of shits but this is mitigated by their obvious intelligence, a quality, I submit, which does not always display itself 'over here', and even less 'over there'.  Thus, I am confused by a prime piece of Israeli stupidity in which last week they publicly insulted the Vice-President of the USA.  I call it 'stupidity' only on the grounds that prima facie that is what it appears to be, however, in diplomatic manouvres nothing is ever prima facie!

As most of you know, Joe Biden was wasting his time attempting to re-ignite Arab/Israeli 'peace' moves and just as he was leaving Jerusalem to go to Palestine the Israelis announced their intention to build several hundred more houses in East Jerusalem.  All sorts of diplomatic smelly stuff has hit fans everywhere and none more fiercely than in the White House which, under the impeccably Left-wing rule of Barack Hussein Obama, has never been very keen on Israel since forever.  Now, I repeat, the Jews are an intelligent people and their current prime minister, Netanyahu, is a very experienced operator, so what is going on?

Sometime back last year Obama and Netanyahu met for the first time, primarily, I suppose, for a chance to take stock of each other but nothing much was reported at the time which surprised me because I suspected that a deep and abiding mutual dislike was instantly forged.  It has taken this long for it to reach the surface.  I suspect that Israel has come to the conclusion, correctly, that the Obama White House is resolutely pro-Arab and anti-Israel and thus there is nothing to lose in that direction.  I suspect also that Netanyahu has taken the measure of Obama's regime and reckons it is not long for this world so he will feel free to 'do what a Jew has to do' (to misquote a saying) and wait for a Republican administration which will be more sympathetic.  The Arabs, of course, are flattered to be stroked by the USA for a change, and will therefore be even more obdurate in their refusal to cut any sort of deal with the Israelis.  They have yet to realise that Obama's influence is vanishing faster than a snow flake in the desert and when they find out there will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Suckers!

All of this cements the impression the Obama administration has built up in a remarkably short space of time, that is, its preference for gangsters, crooks, murderers and thieves in the international three-ring circus over leaders who run democracies.  Note their re-action to events in Honduras where the USA backed the 'bad guys', Obama's 'creep 'n' crawl' mission to sundry dictators and sworn enemies of America, their instantaneous refusal to provide even a hint of support for Britain when the Argies  threatened the Falklands, and so on.  To paraphrase yet another well known saying, 'will no one rid me of this meddlesome president'?

"A Most Wanted Man"

At long last and after a considerable pause, I have returned to John le Carre and his latest (I think) book A Most Wanted Man.  I will never forget the palpable shock he gave me when the final twist to the story was exposed in The Spy Who Came In From The Cold.  I still remember the exact place where I was reading that book and the startled looks on the faces of  people around me when I suddenly let go, out loud, with a four-letter expletive as the double? treble? quadruple? cross was exposed.  Thereafter I went on to enjoy the Smiley books but somehow, as le Carre moved away from the spy story to what the literati no doubt consider to be proper novels, he rather lost me.  Also, I tired somewhat of his liberal conscience and I must confess that it looms large in this tale but at least he has returned to his espionage roots with a nicely convoluted plot filled with some unforgettable characters.  This story is simply superb, not to be missed - 'a most wanted book'!

NAPOLEON: Act II, sc iii

Begin here at the introduction and then scroll forward

ACT II, sc 3

A room at Malmaison,   Josephine is sitting with Mde. de Remusat, a companion, who is reading a letter which she lets drop with a sigh. 

Rem: Oh, no …

 

Jose:  What is it?   You look quite pale.

 

Rem: It’s from Mde. Duval ... oh dear … it’s her son, Lucien, he’s been killed in Italy.

 

Jose:  Oh, dear God, not another one!

 

Rem: Such a handsome boy, so slim and with those blue, blue eyes, like cornflowers.   He was only seventeen.   Will this war never end?   I sometimes think the men have gone quite mad.

 

Jose:  Oh, my dear Mde. Remusat, I was convinced of that years ago.

 

Rem: But not your husband, Madame, surely.   All France is depending on him to bring us peace.

 

Jose:  Then you and France should remember that my husband is, first, last and always, a soldier.   Somehow I don’t think soldiers are very good at peace, do you?

 

Rem: (Sighing)   I don’t know, but I do know that France can’t afford to keep losing fine, young men like Lucien Duval.   Perhaps we women should take over, after all it’s us that go through the agony of producing sons and perhaps we might take a care not to feed them so readily to the cannon’s mouth.

 

Jose:  I wish I could believe you, my dear friend, but the last few years have taught me to look at the world the way it is and that includes women.   Our sex has its cruelties.   I remember when my first husband was executed, it was the women who fought their way to the front for a good view, those ghastly, old hags, clacking and clicking …

 

Rem: Please, Madame, don’t distress yourself, all that’s in the past.   You have a new husband now, a good husband who adores you and …

 

Jose:  … And who surrounds me with lady friends to ensure I don’t misbehave when he is away.  (Waves away Remusat’s protest)  Oh, yes, I know why I am accompanied everywhere, every minute of the day or night and I don’t really mind, especially when it’s you, my dear friend.

 

Rem: Oh, Josephine, he loves you so and he is a great man, a hero of France.

 

Jose:  A hero?  (Smiling)  Your husband, Madame, is a very gallant, French gentleman, but does he remain a hero to you?   I think not.   Somehow, when you have seen, in the privacy of your chambers, a gentleman with his hose and breeches about his ankles, they never quite look like heroes again, no matter how great their achievements .. (Napoleon enters wearing the uniform and decorations of a Marshal) … or how magnificent the uniform!  (The ladies giggle)

 

 

Nap:  Ladies, may I share your jest?

 

Jose:  Certainly not, Sir, ladies must have their secrets … oh, but, Sir, what a magnificent uniform.  (The ladies gigggle again)

 

Nap:  I think I’m being made fun of ... Madame (Bows to Remusat) ... but I don’t mind.   After the Palais and all those po-faced bureaucrats, bowing and scraping, it’s wonderful to hear laughter, especially from two lovely ladies.

 

Rem: Sir, you are kind but forgive me if I leave.   M. de Remusat returns from the country today and I must be at home to greet him …

 

Jose:  And give him a hero’s welcome?  (Rings bell for Louise who enters)

 

Rem: (Smiling) But of course, my dear Madame, what else … goodbye, Sir.  (Exits with Louise)

 

 

 Nap:  Heroes?   What’s all this about heroes?

 

Jose:  Nothing, Sir, please don’t concern yourself.

 

Nap:  Oh, Josephine, I don’t think you have any idea how much I love you ...

 

(Takes her in his arms and kisses her but she jumps back with a squeal)

 

 Jose:  Ouch!

 

Nap:  What’s the matter?

 

Jose:  (Laughing and rubbing her breast)   Nothing … just another problem with heroes … their decorations!   (She points to the Star on his chest)   Please, Sir, if you wish to embrace me, pray remove your coat first.

 

Nap:  Oh I do wish to embrace you, my darling Josephine, I wish to embrace you for the rest of my life.   (He tries again to take her in his arms)   Oh, Josephine, a love like ours must soon produce a son.

 

Jose:  (Breaking away)   There you go again, Sir, a son, you must have a son.

 

Nap:  Well, of course, I must have a son.

 

Jose:  Why, pray?

 

Nap:  Because I must … I mean, I'm a Corsican … it's important to us, it's important to the family … and one day, well, it might be important to France.

 

Jose:  Why France?   Is the Republic so short of recruits that its mothers must breed sons to order?

 

Nap:  No, no!    It's for me … for us … for the family.

 

Jose:  If I give you a son will you give France peace?

 

Nap:  Please, Josephine, no politics, not here, not at Malmaison.   I love you and I adore this house and one of the reasons is that politics are never spoken of … by the way, talking of this house, who's that crazy, old crone you keep in the kitchen?

 

Jose:  That's Florence and she's not crazy, just old and a bit, well, eccentric.   Why?

 

Nap:  She was crossing the lobby when I came in and when she saw me she started cackling and pointing and saying something about 'They're coming, they're coming, the horsemen are coming' and then disappeared off downstairs.   She frightened the life out of me.   You'll have to get rid of her.

 

Jose:  I certainly will not!   She's been with my family for years, she was my nurse when I was small.   Dear, Florence, she still cooks me the occasional meal, Martinique style, hot and spicy, just like when I was little.

 

Nap:  But I can't have a madwoman wandering about the house … it's not, well, suitable … damn it, I am the First Consul!

 

Jose:  Oh forget her, Sir, I'll keep her out of sight, I promise.   She won't bother you again.   (She moves close and puts her arms round him)   Now, remove your jacket   (She giggles and helps him) and your medals.   I shan't object to being ravished by a hero but not if I'm to be scarred for life.

 

Nap:  Ravished!   Whose talking of ravishing?

 

Jose:  (Languorously)   Why, Sir, isn't that what soldiers do so awfully well…?

 

Nap:  Oh!   Oh, my delicious, darling Josephine … (Takes her into his arms as lights down)