Tag: brexit

Vox Pop

You wanna know what’s wrong with the world? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with the world! What’s wrong with the world is that the world isn’t Bafflesby!

Take my word for it. I know all about this stuff. Bafflesby born and bred, that’s me, man and boy! Never set foot outside the sound of her ancient bell tower, as it happens, and never wanted to. You can’t get lost here, see? The streets tell their own story. Witchfinder Way, Gibbet Gardens, Bedlam Bridge. You can’t move for history.

I’m like a stick of rock, I am, Bafflesby through and through. I got traditions built in. That’s what these Outcomers can’t understand. They’re not like us, are they? Smell different, for a start.

Old Barry Cade says they look different, too, but I wouldn’t know. To be honest with you, I can’t bear the sight of them. Last thing I wanna see is them curling their lips at our old ways, sneering at our customs. Forever asking the rules of Bladderball when any fule no there ain’t none! You either get it or you don’t.

Same with the Festival of the Flaming Firkin. Spot a stranger a mile away by his singed whiskers, the Old’uns used to say. Used to. Not no more. Six foot under, most of them, and their wisdoms buried with them! The good old days is gone for good. Anyone says he can bring them back gets my vote, even if he is pissing into the wind.

See that mausoleum through the mullion window? That was our old Squire, that was, bless his brutal heart! Time was when every job in town was in his pocket. If you wasn’t true-blue Bafflesby, you never got a sniff. He knew we was born to it, you see, it was in our blood. Natural aptitude, he used to say, comes with the territory. We didn’t need telling what to do, all that nonsense! Nowadays it’s all, What do I have to do?

They tell them, too. Waste of money even if they are paying them less! Back in the day we never needed no training up. Hit the ground running and – Bob’s your Uncle! – you got a job for life. Not just your life, neither, the job were yours to pass on. Keep it in the family, they used to say, and the family will keep you.

Not no more. These days the thought police are everywhere. They got to have interviews. All these Outcomers talking stuff they don’t know. Asking things. We never had to ask nothing.

Same as the Facts of Life. No one said nothing. You kept one eye open and your ear to the ground in them days, then if something arose you jumped at the chance. You don’t have to go to college to cook a pie, they used to say, may they rest in peace …

Ha, fat chance of that, they’ll all be spinning in their graves! They wouldn’t recognise the place now. All these new estates, you get lost on them, with their Anyroad Avenues and Whatchamacallit Walks. Go to the end of your street and you don’t know where the hell you are. No point asking a constable because there aren’t any. And the ones in cars don’t like you flagging them down. It’s a war-zone out there.

Worst of it is, the enemy don’t wear different uniforms. Muggers, rapists, murderers … they look just like you. Once upon a time there was just the village idiot and the old witch who used to shout things at you. You knew who they were because their jobs ran in the family. They came from a long line of idiots and witches. They just knew what to do. Now they got to have interviews. Political correctness gone mad, I call it, taking a sledgehammer to crack a nut. And you can’t crack a joke without po-faced prudes breathing down your neck. Anyone who gets those creeps off my back can have my vote.

What’s wrong with the world is too many creeps. Anyone takes a sledgehammer to my back door has a surprise coming, I can tell you. Can’t tell you what it is, so don’t ask, but let’s say I’m good and ready. Fort Knox has nothing on me. Time was when you could leave your back door open in case Old Mother Hubbard came round for a cup of sugar. Now you don’t know who is outside your house trying to sell you exploding clothes-pegs  and foreign encyclopaedias. And if Ma Hubbard gets both barrels, tough!

So anyone says he’ll Bring Bafflesby Back gets my vote, even if he just wants to turn it into a theme park. He doesn’t need to change anything much, as long as he shoots his big mouth off about people I don’t like so that I can too. Time was you could say whatever you wanted. Now it’s all, button your lip in case you upset every little waif and stray in the big cruel world.

Well, losers, get used to it! The candidate who gets my vote will shoot first and ask questions later. The candidate who gets my vote will always say the first thing that pops into their head just like I do. The candidate who gets my vote will promise me the moon without waiting to commission a boring old feasibility study. And after no consideration whatsoever, I have decided that the only person worthy of my vote is me. My election campaign begins here.

Image result for vote meImage: Clipart Kid

Please Stand Well Back …

Image result for fireworks

Outside my window fireworks are exploding to mark the thwarting of the Gunpowder Plot over 400 years ago, when the English parliament was saved from fiery destruction. I don’t suppose many people are celebrating that far-off event, though, and I’ll bet there aren’t many bonfires topped with effigies of the plotter Guy Fawkes. He may even be a popular hero now, for all I know, admired by those who could imagine themselves lighting the blue touch-paper to barrels of high-explosive under the modern parliament.

There is an irony that some who wanted to increase the sovereignty of our own parliament by voting to leave the EU are now furious that three high-court judges – ‘enemies of the people’ according to several pro-Brexit newspapers – have ruled that the procedure of leaving should be determined by parliament and not an unelected executive acting under the ancient and archaic crown prerogative. Divisions run deep and the fissure may widen further. Watch this space …

There’s a vacuum here as if everyone has just taken a sharp intake of air. Across the Atlantic, too, people are holding their breath before the Presidential race enters its final lap and breaks into a hell-for-leather gallop. Didn’t I once see Vladimir Putin on a horse? Wonder who he’s backing …

Hey-ho! Amidst all the hot air, I notice that the WordPress Daily Prompt is Hyperbole. I never look a gift horse in the mouth, so here is my weary contribution to the moment.

H ere
Y ou are, the luckiest
P erson who
E ver lived,
R eading the
B est poem
O n the internet.
L et that astonishing thought sink in. What could possibly go wrong?
E r …

Ha, must be able to do better than that! Suspect I’m all out of hyperbole. Wonder why

H ow can you mend
Y our wounded
P ride if not by
E recting
R ickety-rackety towers of words and
B uilding walls
O f opaque
L anguage to
E levate your amour propre?

Hmm … ah well, never mind, I do find the constraints of an acrostic oddly comforting at this peculiar time when I can’t actually think of anything constructive to say yet have a strong urge to say something. If it turns out to be useless, I can always blame the limitations of the form. And maybe it’ll be third time lucky …

H old
Y our four horses
P lease, apocalyptical
E questrians, or you’ll
R ide us down
B efore we have a chance
O f proving that
L ove really was the
E lixir of Life.

All will be well as long as we take sensible precautions against those pesky worst-case scenarios …

Image result for failed fireworks


The Mortimer Arms


Brexit Or Bust?

Your up-to-the-minute round-up of what’s been going on in Bafflesby since the referendum


A post-referendum opinion poll of Bafflesby residents has revealed a surprising level of ignorance about what’s going on. People were asked to say which of the following statements was least false:

  • I know what’s going on
  • I know what I know about what’s going on
  • I don’t know what I know about what’s going on
  • I know what I don’t know about what’s going on
  • I don’t know what I don’t know about what’s going on
  • I don’t know what’s going on

If the poll shows anything, says pollster Poli Putaketelon, it’s that asking the wrong questions can make it more difficult to find the right answers.

Gore King, the director of Bafflesby Art Gallery, has suggested the answers to the conundrums of life are to be found in paintings. ‘Stare long enough at a Jackson Pollock,’ he told us, ‘ and your brain does the rest.’

Let us know if it works for you. And while we’re asking for your opinion – hell, everyone else is, why shouldn’t we? – we’ve whittled down the choices for the new Bafflesby Town Song to these three, so which do you think it should be?


Meanwhile the battling campaign manager of Bafflesby Bremain, Innis Best, isn’t about to throw in the towel. He has unearthed an ancient borough by-law that appears to allow the town to ignore any decrees “devis’d by public deceivers or impos’d by mob rule”. Brexit, according to the indefatigable Mr Best, qualifies on both counts. ‘We are hoping our brave example will encourage parliament to throw out this upstart nonsense and start up a sensible discussion about what’s really going on.’

One early casualty of the business downturn following Brexit is the The Bafflesby School of Satire which is closing its doors for the final time. Founder and Principal Burl Esk explained that the real world has become so strange that it’s now sending itself up without expert help. ‘The situation out there is beyond satire,’ he added, before shooting himself with a comedy gun.




Images:     http://www.redbubble.com       http://www.freerepublic.com   ly

Brexit Blues

I posted this on Facebook because I was tempted to unfriend people before remembering it was against my principles. The internet is supposed to be helping us create a better world, right? No point just preaching to the converted …


Facebook is now awash with nasty gloating from victorious Leavers and anguished laments from disappointed Remainers. I have a perhaps unusually wide range of Facebook correspondents but  I won’t be unfriending anyone.

In return, please don’t bombard me with blatant propaganda or personalised attacks because I want our country to rise above the slanging match we’ve had for far too long and begin a rational, inclusive and even forensic national quest to establish future policy directions we can all agree on.

My pre-referendum posts might not have floated your boat but at least I tried to emphasise hard facts over misleading fictions. And the post-referendum reality is that we face an uphill struggle. We need politicians who can step up to the plate and become statesmanlike, by which I mean, men and women who serve the interests of all sections of society and can perform convincingly on a world stage.

Such people seek the widest possible international cooperation to tackle cross-border issues like trade, crime, poverty, war and environmental damage. Forget the demagogues and mavericks and buffoons. They’ll make us a laughing stock at a time when we need to recover our human dignity and build a common identity. We must keep the equal rights our citizens gained as members of the EU. Decent people seek solidarity and not division. As John Donne said, no man is an island.

We have taken a leap into the dark and people have a perfect right to be angry and fearful. We’re in unknown territory. And if you head off somewhere weird, expect to hear from me.

Don’t worry. You can always unfriend me.

I’ll let you know if I get any response.