Category Archives: Meanwhile in the UK

MEANWHILE IN THE UK

Meanwhile in the UK by Mick Hart, an expat Englishman living in Kaliningrad. A category of the blog expatkaliningrad.com

Meanwhile in the UK is a category of my blog expatkaliningrad.com. At its inception, I had fully intended it to be a minor category, allowing me to comment from time to time on UK current affairs but mainly to include innocuous pieces of a nostalgic or historical nature pertaining to life in the UK, possibly more as it was then than as it is now, and then along came coronavirus which, as we know, changed everything. At the time of writing (3 June 2020), thanks to coronavirus, this category would appear to contain as many if not more posts than some of the categories that I had envisaged would be salient, with due deference to my Diary category (2019/2020) which, again influenced by coronavirus, has expanded through my ‘Diary of a Self-isolator’ articles, a series that focuses specifically on Covid-19 in the Kaliningrad region and how the legal rules and social obligations enacted here to better control the virus have impacted our daily life.

MEANWHILE in the UK contains too many entries to preview in this category post, but as of 3 June 2020, the contents of this category comprise the following articles, arranged chronologically:

Independence Day: Freedom from the EU

Talking Wollocks

Dad’s Army by Roger Corman

Being British is Bliss

Chastised & Locked Down

A Brother Calls

Claptrap ~ It’s Contagious!

Coronavirus & Rights: an Unholy Alliance

Coronavirus warning: Speech impediment could be new dastardly coronavirus symptom

I don’t believe in could anymore

Self-isolating/Lockdown: Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)

It’s a great time to be a hypochondriac

LOCKDOWN! ~ the game that everyone is talking about …

At least we can all die laughing

EXIT STRATEGY ~ a new bored game

How to tell The New Normal from your elbow

The Sorry State We Live In

Banners need a course in banners ~ and the rest

Clueless ~ a World Health Board Game

So, what are we to believe and how should we proceed?

Lockdown not working

[caption id="attachment_1339" align="alignnone" width="225"]

Hello! Hello! Hello![/caption] [caption id="attachment_1228" align="alignnone" width="300"] UK LOCKDOWN new board game

UK Lockdown ~ a new board game to take your mind off lockdown[/caption]

Meanwhile in the UK

I am aware that the tone and, indeed, the very composition of these pieces may not be to everybody’s taste. Quite obviously they are not supposed to be, so I shall not waste anybody’s time pretending that I feel in the least bit sorry about that. England is a great country ~ and the other chunks attached to it are not that bad either ~ BUT … (could this be an acronym for Britain Undermined Totally? Or is the only thing missing …TOCK?). He sang, didn’t he, ‘Let me take you by the hand I’ll lead you through the streets of London’. Well, yes, mainly London but also almost any and every UK city and town. Still, as the man who never deserved the Nobel Prize in Literature said (no, I am not referring to Obama, that was the Nobel Peace Prize, or Noble Appeasing Prize or something like that ~ but if the hoody fits, so to speak), ‘Times they are a-changing’. Let’s hope so, because for the UK at this present moment in time it is very much Paul McCartney, ‘Yesterday …’

Bedford more to like than not

A brief stay in Bedford UK

Published: 22 November 2022 ~ Bedford more to like than not

Rumours that I haven’t posted much to my blog recently have invoked theories ranging from a nasty reaction to not-working sanctions to being fitted up by the British unjudicial system for saying things that are not allowed. But that wasn’t me. Clue: Marvin Gaye, he ‘Heard it through the Grape Vine’. Whatever the rumours, they are greatly exaggerated.

Alas, the explanation is far more mundane: I’ve been on holiday in the UK.

“A likely story,” says someone who accuses everyone else of conspiracy theories. “I suppose you will be telling us next that you had no access to the internet!”

Well, as it happens, where I was staying, no.

Travelling package-style by Hart’s Tours, which would have been a successful company had it not been inaugurated on the eve of the coronavirus experiment, the exclusive hotel in which I would be staying is renowned for containing more antiques than Britain’s got migrants (er, possibly not), but what it has not got is the internet. No point in taking my laptop, thought I; just extra weight to carry.

Verily, no internet connection and also no TV is an excellent way of detoxifying yourself from the insurgency of cyberspace and the brain-numbing mumbo jumbo thrust wilfully up you by mainstream media. If you are one of those, or even just one of those, who have become enslaved to your iPhone and are concerned about being controlled and tracked on a daily basis by the slippery Silicon Valley Mob, I recommend when visiting England that you opt for Towlson Towers. As a no frills hotel, complete with a host of truly irritating inconveniences, such as 40 watt bulbs where 100 watts should be, cold and cold running water, as many steps in unusual places as one could ever want to trip up, over and down and an invigorating absence of any form of heating (a luxury extra at this establishment even before Britain’s energy crisis took hold), TTs is the place.

My return to the UK did not take me to London: “Love the history, Fawlty, can’t stand the Woke!” No, I was headed to Bedford, a market town in Bedfordshire, of which C.F. Farrar wrote in his excellent book Old Bedford nothing happened for five hundred years. A lot did happen in the many years preceding the five hundred when nothing happened and a lot has happened since, but nothing for the better. Bedford town centre, like every other town and city in the UK, is a sad and sorry reminder of just how radically and irreparably our liberal masters have dismantled and infected what once, without a shadow of a doubt, was one of the greatest countries, if not the greatest country, the world has ever known.

If you buy into or simply pay lip service, because you are told to do so, so you think you must, to the political mantras about ‘enrichment’ and ‘vibrancy’ and all the other embarrassing slogans attached to the back of multiculturalism, which are rattled out like an old tin can tied to a frightened cat’s tail, then go ahead and love it! But for the majority, there is no doubt that there is more to be avoided in modern British society than there is to be enjoyed.

But this is not to single Bedford out. Many white British who live in the surrounding villages are very quick to assert, and are adamant with it, that they ‘never go into the towns!’ wherever those towns may be.

Acknowledging, therefore, the relevance of the old song lyrics, ‘Things ‘aint what they used to be’, let’s briefly escape from the modern-day tragedy of Bedford, representative as it is of the plight and prescient social upheaval that awaits the UK in the not-too-distant future, and dip a little into its past ~ into the real English beginnings and their making of the character of the place.

Bedford more to like than not

Bedford is a market town and the historic county town of Bedfordshire. Its name is said to derive from an amalgamation of the name of a Saxon chief called Beda and a ford that crossed the River Great Ouse. Offa of Mercia, the Anglo-Saxon king, was buried in Bedford in 796 but is probably no longer there, as his tomb on the banks of the Great River Ouse most likely ensured that he upped and floated away.

Bedford had a castle, which was constructed under the auspices of Hugh de Beauchamp, within 20 years of the Norman Conquest in 1066. “This was the time when it all went wrong!” a friend of mine is fond of saying. He is not necessarily or at least exclusively referring to Bedford itself, of which a lot went wrong in more recent times. He means to imply that it all went wrong with England. “It’s the fault of those bloody Normans!” he likes to cry, whenever we see a rabbit or driving along through country lanes espy a church with a Norman tower.

For Bedford Castle, it all went wrong when a robber baron, Sir Fulke de Breauté (there were a lot of robber barons about in those days), fatally overestimated not only his own importance and invincibility but the impregnability of his castle.

He believed that by kidnapping a judge (as you do) and incarcerating him within his castle, he would prevent the Crown from taking the castle away from him. Instead, he succeeded in getting the castle sieged, bombarded, breached and blown up and a number of people killed, before he was eventually brought to ground himself and exiled to a terrible place where nobody wanted to go, not even in the middle-ages, across the Channel to France!

Today, all that remains of what reputedly was a redoubtable fortification, Bedford Castle, is a large grassy mound. “A great place to sit and eat chips,” someone wrote in a tourist review. I would add to that, “a great place to sit and eat chips whilst pondering British history.”

Bedford’s Castle Mound is still worth visiting as it is situated in what is easily the most attractive quarter of the town, The Embankment. Getting to it from the town centre enables you to say hello to the town bridge and opposite the Swan Hotel, a classic 18^th century edifice built by the Duke of Bedford in 1794-1796, that is to say that the Duke of Bedford commissioned it to be built. I am not suggesting that he was out there at the end of the 18^th century with a trowel in one hand and a stone in the other.

The Swan Hotel
As hotels go, you are not going to get anything as quintessentially 18^th century than this outside of Oundle or Stamford! The current Swan Hotel ~ there was an earlier one ~ had the Duke of Bedford commission the well-known London architect Henry Holland to design and build it between 1794~1796. If you stand on the forecourt, you will notice, I know you will, that contrary to Georgian architectural paradigms, the hotel is asymmetrical. The right-hand gate is missing. It was sacrificed in the 1880s to make way for the The Embankment road, which dissected the hotel’s gardens. Inside the hotel is a curious mix of old Georgian and modern swank.

Had you arrived in Bedford before the 1970s, after appreciating the regality of the Swan you would next have been delighted by the magnificent sight of a large and impressive building of neo-Gothic persuasion. The Town and Country Club, as once had been its function and by which it had been known, was, alas, swept away with numerous other buildings of exemplary historical importance, as former Bedford historian Richard Wildman agonises, during a time in which town planning in Britain was the vandalistic equivalent of social engineering today.

Bedford Town & Country Club demolished in 1970s — **Bedford’s Town & Country Club. One of many historic Bedford buildings destroyed in the 60s and 70s**

Bedford is by no means the only town in the British Isles that bears the scars of the 1960s’ anti-heritage culture, but, as a leaf through any of Richard Wildman’s pictorial history books show, it has the dubious distinction of listing among the legions of the architecturally damned and demolished more than its fair share of victims.

Bedford more to like than not

So, we pass swiftly on and, as we do, we cannot help admiring the beautifully landscaped and typically English character of the scene as it unfolds. The Great River Ouse meandering calmly away from the city centre, leaving behind lack-lustre Kempston and no-go Queen’s Park, transports you to one of those timeless English vistas replete with sleepy meadows, avenues of trees, formal gardens with floral Victorian beddings, posh rowing clubs, happy swans and geese and some of the finest examples of Gothic Revivalist architecture that you could ever wish to behold in the residential category.

Bedford moe to like than not The Embankment

The wealth, prosperity, order, security and dignity all of which was once England presents itself in the large, often vast, red-brick houses and imposing villas that sweep along the Embankment and radiate into the streets beyond. Built in the Gothic Revivalist style at the end of the 19^th century, these infinitely desirable properties, with their impressive facades of carved stone, half-timbered gables and deep bay windows, are deceptively more extensive than even the grand scale of their stately frontages suggests. I won’t gild the lily by saying that they seem to go on forever, but some of them tend to go on considerably further than one might expect.

The Embankment Hotel Bedford Christmas Day 2019

Above: The Embankment Hotel
Unmissable, thanks to its wonderful and evocative medieval-style half-timbered façade, the Embankment Hotel and Restaurant occupies a prime place overlooking Bedford’s Embankment Promenade and the River Great Ouse. The 1891-built hotel boasts that it has no ‘stuffy resident’s bar’, which is all well and good, but what it does have, especially on a Friday and Saturday night, is a very noisy public bar, which does tend to dilute the otherwise genteel image. In its defence, however, try finding a pub in Bedford on a Friday or Saturday night that does not resemble a cattle market! Go there in the week!

The following photographs were taken on a bright, late October morning in 2022. We perambulated with the best of them along the Embankment Prom and then crossed over to the meadows on the other side of the river via the landmark Victorian Suspension Bridge.

Walking the dog along Bedford river — **One barks the other bites!**

Bedford more to like than not — **Happiness is obviously an arse that fits!**

Mick Hart and Dr Towlson Bedford Syuspension Bridge October 2022 — **Bedford Suspension Bridge**

Bedford more to loke than not, Bedford history

Bedford Suspension Bridge with river view

John Webster plaque 1888 Bedford Suspension Bridge

Suspension Bridge
Bedford Suspension Bridge, a landmark architectural feature, was constructed in 1888. It provides access from The Embankment to Mill Meadows. The bridge was designed by John James Webster, the remit being to allow the passage of sailing boats.

Plaque commemorating opening of Bedford Suspension Bridge

Bedford more to like than not view down the river — **View from the Suspension Bridge towards the town centre**

Bedford Butterfly Bridge photographed by Mick Hart — **Butterfly Bridge**

Butterfly Bridge
And please, don’t ask why do they call it Butterfly Bridge?! It opened in 1997 and was designed by Wilkinson Eyre Architects, reputedly as a late 20^th century/early 21^st century equivalent to Webster’s 1888 Suspension Bridge, each bridge landmarking the end and beginning of their respective centuries.

Unless you live in a vacuum, believing that this is how it is, how it was and always will be, me and my mobile phone, it should not be incredibly difficult to imagine what scenes of elegance were once to be found as the Edwardian upper classes strutted their decorous stuff along the walk at Bedford Embankment. And if you cannot imagine, use it as an excuse to call in at the Three Cups public house on Newnham Street, where not only will you find an exciting, changing range of delicious British real ales but also framed black and white photographs of Bedford Embankment as it looked at the turn of the 20^th century.

The Three Cups pub, Bedford, October 2022 — **The Three Cups, Newnham Street, Bedford. Real Ales & Atmosphere!**

Halloween evening the Three Cups Bedford

Above: A rare sight. The locals of the Three Cups looking more normal than usual on Halloween

Check out the style of the chaps in their striped blazers and boater hats (I am referring now to the pictures on the walls!) and the ladies of quality in their crisp, light dresses or perfectly turned-out dress suits, nipped in at the waist, embellished with lace and other feminine attributes. Yes, there really was a time when the people of the British Isles were not as they are today, less better dressed than a boat load of Navy-escorted grinning migrants.

Bedford, it’s not a bad place. Put it on your visiting list.

More about Bedford

The Embankment War Memorial
The War Memorial on Bedford’s Riverside Walk was sculpted by Charles S Jagger and is situated opposite Rothsay Road. Made from Portland Stone and marble, it commemorates the fallen in three wars: the First World War, Second World War and Korean War.

The Boer War Monument
The impressive and detailed monument that stands in front of the Swan Hotel, Bedford, surmounted by an infantryman in full battledress, pays tribute to the 237 Bedfordshire men who lost their lives in the Boer War, 1899-1902.

John Bunyan statue
Every town is known for someone. In Bedford, it’s mainly John Bunyan, thanks to the large bronze statue of him that stands at the crossroads at the top of Bedford High Street. John Bunyan was about in the mid-to-late 17^th century. He was an English Christian writer and dissenter, an occupation that saw him committed to Bedford County Gaol on two occasions. Apart from being locked up, Bunyan was, of course, famous for having authored the Christian allegory The Pilgrim’s Progress, most of which, it seems, was written during the two periods when he was languishing in gaol. The book was eventually published in 1678. This monumental work of literature, which has never been out of print and has been translated into more than 200 languages, influenced many a literary genius, among them Charles Dickens, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Herman Melville. Bunyan’s Bedford connections and life history are celebrated in the John Bunyan Museum in Beford. The statue is magnificent; the museum a source of serious historical reflection. {photo credit: Simon Speed}

Glenn Miller bustCorn Exchange, Bedford — **Glenn Miller**

Glenn Miller
The legendary American big band leader, Glenn Miller, was billeted in Bedford, to be more precise in Bedfordshire in Milton Ernest Hall. He took his last fateful flight from Twinwood Airfield, now home to the biggest swing music festival in the UK. A bronze bust of Miller occupies pride of place in a niche in the wall of Bedford Corn Exchange, which was built and opened in 1874, still functions as a concert venue and plays host to the annual Bedford Beer Festival.

Cardington and the airships
Just outside of Bedford lies the old Cardington airbase, what is left of it. Like every other square foot in the UK, it has been covered in concrete and bricks. Because that is what the UK needs: more houses for more people! Nevertheless, the Cardington Sheds still dominant the skyline; the massive hangars in which the great airships of the early 20^th century were constructed. It was from these ‘sheds’ that the fated, experimental R101 was hauled out to make its maiden voyage to France, where it crashed killing 48 passengers and crew on board. The remains of the dead are buried in a mass grave in Cardington Cemetery. A monument in the church opposite provides a roll of honour, naming those who lost their lives in this historic misadventure.

John Howard
Most people who are not as thick as two short planks (innit?) will know that the large bronze statue standing at the crossroads to Bedford High Street is John Bunyan. But who is that other chap overlooking the weekly market, holding his face in his right hand and staring pensively down at the ground? That’s Bedford’s second celebrity, the eighteenth-century philanthropist and prison-conditions reformer, John Howard, cast in bronze by the celebrated, if not occasionally controversial, sculptor, Sir Alfred Gilbert, creator of the Eros statue in Piccadilly Circus, London. Whenever I look at the pose and expression of John Howard, I cannot help but think that having watched over the centre of Bedford since 1894, he has accumulated serious doubts as to whether his reformation work was after all a misappropriation of time and effort. He is most likely silently advocating, “Bring back the birch!”. He also has a statue in Ukraine ~ not many people know that!

The Higgins Art Gallery and Museum
A short walk from Bedford Embankment in the area known as the Castle Quarter, The Higgins Art Gallery and Museum, known as The Higgins after Bedford’s prominent Higgin’s family and its connection with the museum site, is the culmination of a six-million-pound project that effectively united three cultural venues: Cecil Higgins Art Gallery, Bedford Museum and Bedford Gallery. Higgins, who was a brewer, so he must have been a good man, left detailed instructions in his will as to how the museum would be run and organised. Structurally, the museum is fascinating in itself. It links the old brewery buildings in Castle Lane with the Higgins’ family home and incorporates the Hexagonal Gallery, which was built in the early 19^th century on the foundations of Bedford Castle. I like old breweries and social history, so both the industrial building and the Higgins’ family home are sources of wonder to me. The museum provides the opportunity to appreciate impressive collections of fine and decorative arts and highly accredited watercolours, so you can brush up on your knowledge of antiques whilst learning all you need to know about Bedford, its people and the history of the town.
Website: https://www.thehigginsbedford.org.uk/Home.aspx

Image attributions:
Glenn Miller Bust, Corn Exchange Bedford: Simon Speed, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons; https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:GlennMillerBustBedford.JPG
Bedford Corn Exchange: Simon Speed, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons; https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:BedfordCornExchange.JPG
John Bunyan Statue Bedford: Simon Speed, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:JohnBunyanStatueBedford.jpg
Cardington Sheds: G1MFG (talk) | https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Cardington_Sheds_9881.JPG

And that’s not all …
UK Identity Crisis & it’s Impact on Patriotism
Woke & Hypocrisy. It really is God Save the King!!
Thinking about moving to the UK? Think again!
April Fool’s Day Mandate for NHS Workers!

UK Identity Crisis and its Impact on Patriotism

What’s the difference between a country and a camping site?

Published: 7 October 2022 ~ UK Identity Crisis and its Impact on Patriotism

In 2014, Russia ditched daylight-saving time and switched to permanent wintertime, which is good in some respects as it negates the need to remember when clocks should go forward or back one hour. How many times in the UK have you forgotten to apply this rule and as a result have woken up either an hour too early or an hour too late? Admittedly, some people seem to revel in the confusion, possibly believing that by gaining an extra hour in bed they have become the master of time, rather than time the master of them. For we who are lifelong insomniacs, however, that extra hour in bed is something to be abhorred: arrggh, another hour of torment!

Permanent wintertime removes this obstacle but replaces it with another, which is no less disorientating for my circadian rhythms.

In summer, should I have forgotten to put the blackouts up, at 4am the sun blares through the window as objectionable as Tony; in winter, especially in the depths of winter, it is as though we have been plunged into eternal night. It is dark until 10am and dark again at 4pm, and the filling in between is like the illusory light of white privilege (or should that be the illusory white of light privilege?).

This is not something that our cat, Ginger, unduly worries himself about. No matter what time I stagger out in the morning, he’s there to greet me … rolling around, stretching, purring away. He doesn’t have to worry about getting up for work, driving home at night, paying the gas and electricity bill, Liz Truss devaluing the pound, virtue signalling by changing his avatar or wearing a tight green T-shirt. And if you happened to mention mobilisation to him, he would possibly think you meant that it was time that he took a turn on the balcony.

Ginger Mick Harts cat Kaliningrad doing the twist 'Bet you can't do this!' — **Bet you can’t do this!**

It was presumably for this reason that a when a friend from the UK, who would no doubt be a friend of Gingers if he did but know him, attempted to engage me in a discussion on mobilisation, Ginger did not to take part.

Our conversation on this topic prompted speculation about the reaction of the UK populace should a similar situation ever arise in Britain. And it was then that we went all historical goosebumps.

UK Identity Crisis and its Impact on Patriotism

At the outbreak of the Second World War ~ and, incidentally, I am using this purely as an example and not trying to pre-empt events with predictions of a third world war, as I would be expected to do if I worked for the UK media ~ conscription was introduced and was, by all accounts, successful. By the end of 1939 more than 1.5 million British men had been called up for military service. Times change (don’t they just!).

A survey undertaken by YouGov in 2018 revealed that only 20 per cent of male Brits said that they would volunteer for service and as many as 39 per cent said they would avoid conscription. Not surprisingly, the highest percentage of males within the avoidance bracket, 34 per cent, fall within the millennial category (ie, the age group which the media likes to refer to as the ‘entitled generation’).

Now, as an oldie, I am not in a position to pass judgement one way or the other, or I could end up sounding like one of the elder generation from the First World War: “By George, If I was your age; I’d be going with you!” But I suspect that the abstention figures from an updated 2022 survey would cause even greater concern in the corridors of power (or, knowing our government, perhaps not) and among the British military establishment’s chief of staff, when it comes to evaluating Britain’s ability to raise the manpower needed to respond to a major conflict. (Oh, I’m sorry! Tut, tut: and the women power, and deviant power, etc)

In trying to define this seismic shift in attitude, we have to look beyond the response of the entitled young millennials, who could be seen by some as the enlightened entitled young millennials, as there is more to the changes in Britain than living at mum’s and breakfast in bed.

Back in 1939, Britain still had a sense of who it was. It drew for its identity on its history, its traditions and the glories of its past. Its people were largely united ~ or as united as a country can be, given its class divisions ~ and the need to defend the realm, should that need arise, was questioned, when it was questioned, by the relative few.

Fast forward to the 21^st century

In case you’ve missed it, twenty-first century British society bears little or no resemblance to the social and values composition of its 1940s’ forebear.

Today’s Britain is, to put it bluntly, a cosmopolitan catastrophe, a place of muddled multicultural mayhem, a country divided and fragmented along exacerbated fault lines and manipulated sectarianism, the proponent manifestations of which are diversity, race, religion and gender transmutation. In short, the UK of the twenty-first century is in a terminal state of identity crisis.

This in not to say that if the balloon went up, there would not be any number of English men who would volunteer for national service. I can clearly think of some who would be champing at the bit to go and do their bit, but what about the rest ~ the liberal anarchists, the illegal migrants ferried into Dover each day by the Roya Navy taxi service and the entitled enlightened young millennials, who demonstratively have what it takes to take but not, it seems, what it takes to give.

Then there is the question of the ethnics, which is one that is easily answered. The Black Lives Matter mob are hardly going to rally around the flag, are they? They are far too busy defacing and pulling down statues and rallying around luxury goods, such as widescreen tellies and the latest iphones, which always seem to go missing during ‘largely peaceful’ demonstrations. Terrorists don’t as a rule rally around the flag, do they? In fact, they usually burn the flag of the country to which they have run for sanctuary.

Black muggers and Albanian drug dealers are a category apart. These groups can be said to have reserved occupations: the first, to relieve the useful idiots, tolerant whites, of their ill-gotten privilege, especially the privilege of walking the streets in safety (Where’s a policeman when you need one? Arresting Englishmen for mean tweets, of course!); the latter working hard to get themselves on the waiting lists for a nice comfy cell in UK prisons. And even if these two factions, and the many others like them, were not gainfully employed as described, would the British flag mean anything more to them than an accommodating table cloth for a line of doctored snort?

It is not just the ‘take me to your free hotels’ and bless-me-with-benefits freeloaders that fall into the ‘useless’ category; homegrown liberal lefties are hardly likely to lower themselves to rise in defence of the realm when their entire life has been devoted to parasitically trashing it.

But I hear, you say, somewhere among this rag bag of worthlessness surely there must be patriots? Patriots? Yes, we do have patriots, but since patriotism became a dirty word in the lexicon of the left, what patriots we do have are supressed by an ideology that they vehemently despise and a virtue-less society which they do not recognise, never asked for and certainly do not want.

Ask yourself this: Would you rally around the flag to ensure that the UK’s liberal elites continue to live and rule in the woke and globalist manner to which they are accustomed?

Ironically, for the past thirty years or more our political classes have been actively engaged in rebranding the British flag as a racist symbol, disposing us to guilt, even imposing fines, should anyone in an illicit moment of patriotic pride hoist it up a flagpole and by doing so commit the cardinal sin, as enshrined within the religion of Woke, of impinging upon the delicate blossom of ethnic sensibilities. (All sing: “Oh, show them the way to go home …”). And yet, a second and saving irony is that ideological dictates such as these are just what the doctor ordered for patriotic verve to flourish and perpetuate.

As good or bad, depending on your point of view, as today’s nationalist disenfranchisement is, the defiance and indifference from which it takes its lead was cultivated and curated during the Vietnam war of the sixties, as epitomised by the then controversial, fabled and now dated but eternally seductive slogan ‘make love not war!’

UK Identity Crisis and its Impact on Patriotism

Doomed to perish prematurely, but not before deflating the fortunes of rubber plantation owners whilst sugaring the pharmaceutical industry’s promiscuity pill, it was what sentiments of this nature were not putting into the perennially voracious coffers of the transatlantic industrial military complex that would eventually ensure that the 1960s’ pacifist movement would be rendered virtually impotent.

Notwithstanding, nineteen sixty was a very significant year in British social history. It was the dawn of a new, new decade and, although no one, with the exception perhaps of the fashion industry, the music industry, the brewers and the dope dealers, fully realised the extent to which it could be exploited, the country was on the threshold of a social revolution.

Affectionately, nostalgically, we refer to this era as the swinging sixties, but as innocent as the sobriquet sounds the fundamental truth is that the pendulum of change that provided its momentum was a force that was far from benign. Each sweep swept away years of traditional norms and mores. It slashed through the fabric of British life and what it left behind, which it left in tatters, was the beginning of the end of civilisation as we knew it ~ a headlong fall into the murky abyss of a post-conservative world.

UK Identity Crisis the Pit and the Pendulum — Illustration shows a man labelled “Consumer” tied to a bed with cords labelled “Graft Tariff”, watching as a pendulum labelled “Cost of Living” with a sharp blade affixed to the bottom swings over his body, coming closer to cutting him in half.
~
My caption: 21st century Britain

It may or may not be coincidence ~ the old guard would argue not ~ but 1960 was also the year in which National Service officially ended in Britain.

National Service had been introduced in Britain in 1916 and remained operational until 1920. It was revived in 1939 and continued until 1960. In its latter iteration, physically fit males between the ages of 17 and 21 were duty bound to serve in one branch or another of the British armed forces for a period of 18 months, and then placed for four more years on the reserve list.

I, and my generation, were subsequently excluded from it, although my father wasn’t. His National Service stint coincided with the Korean War, but Lady Luck smiled on him. Possession of a spotless HGV (Heavy Goods Vehicle) licence and experience of driving some of the then largest flatbed trucks, diverted him from overseas deployment to the not unenviable job of collecting damaged tanks and other battle-scarred military hardware from their disembarkation point at Liverpool Docks and transporting them, depending on their condition, either to repair shops in different parts of the country or, if they were beyond repair, to breakers and salvage yards.

For post-1960s’ Britons, however, the closest yoof came to National Service was watching Get Some In!

On the flip side, I do know people who have been in the army, left the army but never left the army. Case in point: A few years ago, I was strolling peacefully across the English countryside with a friend who had served in the special forces, but, like me, had reached an age where anything more demanding than enlistment in the Home Guard would have been nigh on impossible.

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, it was a perfect day in early autumn, when we approached a large grass meadow that rolled down hill quite steeply, reached a point where it dipped and then travelled back up as steeply again to a gate on the far horizon.

As we entered this field, my ex-military friend espied a pile of stones. They were big, round and heavy. Suddenly he stopped. Came to attention. Glared at the stones and said, in a sergeant-majorly fashion, “I bet you can’t put one of those stones under each arm, Hart, and run across the field with them!” And without waiting for an answer, a stone apiece leapt under his armpits, and he was off across that field like nobody’s business. I stood and watched him go in awe, glad that we hadn’t put money on it.

Furthermore …

Woke and Hypocrisy. It really is God Save the King!
Thinking about moving to the UK? Think again!
Sunak or Truss? Who will end Globalism, even the World?

Image attributions
Black & white jigsaw: https://www.freepik.com/free-photo/white-puzzle_6543626.htm#page=2&query=missing%20puzzle%20piece%20UK&position=5&from_view=search&track=ais >Image by Racool_studio</a> on Freepik
Flag and country outline of the UK: https://clipartuk.com/#link
Looking in mirror: https://www.vecteezy.com/vector-art/2695355-cartoon-ugly-man-looks-in-the-mirror-and-thinks-he-is-so-handsome-vector-illustration <a href=”https://www.vecteezy.com/free-vector/looking-in-mirror”>Looking In Mirror Vectors by Vecteezy</a>
Condom: https://freesvg.org/skotan-condom
Rocket: https://freesvg.org/skotan-condom
Pit & Pendulum: https://picryl.com/media/the-pit-and-the-pendulum

Woke and Hypocrisy, it really is God Save the King!

Nancy boys and proper Charlies

Published: 25 September 2022 ~ Woke and Hypocrisy, it really is God Save the King!

If any of you were in any doubt about the extent to which Britain has lost its way on the navigational chart of respect, decency, morality and decorum, a brief look at the media coverage of the death of the Queen during the official mourning period should be enough to vouchsafe your suspicions.

I was wrong. Wrong when I opined that no sooner would the Queen’s funeral be over than the liberal lefties would be calling for the abolition of the monarchy. They started long before the funeral had taken place. Almost overnight, Arsebook and Twatter became a hot incestuous bed of anti-monarchist rants.

And I was right. Right when I predicted that before the funeral was over, by hook or by crook the lefty media would have found a way of introducing examples of bedwetting woke.

WOKE WATCH UK!

Who read the article about the ‘young republican’, ie one of those who constantly fantasizes about substituting the monarchy for an Obama head of state, who complained that during the official mourning period following the death of the Queen he was so very, very frustrated that he could not speak out on his favourite topic, abolishing the monarchy

I am sure there are many in the UK who empathise with him; who know, only too well, just how frustrating it is not to have a voice; who know how frustrating it is to live in a society in which globalist politicians and their neoliberal chums pontificate incessantly about the value of free speech but are painstakingly selective about what can be said and who does the saying. For example, try saying on Arsebook or Twatter, ‘multiculturalism not in my name’ and ‘we do not need or want any more third-world migrants’, without falling foul of foul-mouthed preachifying liberasts or even a visit from PC Plod in his role of political policeman.

Obviously, the frustrated young republican ~ along with a handful of anti-monarchy protestors who were arrested under breach of the peace laws ~ are woefully lacking in social propriety, particularly with regard to the maxim, ‘There is a time and place for everything’.

Mind you, it is hardly surprising. British schools these days are far too busy venerating Black Lives Matter and grooming the young in woke to teach fundamental traditional values such as respect, decorum and decency.

Traditional Values Crucifix keeping Woke at bay. God Save the King!

Liberals fear tradition like Count Dracula feared Van Helsing’s crucifix, which is a pity for them because British society and the British way of life are founded on tradition; expunge it and all you have left is a void, an echo chamber of pithy parroted phrases, of which freedom of speech is the most vacuous.

Simply put, in a language that even ‘young republicans’ should have no difficulty in understanding (He will, when he gets older, as this is the way of the world; when he is old enough to know that world and wise enough to think for himself.) all that he needed to do to thwart his mewling frustration was to put a latch on his gob until such time as it was deemed acceptable and polite to do otherwise.

In Victorian times it was de rigueur that young children should be seen and not heard, and who could argue with this good sense! Likewise, how beneficial it would be if young republicans were seen and not heard, at least until we could bear to listen or, even better still, if they were neither heard nor seen full stop!

To be looked upon with less intolerance, wet-behind-the-ears wanna-be republicans and anti-monarchist banner bearers could do worse than take a leaf out of the Queen’s good book and conduct themselves with the grace and dignity which during her long reign won her so many plaudits, unequalled enduring respect and enviable acclaim that stretched from John o’ Groats to Timbuctoo and, with the exception of Loony Liberal Land, lots of places between.

God Save the King!

Young republicans apart and ignored, it was inevitable, and hypocritical, that the state funeral for the queen would also attract a cabal of highly vocal whingeing, whining would-be armchair economists, who railed against the cost of the funeral.

Indeed, the same article ~ the one that revolved around the poor ‘young republican’ ~ also cited a young woman (I need to be careful here, since the photograph of the person concerned left me in considerable doubt as to gender identity. It happens more and more, does it not?) who, describing ‘herself’ as ‘staunchly anti-monarchy’, professed not to understand how anyone could defend the financial commitment to the Queen’s state funeral and the forthcoming coronation at a time when the UK’s cost of living is soaring out of control.

It’s a great pity that she, and people like her (her?), do not feel it incumbent on themselves to ask how anyone can justify the cost of the state-sponsored migrant invasion and/or raise Cain about the unbearable drain on the UK’s public purse resulting from the indefensible policy of shipping arms to Ukraine whilst the NHS falls apart at the seams and every average person in the country ( I don’t include the political elite.) is scared to turn the heating on.

Between you and me and the gatepost (Ukrainegate), it is my considered opinion that it is not so much the monarchy as an institution or the cost of running it to which liberal lefties object, it is more to do with who the monarchy are in terms of their class, breeding and ethnicity. Or, to put it more succinctly, because they are white, have class, are properly educated and ~ guess what! ~ talk the Queen’s English, not wot and Innit and high-five man!

God Save the King!

Sigh, I don’t believe that the lefties will be satisfied until they have installed something in Buckingham Palace (which will then have to change its first letter from ‘B’ to ‘F’) that is lesbian, feminist and preferably darker than the Blackwall Tunnel at midnight during a total eclipse and power outage. Meanwhile, in Number 10, I suppose toxic white masculinity, if ever such a Herculian thing should occur there (no chance!), will have to give way to a mermaid.

Permit me to inform you that this glorious vision has inspired me to press on with my 21^st century re-write, in accordance with the agenda of liberal-left revisionism, of the classic tale Robin Hood. Renamed Robin Hoody and set in Lambeth, it is a soap-operatic epic about Its and Others in rainbow tights (what else!) flouncing through Sherwood Forest (sink estate) giggling and squealing excitedly whilst hotly pursued by that most famous of 13^th century celebs (given a mermaid makeover) the shirtlifting Sherriff of Nottingham. Hope you don’t mind the plug. The Sherriff doesn’t, but then he’s liberal.

God Save the KIng! from Woke Robin Hoods

A well-known TV personality not exactly known for his positive affirmations of British society, or of anything come to that, struck an unusually optimistic note in one of Britain’s tabloids, when he said ~ and I paraphrase ~ that until the death of the Queen it felt as if everything in Britain was turning to sh*t, but when the news of the Queen’s death broke, and in the days to follow, according to him, Brits turned away from the UK’s negatives and focused on the positives.

PM perhaps you should be our PM! It’s a nice thought, and nicely put, but you forget that the media that pays your salary simply blinked for a moment. Once they remember to turn the fan back on, the sh*t will take flight as usual.

But let’s not sully what this same man from the media described as the ‘most extraordinary, remarkable and moving event’ that he had ever seen. He was, of course, referring to the Queen’s state funeral, not the ill-timed and completely inexcusable anti-monarchy demonstration or the shirtlifting Sherriff of Nottingham transgendering around in his fibre-fit tights.

And he was spot on. Not only was the state funeral executed with incredible dignity but with a choreographic excellence which had me breathing a sigh of relief when it was all over. It was simply astounding to calculate how many things could have gone wrong and didn’t, and that includes the weather

Nature, too, came out on the side of the Queen. It is reported that when the congregation emerged from the service at Westminster Abbey, the clouds parted and the sun shone through. Taken together with the double rainbow that appeared above Buckingham Palace just one hour before the Queen’s death was announced, a more symbolic and befitting tribute is difficult to imagine.

There are a great many people from all walks of life ~ statesmen, actors, entertainers, poets, authors, singer-songwriters, even politicians ~ whom my generation and generations immediately prior to mine have been privileged to share our lifetime with. Sadly, most are gone. All are irreplaceable, none more so than the Queen.

‘God save the King!’ we cry, “especially from mindless woke.”

Meanwhile in the UK Posts …
The Death of the Queen: the Last Light Out
Thinking about moving to the UK? Think again!
Eastwards Expansion of the West ~ the real reasons
WWIII The lastest media plandemic

|||| Tucker Carlson: Wokeness is not just a political ideology, it’s a state religion |||

Image attributions:
Merman: https://www.clipartmax.com/download/m2H7G6G6A0i8A0Z5_scene-drawing-little-mermaid-cartoon-merman-png/
Downing Street sign: https://www.publicdomainpictures.net/en/free-download.php?image=downing-street-sign&id=7723
Crucifix: https://www.publicdomainpictures.net/en/view-image.php?image=247332&picture=backlit-glowing-cross
Black money bag: https://www.kindpng.com/downpng/iomiwb_money-bag-hand-coins-symbol-icon-black-white/
Tap: https://openclipart.org/detail/315616/tap-2
Robin Hood: https://www.needpix.com/photo/download/964749/street-art-londond-shoreditch-eastend-art-mural-brick-lane-street-urban-art

The death of the Queen the last light out

Britain loses its lifeline to its past, identity and tradition

Published: 9 September 2022 ~ The death of the Queen the last light out

An email to my family yesterday evening (8 September 2022) regarding the death of the Queen:

Hello Carolyn/Joss

An hour ago, I tuned into the internet and discovered that the Queen had died. My immediate reaction was to feel sad for the Royal Family, but not incredibly sad, after all at the age of 96 the Queen has had a ‘good innings’ and, moreover, in a reign that spanned several decades miraculously survived ~ no thanks to the tabloids, which sought to turn her life and the life of the Royal family into a cheap and tacky soap opera ~ with her dignity and regality intact.

I did feel sorry for mum, however. One of my earliest recollections at the age of four was the framed sampler of the Queen’s Coronation that hung on Nan’s wall between the TV and the ‘chocolate’ cupboard. The Queen was mum’s role model; she idolised her as you idolised the Beatles, I idolised Mel Smith and David and Joss idolised all the wrong people because they were born too late.

Someone commenting on one of the Russian media websites said, echoing my own sentiments, “I suppose if I just confirmed Liz Truss as the new PM, I would give up on life too.” A little harsh, I think, but understandable.

I have never been a Royalist myself, and I have never not been a Royalist either, but, as many commentators have said and written, the Queen was a symbol of the UK’s past, its history, heritage and our ancestral home. To me she was the last living connection among ‘the ruling classes’, who connected us and our country to a time when Britain and its people were proud and united, a time when Britain deserved to be called ‘Great’ Britain. How I mourn the passing of that last great generation of British people, who we were fortunate enough to have known in our lifetime ~ those who lived through World War II. How different it all was then!

The death of the Queen the last light out

When the Titanic was launched in 1911 (something I do not personally remember!), Britain believed it was the dawning of a new era. It was; but not the one envisaged or wanted. I cannot help feeling, with the foreboding that comes from hindsight, that the death of the Queen draws ominous parallels with the opening years of the twentieth century, and that history is about to repeat itself.

Our poor old country: ‘Whither Goest Thou?’

I never thought after all those years of ducking and dodging the Queen’s Christmas Speech when we were young that I would shed tears on hearing that the Queen had passed away. But I did.

Yet consolation has a habit of springing from the most unlikely of sources. I remember when I was a teenager asking Uncle Son why he never accompanied us on our visits to England’s stately homes, a question to which he replied with typical brusque level-headedness:

“They [the royalty/aristocracy] wouldn’t pay to look round my house, so why should I pay to look round theirs?”

He’s absolutely right, of course. Dry eyes and stiff upper wotsits. Anything else at a time like this simply would not be English!

Goodnight and xxxxx to you all

Mick

PS: Thank you to my friends in Russia who offered their condolences regarding the death of our Queen.

>>>>>>Sunak or Truss: Who will end Globalism even the World?

Thinking about moving to the UK? Think again!

Update: Advice to Russians (to anybody!) thinking about moving to the UK

Published: 4 September 2022 ~ Thinking about moving to the UK? Think again!

This post is an addendum to, or update of, four posts I wrote earlier advising Russians on what to expect should they ever contemplate the possibility of emigrating to the UK.

Previous posts for Russians contemplating a life in the UK
Advice for Russians Emigrating to UK
Advice for Russians Moving to the UK
Russians moving to London: Costs
For Russians Moving to UK Towns not London

My advice today is simple: Don’t!

You may think that ‘Don’t!’ derives from the Russophobic situation that is sweeping across the West faster than coronavirus leaked from a US weapons lab, but the proliferation of anti-Russian sentiment is small potatoes, chicken feed, compared to the calamitous financial mess with which the UK is engulfed.

The extent of this crisis, if not its far-reaching societal consequences, can be ascertained from a simple experiment. Go to Googlenews.co.uk and in the search window key in each of the following search terms in succession and see what they bring up:

UK cost of living soars
UK standard of living falls
UK house prices rocketing

Here are five randomly selected media articles pertaining to each of the search categories (as of 24 August 2022)

UK cost of living soars
UK inflation hits 10.1% in new 40-year high as cost-of-living crisis continues to soar

‘A tragedy’: Britain’s cost-of-living crisis worsens as rents soar and energy bills top $5,000

Cost of living crisis: Wages plunge at record pace as bills soar

Mother-of-four says ‘every day is a struggle’ as cost of living soars

Cost-of-living payments branded insufficient as energy bills soar

UK standard of living falls
UK living standards ‘to fall at fastest rate since mid-1950s’

UK faces worst drop in living standards since 1970s, economists warn

Brits told to brace themselves for worst standard of living since records began

UK faces long recession and deepest plunge in living standards on record, Bank of England warns

Britain, a services superpower sinking into stagnation

UK house prices rocketing
UK house prices rise at 11% annual rate despite cost-of-living crisis

UK house prices set to rise even higher despite a 36% decline in buyer demand, experts say

Postal districts around the Olympic Park see house prices increase as much as £537k over ten years

UK house prices rise at the fastest rate for 18 years

UK builder Bellway reports record revenue as house prices climb

As you can see from the randomly selected online headlines, cost of living in the UK is soaring, the standard of living is in decline and yet, against this backdrop of misery and woe, house prices are rocketing.

Discard immediately any reports that you read in the UK media that house prices are ‘slowing’ or that there is a ‘correction’ in the housing market. Statements of this nature appear periodically in the UK press, every six months or less, but by the time you have digested them house prices are off again, climbing that fateful ladder from which the only way down is rapid and fatal. It is interesting to note in this respect that, as Sherlock Holmes would say, ‘The game is afoot’. In the last three days UK media, with nothing new on the coronavirus front to bluster about and the British public’s Twitter-afflicted attention span no longer able to focus on Ukraine, has turned to startling prophesies of an impending crash in the housing market to provide my fellow Brits with the crisis fix they crave.

Whatever they tell you, the fact remains that cost of living is up; standard of living is down; and buying a house in the UK is out of reach for most people.

To understand the mechanism by which the catastrophic gulf between cost of living, standard of living and artificially inflated house prices have come about in the UK, you need to turn the clock back to a time that several generations of Britons were born too late to know. In this era, which was a continuation of hundreds of years of history, homes, as the word implies, were houses where people lived, typically for the entirety of their lives and for generations of a family’s descendants.

The key word in this scenario is ‘home’, since that is what houses had always been and were, homes, and to a large extent they remained as such until the Thatcherite era of the 1980s, when houses ceased to be homes and became instead a speculative commodity.

In the 1980s under Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, Thatcherism, as it became to be known, was turbo-charged capitalism. Faced with no other way of shoring up the country’s coffers, plundered and sacked as usual by the outgoing Labour government, Maggie had no alternative but to sell off the ‘family silver’, privatising everything in sight (well, almost). In her zeal to mobilise the country’s economy¹, she sacrificed the right, the historic right, to a stable family home, by turning houses into a make-money-quick scheme. Instead of a home for life, houses became speculative investments to buy for profit, not to live in. The nation became obsessed, first by the aspirant desire to join the ranks of owner occupiers and then, like them, to make money from their acquisition. This obsession continues today.

Downsizing in the UK — **Looks like an Englishman’s home is no longer his castle**

As part of her grand plan, Maggie also introduced the Right to Buy, a housing act giving tenants of local authority housing (council houses), the right to buy their ‘home’. This programme of apparent social mobility, which had the soon-to-become socialist dinosaurs breathing fire and brimstone, was all well and good as long as ‘home’ and ‘right to buy’ appeared in the same sentence. But it didn’t quite work that way. A good many social housing converts had no sooner bought their ‘home’ than, following the lead of legacy homeowners, they were selling them on for a profit. An Englishman’s home was no longer his castle, it was a rapid succession of cash cows: sell the house, buy another house, use the cash from the sale of the first property to develop the new house. Invariably, however, there was never enough money from the sale of the first property to entirely fund the second, so in order to make up the shortfall, it was cap in hand and off to the bank for a mortgage. Did you hear the sound of thunder off-stage! As any seasoned Monopoly player will tell you, once the mortgaging starts for many the game is over.

The immoral transformation of home to commodity, which would re-energise the wealth and social aspirations of a generation of Brits during the Thatcher years who, let’s face it, had been ‘shat upon’ by Labour, rapidly gained traction in the UK and has steamrolled ever since. It gave ‘ordinary people’ the chance to make what they saw as mega bucks by buying properties, knobbing them up, living in them until they felt the time was right and then swiftly selling them on. In all fairness some of these latter day quick-profit speculators did make money, some, a minority, made a fortune. Very few had a home. My boss bought and sold the houses in which he and his family lived so many times in succession that his son once tellingly remarked that he had no idea what a proper home was! But whilst ‘your average punter’ was sweating and toiling away to keep up with his relocating neighbours, those who made the lion’s share and are coining it in still, were and are ~ surprise, surprise ~ property developers, bankers and financiers.

By the time ‘our Tony’, Tony Blair, arrived on the scene, the die had been cast. Not since Al Capone had built a criminal empire on the back of prohibition had one so young been better positioned to re-align a political party, adopt and adapt the housing boom template and make, by all accounts, a tidy profit in the process⁴ whilst driving the country into debt, more debt, greater debt, desperation and moral depredation. The old rank and file socialists, what’s left of them, must, when they look back on Blaire’s stewardship of the country, hear the ghostly voice of Val Doonican singing “If I knew then what I know now” (Sorry, what’s that you say? You’ve got all his LPs?), for Tony’s New Labour was, and is ~ as we all know now ~ no longer Labour at all but the New globalist-oriented Liberal-Lefty party², a syndicated branch of the Davos Globalist Cartel.

Not content with flooding the country with unwanted immigrants, all of whom needed housing of their own (funny, that!), Tony threw himself body and ~ well, we won’t say soul ~ behind the housing boom, making in the process, so it is alleged, a pretty penny or two for himself whilst subjecting the nation to fictitious wealth, unrelenting debt and eventual penury³.

Thinking about moving to the UK? Think again! It's all credit cards, loans and debt!

Under Blairism, loans and credit cards were floating around like confetti at a wedding of 85 genders. It was all aboard the unsecured loans, unaffordable mortgages, credit cards bandwagon and nobody seemed to realise ~ or if they did, they did not care as long as they might make money ~ that the final destination would be Debt. Irrefusable offers and multiple invitations to climb aboard the credit bandwagon dropped through Britain’s letter boxes in such monstrous egalitarian profusion that they almost outdid Reader’s Digest in their contribution to the junk mail mountain.

Today, whilst most Britons feel like door mats for the political elite to wipe their mucky boots on, at least their own door mats are virtually free of offers which they should never have not refused. With the goose no longer laying the golden egg of unlimited loans, the days of making a ‘fast buck’ on your home, whilst not entirely over, is fraught with pitfalls. Now, the only way for ordinary folk to claw back a little money from their property is to sell and move into a shoe box. This symptom of desperation, the practice of fleeing to a smaller home, relies on the buzzword ‘downsizing’ to sugar coat the pill, but people do it, and more and more, because moving into a smaller and less desirable property is practically the only way of keeping the bailiffs from the door and, in the process, with a good back wind, to extricate yourself from your incumbent children who, since they cannot afford a mortgage themselves, could otherwise be living with you until they receive that telegram from the Queen.

Moving to the UK where downsizing is popular

By divvying up the dosh from the sale of your former and better property, your cherished family home, you might just be able to give your children the amount of wonga required to meet the mortgage deposit demanded by the bank. This down payment (and ‘down’ is the word to note), should ensure that yet another generation signs its precious life away to the mortgage devil. Don’t worry, the bank will help you. It’s skilled in the art of having your leg up onto the property treadmill.

Do I mean ‘the property ladder’? No, I meant what I said. For a 25-year mortgage is a sure and certain way of condemning yourself to a job in which you dare not rock the boat or dive overboard even if your sanity depends upon it, because you are chained to that monthly mortgage payment, and if you cannot afford to stump up the money every month on the dot you are going to lose your house, which means you are going to lose your home. As it says in the small print of every mortgage contract (always read the small print), ‘if you cannot keep up payments on your mortgage you are liable to lose your ‘home’ ~ that’s right ‘your home’: the threat could not be more explicit ~ Got you, wage slave!

However, just because the majority of folk in the UK are no longer making lots of wonga on playing the property game, it does not mean that everyone is in the same leaky boat. This is because not everyone is a wage slave ~ most are, but not everyone. Inflated house prices, big-big mortgages, high-interest loans and revolving credit is just about the only thing that keeps the UK afloat, the definition of what constitutes the UK restricted to bankers, financiers, politicians and moneyed elites. The gilded members of this UK, a club that only the few belong to, have been living it up, metaphorically and actually, on their luxury yachts for years and only now are beginning to wonder if the collective term for their privileged buoyancy is spelt the same as Titanic. It’s almost time to look for the lifeboats, which for many won’t be there.

Thinking about moving to the UK? Think again!

For the majority of ordinary Brits, keeping one’s head above water is difficult enough. It is widely recognised that given their track record Britain’s politicians couldn’t save a drowning man in a back garden paddling pool, let alone provide adequate lifeboats to save the nation. But the economic situation has become so tragic that most Britons would willingly settle for a half share in a snorkel, if only they could afford one.

In this tragi-financial-comedy, every time the victims of artificially inflated house prices take on a mortgage it offers the same security as flipping a coin. But no matter which side up the coin lands, for the political-legal-banker cartel the outcome is always a winner. These are they who are literally coining it in.

Vital Statistics
Deposit: At least 5% of the cost of the house you would like to purchase. If you are a first-time buyer, most banks will expect potential buyers to pay a 10% deposit

Average cost of a house in the UK: As of May 2022, the average UK house price was approximately £280,000 which represents an average increase of £30,000 in a 12-month period

Predicted rise in utility bills in UK end of 2022: Energy prices are forecast to more than double in the 12-month period ending 2022. Some sources suggest that energy prices will exceed £5000 by the end of 2023.

Making much about house prices is a justifiable exposition when it comes to laying bare the problems of living in Britain. It is not by far the only cross that Britons have to bear when it comes to making ends meet, but when all is said and done housing is the big one.

As I noted in my earlier posts, whilst keeping up mortgage payments on your home will devour at least half of your monthly income, what’s left of it will be gobbled up by utility bills and council tax. As for those other ‘necessities’ ~ contents’ and buildings’ insurance, the cost of running a motor vehicle or two (including petrol costs), internet connection bills, credit card payments … let’s not go there! But do remember to bear them in mind!

Energy bills in the UK are astronomical!

In the pecking order of daylight robbery, after burglary by mortgage comes mugging by utility bills: always a dreaded spectre; now they are downright terrifying.

How convincingly the meteoric rise in gas and electricity prices can be attributed to the UK establishment’s wanton participation in the United States’ criminal Ukraine adventure is debateable. Unlike Europe that relies for its comfortable existence on Russian gas, it is claimed that Britain only has a 5% reliance stake in gas from Russia. Be this as it may, it doesn’t help any when you are a small country devoid of natural resources to turn your suppliers into your enemy just to please a collapsing United States and to indulge Liz Truss’s make believe that she is Margaret Thatcher.

There are, in fact, a number of interlocking issues that explain why the British public are being hit with gargantuan utility bills: historic bad management of the economy is one of them; the other is the bogus alternative energy argument, which is the alternative energy industry; and the other, of course, is Ukraine.

The Russians dun it

Citing Russia’s special operation in Ukraine as a reason for old age pensioners freezing to death in energy-starved Britland this winter, is part of western governments’, and therefore western media’s, shaky mainstream narrative. At the outbreak of the Ukraine crisis, western leaders actively exhorted the easily-manipulated British public to invite a Ukrainian refugee into their country, even into their homes, orating in glowing terms of how humanitarian crises in far-flung distant lands were infinitely more important than selfish preoccupations such as keeping warm in winter, keeping the lights on at home and keeping yourself from fainting with shock when you pay for your fuel at the filling station. But such gung-ho noble sentiments whilst entertaining in summer tend to lose their ennobling appeal as the icy blasts of winter gather upon the horizon of the western hemisphere. And it is no consolation that whilst the majority of Britons will be rubbing their hands together in an attempt to generate warmth, a small and privileged minority, viz the CEOs of utility companies, will be rubbing theirs and each other’s for entirely different reasons.

Western politicians and the media with which they collude are keen to sell the line to the British public that the Ukraine conflict is driving up the global gas price as traders are concerned that they may not have access to Russian gas in the future, whilst carefully omitting that the reason why Brits will go cold, broke or possibly both this winter is a direct consequence of US globalist ambition. The US-led western collective’s attempt to crush the Russian economy and destabilise the country by imposing sanction after sanction on it and perpetuating the Ukraine conflict by throwing public money away on arms shipments has barely dented Russia but has subjected the British populace to energy and standard-of-living impoverishment barely known in the UK since old man Labour was last in power. Come on liberal lefties! What about the NHS and the escalating energy bills! Get out those banners and riot around the streets!

Another thing that is rarely mentioned, if ever, is that the renewable energy industry, which has long been touted as the answer to the Earth maiden’s prayer, is full of rapacious snake oil salesmen. The suspicion that renewable energy is a complete fraud is echoed and substantiated by socio-political experts around the world, who agree that inordinate amounts of tax-payers money is siphoned off each year to fund futile renewable energy projects at the expense of energy security⁵.

Most UK politicians do not want to hear this, and the Greens are having a shit fit! How dare renewable energy be exposed for the fraud that it is!⁶ Goodness knows what they, the Greens, are going to do this winter to keep warm. Downsize into the smallest shoe box imaginable, put on a couple of extra anoraks and get their live-in Ukrainian to pump the bellows around the candle? Mind you, the cabbage-brained Greens are so adept at producing hot air about the so-called iniquities of those on the right (and usually in the right) of politics and trumpeting loud and long about bizarre, unworkable loony-left policies that they could keep the entire country warm by the laughter that they generate.

But is it a laughing matter (snigger)?

Thinking about moving to the UK? Think again! No energy and freezing! — British people shiver in winter as they cannot afford to pay their energy bills

The UK is often cited as a country that no longer makes things or produces anything. It is a funny little place that pushes funny money around on computer screens in banks, loan shark offices, credit card companies and in one of the biggest gambling houses in the world (although the news on the street is that even this is losing its edge to foreign competition) the London Stock Exchange (see: Charlie Richardson and the British Mafia). Inflating house prices and concreting over the countryside with little unattractive, unimaginative red-brick boxes badly built and not worth a quarter of the money that they are ‘valued’ at is the UK’s financial equivalent of The Last Chance Saloon. ‘Britain needs more houses’ is as facile and environmentally catastrophic as Britain needs more immigrants is suicidal, but old slogans, like old habits, die hard, especially when they serve the self-serving interests of the country’s corporate carpetbaggers and its slippery liberal politicians.

The UK is also a country that allows (did I hear you say ‘encourages’?), a monthly tsunami of illegal immigrants from all corners of the third world; thousands upon thousands of freeloaders whose social security benefits, hotel bills, translator and interpreter fees, housing costs ~ the list goes on ~ comes out every pocket of every working British citizen in his, her or its taxes, just so liberal lefty can say, “Hello Sammy from Bongoland, aren’t we kind and tolerant!” The only reason that this silly country, the UK, is not a silly bankrupt country is that as soon as the going gets tough, those at the top of the very pointy pyramid simply print more money, as they did when tipped the wink by the WHO that coronavirus was the perfect excuse for doing so.

Thinking about moving to the UK? Think again!

I am not going to expatiate on the auxiliary costs of living in the UK and the reason why The Smiths’ lyrics, “I was looking for a job and then I found a job and heaven knows I’m miserable now!” is so applicable to modern UK life. Suffice it to say, and we’ve all been there, that once you’ve got that job that took six months, 100 application letters and almost as many interviews to get, you soon learn, usually the day after the euphoria dies, that it will never pay enough to keep your head above water: cue credit cards, sequential loans and very happy financiers. It’s not long before you hate that job. In fact, you loathe and detest it. All that shit from your employers and those awful people with whom you have to work, who, if you saw them coming towards you in the street, you’d quickly cross the road to avoid. But you are trapped: your mortgage depends on your salary, and in an overpriced, under-governed and horribly overcrowded country where hundreds of people chase every job, you have no other option but to stay put and endure it, no matter how desperately skint you are and how tragically miserable your life has become.

Apart from this, living in the UK is bad (at last whilst the liberal-lefty globalists are in charge). Why would you want to live there? Why would you want to go there? This post has discussed the positives, next we’ll expose the negatives.

Man the lifeboats! What am I saying!!! ‘Its and Others first!’

Footnote: See reference 3 below. In this article published in 2015, the author writes:
“It is crucial that the next government introduce detailed, workable and effective measures to boost housing supply across the country.” That’s the UK for you! All they can think of is ‘build more houses’ Like unlimited immigration, where, or rather how, will it all end?

References
1.https://www.reuters.com/article/idUS120413522020130410
2.https://www.researchgate.net/publication/254356162_Globalisation_and_public_policy_under_New_Labour
3. https://www.cityam.com/general-election-2015-how-tony-blair-presided-over-biggest-rise-house-prices-history/
4. https://www.theguardian.com/housing-network/2016/mar/18/tony-blair-profiting-housing-crisis-investment-property?CMP=twt_gu
5. https://www.netzerowatch.com/why-the-renewable-energy-industry-is-mostly-a-scam/
6. https://stopthesethings.com/2020/05/27/green-left-furious-at-michael-moore-for-exposing-renewable-energy-as-complete-fraud/

Image attributions:
Sunk boat: https://www.needpix.com/photo/1343217/ [author: Darren Lewis (publicdomainpictures.net)]
Credit card: https://www.needpix.com/photo/27375/
Shoe box: https://www.needpix.com/photo/1536959/ [author: George Hodan (publicdomainpictures.net)]
Man with bill: https://publicdomainvectors.org/en/free-clipart/Man-worried-about-the-bill-vector/2313.html
Freezing man: https://publicdomainvectors.org/en/free-clipart/Freezing-man/73316.html

Sunak or Truss? Who will end Globalism even the World?

Pyrrhic victory x 2

Published: 30 July 2022 ~ Sunak or Truss? Who will end Globalism even the World?

There is an aggravating little icon in the corner of my computer on the right-hand side of the task bar, which whenever I accidently sweep my cursor over it something grotesque and repugnant pops up. It is UK mainstream media news. There, in all its hideous glory, is the day’s main news in brief, generally more vile than vital, from the theatre of the absurd and surreal that the UK has become.

One of the benefits of living in Kaliningrad is that I can be more selective than I used to be about what I choose to read or see from UK media. And on those occasions when I have no choice, because of the intrusive tricks of Mr Gates’ technology, at least physical distance and societal worlds apart cushion my sensibilities.

Sunak or Truss?

These reasons partly explain why the soap-operatic shenanigans of who will succeed Boris Johnson have largely passed me by. Moreover, as the candidates for Tory leadership offer little in the way of anything bright and beautiful, or just old-fashioned competent and credible, what have I missed, if anything? Especially now that the ‘contest’ has been whittled down to the choice of a sulky old woman or, as a friend recently remarked, a ‘Paki’. Yes, yes, I took him to task. Mr Sunak, I said, is not of that extraction, he is, like our good friend Jerry, an Indian.

“God help us!” replied my friend.

Sunak or Truss? Not everyone's cup of tea

There was a time when the lefties would be making love to themselves, in public, about the possible appointment of a woman prime minister, but all that old hubris fizzled out with Mrs Thatcher and Theresa May and is clearly about as exciting today as a feminist’s bra on fire.

Nevertheless, the ethnic hat in the ring has not gone unnoticed; already one extreme lefty newspaper from across the murky pond has written that should Sudoku, or whatever his name is (Why can’t these foreigners just call themselves Smith, or something?) wins, he would effectively become Britain’s first prime minister of colour.

If that was important anymore, indeed if ever it was important, Boris Johnson could have consulted with George ‘Minstrel’ Mitchell, slapped some boot polish on his face, bought himself a curry and stayed put, or he could have had a sex change and spent ridiculous amounts of money on sending arms to lost causes whilst avoiding accusations of ‘toxic masculinity’. Think of all the fuss it would have saved, not to mention embarrassing scenes of petty Tory infighting and additional raids on the public purse at a time when the cost of living in Britain is leading to civil war. But with the media losing interest in Ukraine, I suppose something has to be dumped on a susceptible British public along with their daily dollop of Woke.

At the end of the proverbial day, it doesn’t matter and who cares anyway? Yes, Truss is a goofy old thing and Sunak isn’t British (‘Oh yes I am!’), but if you look hard enough can you tell them apart? Of course not, because in spite of their stated differences they are both cut from the same piece of card. In the hands of the puppeteers Sunak casts the longest shadow ~ the globalist versus the jingoist ~ but the importance they have in common is that both, whatever the media says sets them apart, possess the potential to make a much bigger mess than the one that Boris inherited and adopted as his own.

The real difference between Truss and Sunak is, apart from the obvious difference colour, that Truss is in it for the fame and glory (‘Look, mum, I’m the prime minister,’) and Sunak is a banker ~ yes, I have spelt the word correctly, but you be cockney if you must.

Three-legged race to become Boris Johnson's replacement

Like Moron Macron and Justin (only just in) Turdeau, the Sunaks of this world are nothing more than front men for neoliberal globalists. But whomsoever it is who gets his or her arse into Number 10, whether it will be the podgy white arse or the scrawny brown one, is fundamentally irrelevant. Predetermination has already decided who will replace Hair-fright Johnson and finish the job he started. This is not to deprive Boris of the debt of gratitude so obvioulsy owed to him, as I can think of no one, and that includes anyone in the Labour party, who could have primed the charge as successfully, and definitely not as comically, as Boris has.

All it needs now is a spark from the sabre-rattling abrasiveness of Truss or the short-circuit disconnect of Sunak and up will go the UK tinder box, igniting the socio-political implosion that will send neoliberal globalism and their satanic world of woke into the septic tank of history where they both belong. Regrettably, however, other blasts are possible, less welcome and even more devestating than the end of an evil doctrine, but I shall leave it up to you decide who of the two self-interested culprits chasing the key to Number 10 is liable to be more culpable of bringing about the end of the world.

At the end of the world, sorry, at the end of the day, whoever is handed the poisoned chalice, be it All Trussed Up Like a Turkey or Rishi Samosa Sunak, the important point to remember is that both exist to fulfil one destiny. The hand that presses the plunger, unlike the arse that takes the throne, will be the hand, the same hand and nothing but the hand ~ the almighty hand of fate. It’s just a matter of time ~ and that time is almost upon us.

Image attributions:
Two peas in a pod: https://openclipart.org/download/241284/Two-Peas-In-A-Pod.svg
Tea: http://www.publicdomainfiles.com/show_file.php?id=13933335621173
Three-legged race: https://www.clipartmax.com/middle/m2i8i8K9H7K9Z5G6_fail-clipart-three-legged-race-three-legged-race-clipart/
One Way sign: <a href=”https://www.freepik.com/photos/one-way”>One way photo created by freepik – www.freepik.com</a>

April Fools’ Day Mandate for NHS Workers

It’s a pandemic! I know, let’s sack thousand of NHS workers!

Published: 26 January 2022 ~ April Fools’ Day Mandate for NHS Workers

“Thousands of protesters flocked to central London to remonstrate against mandatory coronavirus vaccination for NHS staff¹.” So reported the Express on Sunday 23 January 2022. But what have the others got to say?

Crikey, one thinks, the liberal-lefty press, the traditional banner carriers and left-wing collective social conscience for all UKers, who put the NHS and its workers above everything else, will have a field day about this!

Protect the NHS, Save the NHS, Support NHS Workers!!!!!!!!

Can you hear them? No, but did you hear that pin drop? The silence is deafening.

Where are the champions of the NHS now? Presumably, they are too busy stigmatising people who choose not to have a dodgy less-than-satisfactorily efficient and side-effect censored vaccine stuffed into their bodies.

As many as 70,000 NHS staff stand to lose their jobs if they do not cow-toe to the vaccine mandate. That’s Democracy for you folks! 🙄

April Fools’ Day Mandate for NHS Workers

The new rules come into effect on 1^st April, which, unless you haven’t twigged it yet, is April Fools’ Day ~ it fits quite neatly, don’t you think, with the Omicron anagram ‘Moronic’. If justice never prevails ~ and let’s hope it will ~ at least those who we respect least (the WHO-Fauci-Witty-Vallance-&-Co alliance) could always turn their hand at writing Christmas cracker jokes to go with your face masks and lockdowns.

Whilst the usual NHS moral high-grounders are conspicuously invisible, the initiative to strike a blow for freedom of choice and rebuff the medical fascism of compulsory vaccinations was taken by a group of ambulance workers. Their website, NHS100k.com, launched in November 2020, is supported by healthcare workers across the entire NHS spectrum, both vaccinated and unvaccinated but united by the resolution that vaccination by force must be opposed at all costs. Their website states: “We stand united in favour of freedom of choice, bodily autonomy and informed consent.” What’s not to like?!

See: NHS Together

So, I ask again, why isn’t the liberal media that has been bellowing loud and long at us about protecting the NHS throwing its moral weight behind the plight of our NHS staff? Could it be because like everything else they shout about, when push comes to shove, they just don’t care?

Admittedly, mainstream liberal media has put itself in an awkward place. Its authoritarian approach to everything Covid, particularly vaccination, has gone even further than Brexit in flushing out into the open the incontrovertible truth that human rights, civil liberties, equality and the rest, indeed all the institutions that it and its adherents claim to cherish, and on which they presume to hold a moral monopoly, are little more than meaningless soundbites.

Endless cycles of lockdowns, compulsory mask wearing and three hurrahs for a plethora of tests are nothing compared to their Ace card, which is to force millions of people, including thousands of frontline NHS workers, to submit to a quick-fix fast-tracked vaccine that many don’t trust and don’t want.

Ace of Spades card of death for NHS workers in vaccine mandate

Having played their cards so arrogantly, it is difficult, if not impossible, for them to make concessions for NHS staff, whose only desire is that they be granted the right ~ the human right ~ to choose bodily autonomy above biological invasion.

Clearly, the hole that the Liberarsey have dug for themselves is easier to stay in than try to climb out of. In other words, it is easier to stay shtum whilst hundreds of NHS staff lose their jobs than speak out for them. When, or if, it happens, these same self-styled media champions of the NHS will no doubt find a voice again, vilifying and condemning those who followed their intuition and insider knowledge of medical practices, and lost their jobs in the process, as selfish and irresponsible, when only a few weeks previously this once overwhelmingly clamorous, but now remarkably quiescent, media hailed the workers of the NHS, particularly its nursing staff, as brave and selfless frontline defenders in the crusading war against Covid-19.

A dose of the clap

There was a time when the Liberarsey, and their media cronies, at least aspired to the semblance of caring and, if nothing else, would clap for the NHS, but even something as simple as clapping is not that easy to do when double-standards and sheer hypocrisy have your hands tied firmly behind your back.

Listen?

No, that is not clapping you hear; it is just the sound of the blinds and shutters rattling against their collective conscience.

But tell me, are you really surprised that those NHS potato makers from the make-believe mainstream media have gone and dropped their political hotty into the turncoat shite? Of course, not … You’d have to be half-baked to swallow the nonsense they try to feed you.

Think! From the same people who brought you the EU, multiculturalism, open borders, candle-lit-vigils and boats across the Channel, comes the truth about Covid-19 …

“Protect the NHS!” they shouted. But then the gaunt, lean figure of Democracy, shuffling out of the crowd of clones, stepped up to take his appointed place at the podium … and not so much as a whisper could be heard.

Here’s a couple of videos that should be heard and seen. Whether you choose to agree with their content is entirely your choice. But choice you should have!

<<See: Dr Scott Jensen ‘You are being played’>>

Reference
1. https://www.express.co.uk/news/uk/1554262/London-protest-UK-vaccination-unvaccinated-unjabbed-April-1-NHS-healthcare-workers-VN

Image attributes
Hand clapping: http://cliparts.co/clipart/2497328
Sack: file:///C:/Users/mickh/Downloads/misc-pig-bait.svg
Pratt’s Sign: https://www.freeimg.net/photo/1083781/pratts-sign-oil-petrol
Ace of Spades: https://www.freeimg.net/photo/171797/spades-ace-card-playing

Colston Woke Statue 4 Scratch the Itch of History

Woke up children! I don’t think Colston cares that much!

Published: 14 January 2022 ~ Colston Woke Statue 4 Scratch the Itch of History

Woke Watch PC UK! {Case 4}

Congratulations! Hoorah! Yippee!

Great celebrations throughout the land of Wokedom! Hark! Sound the bells in the Cathedral of Woke in joyous proclamation: Hurrah! Hurrah! The yobs who uprooted the statue of Edward Colston and tossed it into the side of Bristol harbour are not yobs at all, they are in fact national heroes. Ding Dong Ding, Ding Dong Ding … Clang …

Colston Woke Statue 4 scratch the itch of History

They went into court charged with criminal damage but emerged from it ~ let’s not say ‘whiter than white’ ~ vindicated. The jury returned a verdict of ‘not guilty’.

Were the four as triumphant as they looked or simply basking in the delusion that because they had been duped into playing the part of useful idiots somehow the verdict had transformed them into a credit to their generation?

Of course, a far simpler and more credible explanation in these blighted times is that the young clones (clowns if you want) received a pat on the back instead of a boot up the arse because they behaved with exemplary Wokism. If ever testimony was needed that ideological brainwashing works then it doesn’t get much better than this, excluding, of course, candle-lit vigils.

Indeed, in an article published by Metro¹, one of the absolved, a female yoof with a ring through her snout, is showcased revelling in virtue-signalling limelight. How does it go? Every dog must have its day! Woof!

Colston Woke Statue 4 receive letter from Edward Colston

Reading from the usual script, we hear the same old tired and sanctimonious cliches about ‘equality’, ‘police brutality’ blah, blah, blah … and a telling remark relating the actions of the four Wokerteers to that of the suffragette movement, which seems to imply that not only is trial by jury a cornerstone of democracy but also so is violence and vandalism. Feel a bit miffed about something? Then why not go throw a brick or bust up a postbox? The suffragettes did! Good for them. Now women can vote, wear a ring through their snouts and run around pulling down statues. Take a bow whilst you’re taking that knee!

It is nothing short of hilarious that a blatant act of vandalism, excused by a woke jury, in a court of law administered by a woke judicial system, should be used by woke mainstream media as a rallying cry to campaign against wokism. (I mentioned the word woke once or twice, but I think I got away with it. No, really, ask my jury.)

Not convinced that the failure to prosecute these vandals is something to trumpet about in the name of racial equality, but I am more than certain that as justification for acts of vandalism it will open the floodgates to copycat incidents even more successfully than an ideological wedge rammed in the door of border control.

WOKE WATCH UK!

🤣Broken News Just In!😂

Ay up, news just in (13 Jan 2022)! The statue bashers are on the rampage! As I write this, I learn that a barncake has attacked the Eric Gill statue at BBC Broadcasting House². Admittedly, it is a tad ironic that the BBC should have a large statue erected by a paedo adorning their headquarters when you consider the recent scandals surrounding Mr Saville and Co and more so in that the Beeb’s reporting of the four children who ‘rectified history’ and were given a resounding three cheers for their actions have since proved the adage that ‘what goes around, comes around’. Tell me, has Mr Gill’s statue escape with his winky intact? Ahh well, there goes another national monument to be replaced by something on the ‘right side of history’ ~ something black and gay should do the trick.

By the way, here is an extract from a MSM report³ on that incident. You’ll Ha! Ha! at the wokism in this!

“The protester … forcefully hammered away at the statue, removing large chunks of stone while the police stood and watched due to health and safety reasons. 😄

After more than four hours😄 , Met Police officers and the London Fire Brigade used a cherry-picker to bring the man down. Once on the ground, the police detained him. The protest comes just days after four BLM supporters🐑 were acquitted of felling a statue to the slave trader Edward Colston … A spokesman for the Met said: ‘London Ambulance Service checked the activist 🙄 [PC Plod: “You know, you should really wear goggles when defacing public and private property …”] before making an arrest on suspicion of criminal damage.

Statues, street signs, monuments, stained glass windows, historic buildings, antiques, objects of antiquity, paintings ~ there really is no end to the list of ‘victories’ waiting in the wings for self-styled woke revisionists.

I wonder what history will make of them when the future that they have made for themselves becomes the present in which they are trapped?

Meanwhile, let’s hope that the intelligent members of the jury who returned a verdict of ‘not guilty’ on the statue-shifting knee-takers have their garden statues (and everything else) very well insured.

L. Roy Woke & Sons & Sons & Sons Estate Agents
Beautiful property, well appointed, four bedrooms … Freehold. No connection with slave traders, President Trump, Jimmy Saville, the Roman Empire, Brexit, a male Dr Who, rainbow-less skies, Rolf Harris’s didgeridoo and anyone not gender neutral. There are two statues in the back garden, but they shouldn’t cause any offence: one is taking a knee and the other is going ‘Baa’.

And What’s More!
Christmas in the Land of Vax
How to deal with a Vaccinated family member at Christmas
Don’t let that man spoil your vaccinated Christmas!

References
1. https://metro.co.uk/2022/01/09/woman-who-toppled-colston-statue-slams-tory-war-on-woke-15889030/
2. https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-bristol-59727161
3. https://www.artlyst.com/news/protester-attacks-eric-gill-statue-bbc-broadcasting-house/

Image attributions
Statue of Edward Colston: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Statue_Of_Edward_Colston.jpg
House: http://clipart-library.com/clipart/6ir67RyBT.htm

Christmas in the Land of Vax

How was it for you?

Published: 3 January 2022 ~ Christmas in the Land of Vax

It was very hit and miss, as though they had taken a leaf out of the government’s ‘How to Pretend that we are Dealing with Coronavirus Convincingly’ manual, the question should the Sheep family invite their relatives, the Woollies, from Scotland to spend Christmas with them or should the Sheep spend Christmas with the Woollies in Sockland?

Christmas was closing in faster than a new coronavirus variant, and with the distinct possibility that Boris might do a U-turn on vaccine passports using Plan B (which some unpleasant people say stands for ‘Bollocks’), it was be damned if you do, be damned if you don’t, and be buggered if anyone from government to Abdul knew what was going on?

One thing the Sheep were sure of was that they had better decide soon before more authoritarianism was brought to bear in the name of beneficent government. Two new strains, mainly on credulity, and 300 additional threats to society, had already been detected in two 5-star hotels, The Grinning Boaters and The Froggy Freeloaders, located on the outskirts of Dover.

Following this discovery, as reported by Nigel Farage, Downing Street immediately issued a warning that Christmas parties, possibly Christmas itself, may have to be cancelled, whilst a silly old chap who works for The Grimstarnian, Jenkinspoop, had nothing better to do than sit at home in his face mask and write an incredibly banal and spurious treatise on the UK’s need for unlimited mountains of migrants, as if he had never heard of Brexit and had no idea why the Labour party had been wiped out in the last election. A possible reason for his renewed confidence in the Kalergi Plan was the recent news that the neoliberals had set the democratic seesaw in motion giving Labour a nine-point lead. ‘Stupid, yes! But not that Stupid Surely!’, Bongo wrote, who had obviously no idea of what it was like to live in a democratic country, although he had booked his hotel and was on his way ~ at speed !

It was little Amanda Sheep who finally brought the question on where to spend Christmas to a decisive conclusion, recalling that the last Christmas they had spent in Sockland had been extremely close to putrid.

The jokes in the Christmas crackers were atrocious: “Question: Where’s the smallest airfield in the world? Answer: Up a Scottish kilt, two hangars and a spitfire!”; Uncle McSock got so sloshed on cheap whisky that he ended up with his sporran on his chin; his wife Agnus ‘Haggis’ McSock insisted on forcing noise out of an instrument that was the equivalent of blowing up the arse of a tortured cat; and the whole evening descended into chaos when someone mentioned Bonny Prince Charlie in the same breath as Nicola Sturgeon. The only person who seemed to be enjoying himself, little Mac McSock, sometimes fondly referred to as ‘Plastic’ or ‘Flashing’, spent the entire evening of Christmas Day locked in his bedroom, practising, or so his mother said, for the Edinburgh and Glasgow Caber Tossing Championship. Little Mac desperately needed a smaller ego, almost as much as he needed greater magnification in the lenses of his spectacles.

Christmas in the Land of Vax a Scotsman blowing up a cat's arse

So, the Sheep remained in England (where else?), where things had gone from bad moral high-ground to sanctimonious worse-ground. Not only was it looking more likely that Boris and Sergeant Daftit were about to go Nazi on vaccine passports (conveniently given the blue light by Omicron) but had introduced more punitive measures in the interests of saving people so that they could spend the rest of their lives in mortal dread of ever going anywhere and seeing anyone again.

This course of action, Plan C (and, for the sake of proprietary we won’t divulge what the ‘C’ stands for, although it is obvious to the majority) has been launched in the name of Protecting the NHS, which by clever coincidence would seem to rhyme with ‘what a nasty mess’. In other words, the UK, like many other countries, seemed to be sliding reptiliously into vaccine passport dystopia. Not only would you not be allowed into pubs, restaurants and nightclubs without an electronic tracking vaccine passport, but added to the no-go list would be DIY shops, non-food store outlets, garden centres and sex shops ~ the latter prohibition would impact really badly on Simon Sheep’s Christmas present list ~ whatever would they buy granny now? (You see, she was a progeny of the progressive and permissive 1960s!)

Christmas in the Land of Vax

So, the Sheep stayed at home and in the tradition of the UK’s meek and tolerant had a ‘make do and mend’ Christmas as their forbears had before them. There are parallels to be drawn here, based on believing what you are told: One generation had gone to war believing that they were fighting to preserve their country (look at it today!); the present generation, who do not feel quite so entitled anymore, believe that in the new war between coronavirus and traditional freedoms our governments are fighting for us. Gullible and Naïve, the London department store, one street lower than Downing Street (is that possible?), were offering a multi-complex, multi-irrational, multi-cultural (am I repeating myself?) solution to getting into their store. Once, all you needed to do was open the door, but now it was lateral flow tests and PCRs (the only things missing are ‘I’ and ‘K’).

Before anyone could think of Christmas shopping, however, there was the house to decorate. Luckily the Sheeps were forward-thinking people. They had been first in the queue when coronavirus was announced and were fortunate enough to have a several bog rolls left from the 20,000 that they had stockpiled in the Great Panic Buying Bog Roll Bonanza of 2020, and big Boris Sheep, in between making plans from the alphabet ~ he would soon be on ‘Triple Z’ ~ recalling his days at public school, when he made enough Christmas decorations from his parent’s allowance to give Oxford the ring road it badly required, set about making paper chains out of used face masks.

The Christmas tree was an ingenuity stretcher, it almost made them wish that Christmas had been banned, as the leftist predecessors to the Religion of Woke wanted it to be back in the days of Sir Tony, but eventually Boris saved the day (sniggers and guffaws) with his Plan ‘Other Characters’ by suggesting that Keir Starmer come round and stand in the corner with his arms out ~ well he had to have some use. Then they dusted off their ancient decorations, including Ed’s Balls, draped the tree in sycophants and lush-living liberal lefties and stuck a great big gender-neutral fairy on the top. Good heavens, how he/she/it/other looked like Larry Grayson! ‘Shut that door!’ It’s too late Larry!

As the big day approached, with Big Pharma cashing in on the traditional uptake of the ‘day after’ pills, Big Tech on the volume of gadgets purchased, mostly during Black (whoops, you can’t say that) Friday, the Sheep family settled down for their second coronavirus Christmas.

As the whole family had been vaccinated more times than you and I have taken a knee, obtaining the components for the traditional Christmas dinner had been as easy as conning countless liberals to vote Remain and then later to remain in their houses.

Eating Christmas dinner with a face mask on had been a very messy business, especially whilst wearing a silly paper hat and a pair of rubber gloves, but at least the latter concealed grotesquely chapped hands from excessive hand-washing and the neurotic application of disinfecting wipes.

As the Sheep family live in Dover, shortly after watching the Queen of Coronavirus’s Speeches by Fool-Them-All Fauci, they retired to the lounge where from their bay windows they had the perfect view of the little boats arriving along the coast. Such heart-warming scenes to be sure! Scores of happy, smiling Christmas migrants gift-wrapped by the French and welcomed ashore by British policeman, who, if truth be told (but only by Sorryarse Fact Checkers!), were rather pleased to have been given this cushy detail, having spent most of the past 12 months either investigating mean tweets or bursting into people’s homes to see if the residents had their masks on.

After a nice glass of Dover Port, which gets more full bodied with every passing month, the Sheep family played ‘WHO Dunnit to Them’, a game by Public Health Charades, in which little Dick Sheep made then all howl with laughter at his superb rendition of a non-vaccinated white man banned from everywhere including his own country ~ they all had another booster shot after seeing that one!

They then watched WHO Dunnit on the television. It wasn’t a bad film, but the plot was so unbelievable, especially at the end where Herculean Plotdemic was about to reveal who the killer really was when thankfully a message popped up on the screen redirecting viewers to the true version of events and Herculean Plotdemic never got another job again, at least not in liberal-lefty lovie land.

They then watched the popular soap opera Coronavirus Streets, which was a touch boring as the entire cast just sat in their houses two-metres apart from each other, twiddling on their outsmart-them phones, and finished off with a quick game of pin the face mask on granny. By now they were getting tired, but fortunately the BBC were running a Dr Who Christmas Special (not to be confused with you know WHO!) and this programme certainly Woke them up!

At 7 o’clock the guests arrived. Only two out of 25 were allowed in, as the others hadn’t been vaccinated. Natural immunity and proven antibodies were no excuse. It was essential (for someone) that anyone coming into the house was vaccinated first, had a Visitors to Your Home DIY Vaccination Kit, played music from the Third Reich and wore small black moustaches, whilst the rest of the family chanted something from a liberal-left website about ‘Thank you for thinking of others and saving their lives for them’ at which everyone fell about for at least 30 proper seconds in a state of rapture bordering on orgasm. Little Dick hadn’t seen anything like this since Tony Blair was elected Chancellor and was then given a knighthood for turning the UK into a kebab shop.

The evening was not entirely ruined, however, as it was not snowing that heavily outside and the non-vaccinated, who were used to being outcasts, they had learnt to accept their place in the New World Order when smoking was banned in pubs and restaurants, accepted their lot cheerfully. Huddling up in the cold was no new thing for them, and besides it was a lot better than being pumped full of a biological substance that didn’t give young, fit, medically proven A1 footballers heart attacks.

Christmas in the Land of Vax

Every now and again, whilst partner dancing six feet apart, little Amanda Sheep would chuck a roast potato or some brussels sprouts at the non-vaxxers from the bedroom window, and her little brother Boris would serve them drinks through the letterbox, wearing rubber gloves, of course, and a hairstyle that he had got out of a Christmas cracker that looked like a face mask blown inside out.

After that they played hide and sneak: someone hid a coronavirus and the rest of the group had to look for it whilst telling the authorities on their mobile phones who had not had the vaccine. This game was as limp as vaccine-induced impotence, as hopeless as finding an ounce of sense in Boris’ haystack and even more ludicrous than trying to stop a virus with a face mask.

Christmas in the Land of Vax an Arse Mask — **Arse Mask ~ the bottom line in Covid protection. As good as face masks but you’ll crack up whilst wearing them!**

Pass the Covid Parcel was far more successful. It was understandable: half of the room wore red rosettes the other half wore blue. It didn’t matter if the music stopped or not, since nobody took any notice, they all kept humming the same tune whilst passing the parcel one from the other — quickly. The coronavirus version of musical chairs was much the same as pass the parcel. “Pass the what?” some wag cried, who was particularly good at inventing cockney rhyming slang. And then came charades, well no need to explain that one, the name speaks for itself, although there was something about Nightingale Hospitals, ‘now you see them, now you don’t’, that nobody understood, least of all those who established them, never used them and then dismantled them. Ahh well, it would make sacking unvaccinated healthcare workers easier!

The highlight of Christmas day was watching the anti-totalitarian riots in Australia and Canada, whereupon the entire family concluded that you would think that they would have something better to do, such as making Facebook avatars with ‘I have had my vaccine’ written in rainbow colours around them or having an interim jab between their twice-minutely booster.

Having to vaccinate at every tick and turn is inconvenient, especially when the nearest vaccination point is 5 miles away. However, using her discount coupon from The Grimstarnian’s Covid Virtue Signalling page, little Amanda Sheep trotted off to her nearest store, proudly presented her lateral flow test and returned home with Christmas stockings full of Do-It-Yourself Coronavirus Testing Kits, the perfect companion to the Candle-Lit-Vigil Kits, which she had also bought using Virtue Signalling discount coupons from The Grimstarnian’s media website.

Then came the presents: Dick was chuffed with his map to the nearest vaccination clinic, ‘Oohh, it’s just what they’ve always wanted’; the elder brother, Boris, was given his own mobile vaccination centre ~ thus being assured of a job for life ~ he was even given a white coat with ‘I am a WHO scientist’ written on it and a Junior WHO Scientist Kit, the same one that the grown-ups had used to identify coronavirus with. Dad was content to receive a bumper pack of Bile Beans. He had been having a lot of difficulty lately adjusting to the latest propaganda ~ all those new stains! ~ and his Scrabble ability could certainly do with some kind of pill that claimed to cure everything.

Mother’s present was spectacular. She was given a brand-new bottle of vaccination paranoia tablets and a year’s free subscription to The Independent. She also joined Facebanned, a new social media site where account holders were routinely banned, blocked, barred, re-routed, suspended and eventually arrested for crimes against stupidity and for inciting logic and common sense.

Simon Sheep was given a New World Order coronavirus tie, with a Bill’s Gatepost chip inside. The beauty of this tie was that every time you thought or said something that you were not supposed to think or say the tie slowly throttled you. Thanks, Bill, you’re a brick (whoops, there goes that Windows’ spell checker again!).

At the end of the day they all had high temperatures, dry coughs and were feeling absolutely dreadful, although no one went so far as to say ‘like death warmed up’, but at least they could blame it on the Christmas alcohol. After all, it couldn’t be coronavirus, the whole family had been double jabbed and each and everyone had fitted themselves out with a strap-on mobile booster drip which, although physically inconvenient, saved an awful lot of time in running back and forth to hospitals and clinics — time which they could use to their advantage in practising social distancing and trying on their latest face masks.

Yes, it had been a lovely Christmas, and there was nothing to suggest that it would not be the same next year … and the next … and the next … and the next …

And whilst we are on the subject …
How to deal with a vaccinated family member at Christmas
Don’t let that man spoil your vaccinated Christmas!
The Liberal solution to anti-vaxxers

Image attributions
Sheep in Christmas hat: https://www.publicdomainpictures.net/en/view-image.php?image=237328&picture=christmas-sheep-in-hat
Face mask: https://pixabay.com/illustrations/face-mask-protection-coronavirus-5031122/
Scotsman playing bagpipes: https://www.publicdomainpictures.net/pictures/160000/velka/man-playing-bagpipes-clipart.jpg
Scared cat: http://clipart-library.com/clipart/rcjKpL6di.htm
Face masks: https://www.publicdomainpictures.net/pictures/330000/velka/coronavirus-covid-19-face-masks.jpg
Back of terraced houses: Photo by Peter Hall on Unsplash; https://unsplash.com/photos/3gYyO8bN020
Buttocks: Author: OpenClipart-Vectors / pixabay.com: https://www.freeimg.net/photo/101285/anatomy-ass-bare-behind
Cat biting fingers: http://clipart-library.com/clipart/kTKnboxMc.htm

How to deal with a vaccinated liberal family member at Christmas

They forgot to leave a forwarding address …

Published: 23 December 2021 How to deal with a vaccinated liberal family member

Preamble

As the stigmatisation of the unvaccinated steps up a gear, creating that two-tier society which Nigel Farage so accurately predicted a few weeks ago, the relentless drive to coerce people into having a vaccine which they neither trust nor want takes on a more cynical and sinister nature, targeting families in a blatant attempt to pit one member against the other using sanctimony, fear and guilt as weapons. Thus, we see yet another article following in the footsteps of the two I examined earlier in my posts, The Liberal Solution to Anti-vaxxers and Don’t let that man spoil your vaccinated Christmas!, titled ‘How to deal with unvaccinated family members at Christmas’¹ from The Independent (Independent my arse! Who said that?).

In order to level the playing field a little, I thought it only fair that consideration should be given to the conundrum of how to deal with an unwanted guest from the point of view of an unvaccinated family, whose only wish is to spend a normal family Christmas free from the constraints and self-righteous sermonising that so often is par for the course with the uneasy vaccinated. I make no apology for wedding the vaccinated example in my ‘How to deal with …’ version to a specific ideology as, from what I hear, see, read and experience, it is generally people of this persuasion who are the most vocal, vociferous and intransigently bigoted and, therefore unsurprisingly, the most obsessed and controlling. It is what fear does.

How to deal with a vaccinated liberal family member at Christmas

Christmas comes but once a year and with it that old chestnut of yet another coronavirus variant. Last Christmas it was just plain old Covid-19, but for Christmas 2021 it’s been given a jolly name, Omicron, known by its friends as Moronic, and news of its alarming rate of transmission, dramatic and sensationalised, is continuing to spread rapidly around the UK, thanks to the UK media. Bad news sells, folks!

A figure pulled out of nowhere claims that more than a million people will ruin their Christmases by subjecting themselves to self-isolation, which is good news for lonely guys who will not feel half as embarrassed sitting at home with the budgerigar, a meal for one, no children, as the courts gave custody to the wife, whilst spending Christmas in a rented flat as the wife got the family home. It’s called equality ~ of the liberal kind.

Never mind, they can always console themselves with a daily dose of Coronavirus statistics. Friday 17 December was an important day in the coronavirus statistic watchers’ calendar. On this day, so the media solemnly swears, there was more coronavirus infections than on any other: 93,000 (so they tell us!). But take heart, rumour has it that two pricks of Pharter’s Covid-19 vaccine offer a whopping great 70 per cent protection against whistling off to hospital, and a man who plays Bingo, and knows all about numbers, has said that it also gives 33 per cent protection against getting it. But he’s a lonely guy who works for a liberal newspaper, so he probably doesn’t get it, or get it very often, and even if he did get it, it would most likely be in a place where most of us would not want it.

And it really wouldn’t be a Coronavirus Christmas without mentioning boosters, so let it be known that ‘early tests’ indicate ~ and let’s face it, everything about the vaccine is an ‘early test’ (too early) ~ that yet another Pharter’s prick, a booster, may be all that’s needed to convince omicron to sling its hook and go and look for a less polluted body.

In the meantime, you could not do any worse than click on the government website, where it is suggested that getting fully vaccinated is the best way of protecting yourself from continual harassment about getting vaccinated.

Funnily enough, not everybody is buying it. It was written on a fag packet that one-third of Londoninstaners (‘Oh, maybe it’s because they’re not Londoners …’) were sticking two fingers up at all of it and adopting an attitude of, ‘Well, you can F!*K Right Off!’. But this hasn’t stopped the boats coming.

Nevertheless, the chances are that when families get together this Christmas, with no intention of self-isolating ~ who is going to miss out on all that free grub and booze ~ some of them might be vaccinated! There is also the possibility that some of them might be liberal!

This could be a cause for real concern, since, according to what everyone knows, mixing with vaccinated liberals means that you’re 20 times more likely to be subject to ranting, raving, frothing at the mouth and scenes of toy-throwing hyperventilation than you are of catching coronavirus.

But how do you tactfully approach the subject with family members that have this misfortune? And what if they, the vaccinated, are suffering from the delusion that you are willing to let them doss at your home over Christmas? And is there the slightest possibility of avoiding boring conversations about coronavirus bullshit when you know full well that even an unvaccinated liberal (if there is such a thing) can never resist bringing his, her or its, Guardian-inspired nonsense into the house, even when you have asked them to wipe their boots.

Dealing with a vaccinated liberal family member at Christmas

A man who always wanted to be a counsellor (he’s liberal) but didn’t know how to spell it so ended up a councillor instead, came out with the best understatement that anyone has heard since Waddington’s invented the family game Rowopoly, namely that Christmas can be a stressful time.

“Considering that last year we were all lucky not to spend Christmas together,” said this man, “the usual family rows that we would have had may well have been simmering for a good twelve months. Add to the toxic mix a family member, or two, who are vaccine control freaks and readers of The Independent and someone could well end up flying across the festive table. Being aware of this, and coming prepared with a first aid kit and, if you live in London, a stab vest or two, could be prudent.”

The man, whom everyone is rather glad is not a family member, for if he was coming for Christmas dinner he would be the first to have his head pushed into the trifle, went on to counsel that the issue of vaccinations will certainly come up if one or more of your vaccinated family is a liberal, as they won’t be able to keep their gobs shut ~ do they ever!

Not wanting to make us any more neurotic than we are at present, thanks to endless twaddle about coronavirus, the man, who would do better keeping his pseudo-psychology to himself, suggested that the best thing we could do to prepare ourselves for a heated Christmas row was to practice what it was we were going to say to the vaccinated lefty and get the boot in first. A beginner’s course in martial arse would be advisable, which you will not be able to take without a vaccination passport. The prickless will just have to rely on the way they usually deal with conflict, which might mean falling back on those stress-relieving breathing exercises or, alternatively, unwrapping that baseball bat Christmas present ahead of the festivities.

Asking yourself questions like, “How do I usually approach conflict? What triggers my anger more than anything else?” won’t help any if the answer is a self-righteous vaccinated lefty, but at least you could say so, later, in court.

In the last and honest analysis, heated discussions have the unfortunate habit of breaking out when they want to, so nothing that you do to prevent one from happening will work, especially after you’ve stuffed yourself with mounds of grub, knocked back several G&Ts and swilled two bottles of red. The best thing to do is ditch the psychobabble and brace yourself for a bumpy ride. After all, it is Christmas, and a good old family bust-up is as traditional as wrapping the cat in holly and clipping a piece of mistletoe to the belt buckle of your trousers.

If the vaccinated do bring up the topic of vaccination, which they will, stay cool, be curious, pretend to listen to what the other person is saying, no matter how stupid it is, don’t jump to the right conclusions ~ keep them to yourself ~ and if all else fails offer the argumentative vaccinated more roast potatoes, using your roast potato mandate.

Just to ensure that there is no possibility of avoiding a family rift, which will divide the family for ever, you could always take the following steps.

Health advice on enduring Christmas with vaccinated family members (especially if they are liberal)

Don’t ask everyone to wear masks unless it is part of a silly Christmas party game

Apparently, some clown from a university in America has advised that if you are a vaccinated family inviting unvaccinated family members to join you on Christmas Day, you should insist that everyone wears masks, including children over two years of age. As there is no real evidence that masks are effective and, in fact, may do more harm than good, our advice is stick to the paper hats. They are a lot jollier and, unless you want to look especially stupid on your Christmas photos this year, more so than when wearing a paper hat, common sense and logic would suggest that what the gentleman from the university in America is telling you is a lot of unfortunate bollocks. Conversely, therefore, if you are an unvaccinated family and can think of no way out but to invite vaccinated relatives, by all means let them wear masks. Eating and drinking may be a little tricky for them, but at least by combining these activities with a mask the possibility of receiving a lecture on why you should be wearing one and choking along with them should be considerably reduced.

Ask vaccinated liberal guests to provide proof of a recent psychiatric test

The same man from the American university, Professor Twat, suggested that in the case of a vaccinated family inviting unvaccinated guests, the vaccinated should be ordered to take a lateral flow test? Why would anyone want to have their drains inspected just because its Christmas? Oh, yes, with all that gutsing and swilling it could be a good idea.

We suggest unvaccinated families inviting vaccinated guests not to be so stupid. We all know that vaccinations do not stop the spread of coronavirus but insulting the guests with apartheid-type requests prior to the big day could precipitate the very bust-up that you are trying to avoid, or at least save for later.

However, since we are led to believe that one in three people with Covid-19 do not have any symptoms, it is not inconceivable that one in three vaccinated family members might not show symptoms of voting Labour, although hard experience has taught us that asymptomatic Labour supporters are a very rare thing indeed. So just ask them to bring along proof of a recent psychiatric report on why they or anybody else for that matter would want to vote Labour and tell them as logically as you can that since they could be spreading the liberal virus without knowing it, testing themselves repeatedly, by reciting their doctrines in front of the mirror, might eventually lead to a full recovery from something they did not know that they had.

Try to limit the number of households

Professor T advises that limiting the number of people gathering at Christmas, especially the vaccinated, might not stop coronavirus spreading, but it will ‘sure as hell, boy!’ reduce the risk of someone getting punched on the snout. He fails to warn, however, that cherry picking who comes and who does not is a failsafe way of assuring that never again will the family be united. But then, isn’t this what it’s all about!

If possible, host events outside

With advice like this I hope to get a job as a UK government health advisor. But, as loony as it may sound, it is not without merit. As a method of avoiding coronavirus uptake by reducing the risk of airborne transmission it is spot on, especially if you are one of a group and you all sit upwind. Even better, however, is the possibility it offers for ‘dealing with’ that vaccinated liberal. It works whether your house has a garden or not. Just politely ask the vaccinated liberal to sit outside in the garden or, alternatively, on the pavement and close the door. If he or she is vaccinated, wearing a mask and you are treating him or her (or it, or other) to the six-foot distancing rule, there is nothing at all to complain of. Just make sure that the windows are closed, the double-glazing is of reasonable quality and pray for a fall of snow.

Lovely jubbly, job done. Now sit back and enjoy Christmas. You’ve earnt it!😌

Image attributions
Antiquarian Christmas card: TUCKDB // PUBLIC DOMAIN
Christmas balls: https://www.clipartmax.com/download/m2i8i8m2K9A0H7H7_free-holly-clipart-public-domain-christmas-clip-art-christmas-decorations-clipart/
Bear in snow: https://all-free-download.com/free-vector/download/winter_background_stylized_bear_flowers_falling_snow_icons_6837048.html

Reference
1. https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/christmas/unvaccinated-family-members-christmas-how-to-cope-b1977260.html